Microaggressions of Suicide

The shadow that never leaves

“Different times, different places. Stories shape us, but always in space and time, which shape the stories.

I cannot give you my space and time. I would not wish it on you. But I will tell you about it. I hope you won’t fully understand it, not in your bones, in your quaking bones, where it counts. But I still need to tell you about it.”

~Jonathan Alexander, Stroke Book

In a previous post I called them “suicide slights,” but a better term may be mental illness micro aggressions or the micro aggressions of suicide:

Dr. Roberto Montenegro writes: “Microaggressions aren’t having your feelings hurt. It’s about how being repeatedly dismissed and alienated and insulted and invalidated reinforces the differences.”

Though I read the above quote in the context of racism, which is undoubtedly true and entirely more prevalent, and daily, as no one can hide from their race and exterior, in how they are treated, I also believe this to be true—in its own way— for mental health stigmatization.

Dr. Derald Wing Sue states: “In many cases, these hidden message may invalidate the group identity or experiential reality of target persons, demean them on a personal or group level, communicate they are lesser hum[x]n beings, suggest they do not belong with the majority group, threaten and intimidate, or relegate them to inferior status and treatment.”

Lesser beings. Like the opposite of God-fearing.

I, again, consider the very flippant ways in which people relegate mental illnesses, anxiety, PTSD, depression, suicidal ideation and attempts and other mental health conditions as “weaknesses” of the mind rather than what they really are—

physiological conditions, affecting both the body and mind.

As someone who experiences PTSD and anxiety, and has had some major bouts with depression and suicide ideation, at other points in life, I understand this.

But it is also two fold: As the only survivor in my family, I am also the one to bear witness, to endure these slights because we still stigmatize mental health.

So, regardless of my own mental health state, at any given time, at any unpredictable moment, over casual conversation, I am made to remember my family’s history and the stigmatization of mental illness.

It is never but one off-the-cuff question away.

A memory also surfaces:

Once, in college, I was hanging out with a group of theatre friends. We were talking about family. One, a casual friend, mentioned that her dad had died.

“Oh…why?” I asked, surprised. I wondered what sickness he had to make him die so young.

She looked stricken, deeply uncomfortable.

She didn’t meet my eyes when she said quietly, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

I didn’t push. It took my mind but a few seconds to piece it together that it was probably death at his own hands.

And I felt pity for her.

She didn’t need to tell me at that moment, because I already knew.

I knew because when a death is from a supposed “physical” condition, a disease of the body, or at least one that we readily accept, then we don’t hesitate to cough up the cause, immediately:

heart attack. cancer. kidney failure. aneurysm.

Even my mother and father’s COPD, tied their conditions of life-time chronic smokers, and not something I’m necessarily proud of—

They still don’t come close to the potential shame and stigma of identifying that your loved one has died by suicide.

And now I get it—not wanting to always disclose that information, because—

You reveal something about yourself in sharing this with others, because as much as I try to advocate against the stigmatization and the shame, as much as I try not to give it power over me, and as much as I write and teach and share about it to work towards positive change, to shape the way that the world views mental illness and mental health crises…

I can never quite shake the momentary panic, the realization of the possible shame, that comes from disclosing this tiny but significant tidbit in conversation…

It is an extreme act of vulnerability every time.

And with good reason.

My ex used this as amo against me, labeled me as crazy to his new pursuit, disclosed to her that two of my immediate family members had killed themselves.

I couldn’t sleep. I was nuts.

His mother eyed me up and down, upon meeting me in her home for the first time, questioning me about my family history, cautious, concerned. Later she cautioned me against anger.

In a place a lot less progressive in regards to mental illness than here. With her faith, and anecdotes relayed, I am fairly certain she thought my family and I possessed by the devil.

Because I am tied to two blood relatives crazy enough to blow their brains out.

It will come up again. In the next relationship. The next third date. The get-to-know you conversation with the next person I befriend.

I will watch their faces, their eyes, their nonverbals and body language, the way they avert my gaze. How their eyes drop in pity, I will witness their bodily discomfort.

These are the microaggressions of suicide.

It’s astounding to me as I realize that, even more than my own mental health issues, since they have/may dissipate, these familial suicides are the shadows that are constant, looming close by….lurking…hovering.

They never quite leave.

This is why—

“Survivors stand startled in the glaring light of loss, but bear witness.”

~Elizabeth Alexander