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As a mental health professional, one of the calls I dread is one day having a client's family member tell me that they died by suicide. Having worked with several clients battling depression, anxiety, and a general low will to live, I'm grateful that I haven't received such a call throughout my career. While I always dreaded that phone call related to my clients, I never once thought I would get such a call about one of my friends.
As a psychologist, I pride myself on providing a safe space for individuals to share and feel seen and heard. I think I do the same as a friend (my friends can either confirm or deny). So naturally, this recent loss hit me like a ton of bricks. The questions I have, the what-ifs, and the wishes (all of which I know do not make sense logically) are overwhelming. Yet, emotionally, they are valid. My brain can't wrap itself around the fact that I have walked with strangers and helped them off the ledge, yet I couldn't do that for my friend. How did I not see it? What could I have done differently? Did I do my best to make sure they felt loved? Did I do enough to show them they mattered?
I guess that's the tricky part about loss related to suicide. The guilt and the self-blame can feel almost insurmountable. The questions keep coming, and in some ways, the more you think about it, the worse it feels. I've stayed up some nights wondering what was going through my friend's mind seconds before they left the earth. Was there any part of them that wanted to walk back off the ledge? How heavy was the burden weighing on their heart? If I had called a few hours earlier, would the result have been different?
Loss related to suicide is one of the most difficult types of loss to process. It combines the pain of losing a loved one with the realization that, in some way, the death was voluntary. That last part is what pricks the heart. And while some may say it's a selfish thing to do, I beg to differ. The human heart and mind are wired to depend on hope. Quotes like "there's light at the end of the tunnel" allude to that. So what happens when you're in the tunnel and you can't see the light? What happens when you have tried to keep moving forward and find the light, yet day after day, month after month, it still feels like you're grappling in the darkness? How many of us would survive then?
The trap lies in the belief that things will never change—that the darkness is permanent. It's not so easy to see the light when you're in the thick of it, and sometimes the thought "What if there's actually no light?" ends up being the final nail in the coffin. I can't go back and change the fate of my friend. I can't go back and tell them that they are loved and valued and that their life matters. The most I can do is help others who might be in the same situation to create the light. Because sometimes, it's not about finding it; sometimes you have to create it.
In light of this loss, I’ll be doing a series on suicide prevention, where I’ll dive into topics like recognizing the signs, ways to support someone who is struggling, and resources that can make a difference. I hope you'll join me on this journey. If you are struggling mentally right now, feel free to fill the form in the contact page and reach out to me.
In case someone you know is struggling mentally right now, reach out to them. Remind them that they are seen and loved. If there's anything I’ve learned recently, it's that we don’t have time to waste. Our lives are fleeting, so if there's something you feel like you can do in the moment, do it. Love your people loudly, and hold their hands in the tunnel; sometimes, a friendly face or a supportive shoulder makes the biggest difference.
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