Trigger Warning: This piece contains references to suicide.
I have no desire to write about suicide.
My sister took her own life.
The memory of that night haunts me. I visualize her sitting there, drinking heavily, her eyes red and puffy from tears and alcohol. Pill bottles and bullets scattered across the table. I don’t know the specifics of what happened that evening; no one has shared the details of her tragic decision with me, and I haven’t asked. It’s a painful scene I prefer not to dwell on, yet it gnaws at me. I often wonder if she left behind any handwritten notes.
Her daughter was the one who discovered her.
Years earlier, a young girl was yanked from her home, screaming and thrashing, forced out onto the front lawn by her abusive father. The terror he instilled was overwhelming but not surprising. In a moment of madness, as he wavered between pointing a shotgun at himself and his daughter, he made a choice that would forever alter their lives. With that single act, he ended the cycle of violence that had plagued their family.
That young girl grew up, vowing to create a loving family for her own children. She wanted to shield them from the horrors she endured—a childhood filled with trauma, screaming matches, and the scars of violence. Yet, when her dreams of a nurturing family crumbled, I can only imagine how the echo of that shotgun rang in her ears as she turned it on herself, ending her suffering.
I don’t want to discuss suicide.
Unlike my sister, my mother didn’t take her own life. Her brother did, after being exposed as a predator. Instead, my mother succumbed to a broken heart. She fought valiantly against the weight of her past, struggling to numb the pain of raising children in a world that felt so cruel. When she eventually passed, only four months after losing her estranged daughter, it felt like the final act of a tragic play.
Two sons remained, trying their hardest to escape the family’s curse, but the unspoken words haunted them.
I don’t want to talk about suicide.
I’ve stared down the bottom of a whiskey bottle, my face twisted in disgust as the burn of the liquor went down. I attempted to self-destruct from the inside out, consuming pill after pill, shot after shot—following in my mother’s footsteps. When that didn’t work, I isolated myself from the past and the people in my life.
I took the prescribed medications meant to restore balance. I spent hours cleaning my home, trying to erase the invisible stain that seems to be a part of my family’s legacy.
I don’t want to talk about suicide.
But I must.
In our family, we find ways to destroy ourselves. It may not always be physical, but in one way or another, we’ve all suffered internally—my sister, my mother, my brother, and myself. Each of us has battled our own demons, engaged in a relentless war that has haunted this family for generations.
As my children play around me, I can’t shake the feeling that this battle has no winners.
I don’t want to talk about suicide.
I fear the day it could return to haunt me. Once the antidepressants and anxiety medications are gone, when the endorphins from exercise fade, and when hugs and love no longer suffice. I’ve watched my entire family slowly self-destruct, and the clock is ticking.
I don’t want to talk about suicide.
In the early hours, I sit up, gripping a butcher knife, contemplating the best way to end my own life. The anxiety medications haven’t alleviated my suffering, and threats of intervention have done little to calm my spiraling thoughts. I press the blade against my thigh, just enough to feel physical pain.
I’ve never been closer to the edge. I close my eyes and visualize the bloodshed, recalling my sister’s tragic end. A laugh escapes my lips, a bizarre response to the hopelessness I feel. I think to myself, I might really die this way.
Yet my story didn’t conclude that night. I ponder how many nights my sister managed to survive. I wonder if my own time is running out.
My children sing around me, innocently repeating,
“Ashes, ashes,
We all fall down.”
I don’t want to talk about suicide.
But I will.
If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts, please seek help. For resources on mental health and support, visit the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists for excellent information on mental well-being, or check out this blog post on home insemination for further engagement in related topics.