Suicide Survivors

What is it like to be a survivor of suicide?

It means that you lie about how your family members died. And often. It’s just easier and you don’t yet have that trust with the other.

It means that—if you decide to share honestly—you risk those dart-y eyes and awkward nonverbals, as the person shifts, visibly uncomfortably in their seat, not meeting your gaze.

It means that you will hear the slights—those who make claims that those who take their own lives are weak, are doomed to hell, are not faithful, or are cursed.

It means that you risk being associated with the mentally unstable, and you know others will wonder about your own emotional stability and mental health. Such is still the mentally stigmatized world that we still live in.

It means that every time you date and ‘get to know’ another, they will eventually want to know how your family members died.

It means that you worry about future generations and the children—if I should ever have them—will also ask how Uncle Jeremie died, how Grandpa Donelson died, why your mom’s sister Julie died.

It means that when you try to be transparent about your struggled in a panel on trauma-informed pedagogies, a fellow participant says to you—

“So when you attempted suicide….”

(That’s not what a suicide survivor means!!! —your inner monologue wants to shout back.)

It means that you carry trauma, intergenerational trauma, and wonder about the effects of epigenetics, constantly. On you, your relationships, any potential future generations.

It means that you must grapple with and eventually grow to accept that your family story will always and forever be somewhat formed by their choices.

It means that you carry this all the time—the strength and sadness and resilience.

All the time.