Search Results for “survivors” – American Association of Suicidology

In the aftermath of a death by suicide, loss survivors—family, friends, and others impacted—are often confronted by a complex tapestry of emotions that may feel insurmountable. This kind of grief, known as suicide loss or suicide bereavement, can be overwhelmingly intense, multifaceted, and unique to each individual. It is key that suicide loss survivors have access to the support needed to process and live through the loss.

The Complicated Nature of Suicide Grief

Understanding suicide grief is the first step toward coping with it. Grief for suicide loss survivors is often marked by an array of conflicting emotions, including shock, anger, guilt, and profound sadness. Loss survivors often grapple with “why” questions that cannot be answered, or feel a sense of guilt or responsibility for the suicide. Additionally, a portion of suicide loss survivors experience symptoms of post-traumatic stress.

Suicide grief is complicated not only because of its emotional depth, but also due to societal stigma attached to suicide, making it harder for loss survivors to express their feelings openly or seek support. The journey through suicide loss can feel isolating, and many have found hope and healing on the other side of this loss with the support of other loss survivors.

Strategies for Dealing with Suicide Grief

Everyone experiences grief differently and it is important to find the approaches that are most effective for you and your experience. Here are a few strategies that may help:

Acknowledge your feelings: Give yourself permission to feel and express whatever emotions come your way. Ignoring or suppressing these feelings may only prolong the grieving process.

Seek professional help: Mental health professionals are trained to help you navigate the intense emotions accompanying bereavement. They can provide tools and strategies tailored to your specific needs, and can help you find healthy ways to keep the memory of your loved one alive.
Connect with others: Isolation can intensify feelings of grief. Try to stay connected with friends and family. Share your feelings with those you trust and who can offer empathy and support.
Self-care: Regular physical activity, balanced nutrition, and ample sleep can help manage the physical symptoms of grief, as well as promote improved mental health. Mindfulness practices, like yoga and meditation, can also help you stay connected to your body and emotions.
Find your own pace: Everyone’s grief timeline is different. Do not rush the process or compare your journey to others’. Allow yourself the time you need to heal.

Finding Suicide Loss Support

There are many different types of resources available to support suicide loss survivors in their journey toward healing. You can find suicide loss support in these areas and more:

Support groups: There are many support groups specifically designed for suicide loss survivors. These groups offer a safe, understanding space for survivors to share their experiences, learn from others, and receive support from others who understand this kind of grief.

Online communities and resources: If in-person support feels too daunting, there are a number of online communities and forums that can provide insight and companionship in a more anonymous setting. You can also find online resources to help you through your loss and connect you with supportive and understanding communities.
Crisis lines: In moments of crisis or intense grief, crisis lines such as the 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline can support on the phone, through text-message, or web-based messaging) can provide immediate support.
Therapy: The process of healing from the trauma of suicide is multifaceted and layered. It is not just about managing the pain, but also about finding a new normal, learning to live with the loss, and reconstructing a meaningful life. Licensed therapists who specialize in complex grief can provide a safe, confidential, and non-judgmental space to explore these complex emotions and challenges.

Navigating suicide loss is an arduous journey, but no one has to walk this path alone. With understanding, self-care, and support, loss survivors can find their way to healing and hope.

About The American Association of Suicidology (AAS)

The American Association of Suicidology is the world’s largest and nation’s oldest membership-based suicide prevention organization. Founded in 1968 by Edwin S. Shneidman, PhD, AAS promotes the research of suicide and its prevention, public awareness programs, public education and training for professionals and volunteers. The membership of AAS includes mental health and public health professionals, researchers, suicide prevention and crisis intervention centers, school districts, crisis center professionals, survivors of suicide loss, attempt survivors, and a variety of laypersons who have an interest in suicide prevention. Learn more about AAS at www.suicidology.org.

Donate today to support AAS’ mission to promote the understanding and prevention of suicide and support those who have been affected by it.

Every year in the US, about 1 million people are directly impacted by the suicide of someone close to them. These individuals become survivors of suicide loss, a term that refers to those who have lost a loved one to suicide. This sudden loss often leaves survivors in a state of shock, confusion, and deep-seated grief, as they grapple with a host of complex and overwhelming emotions.

Understanding the needs and struggles of these loss survivors is essential in providing them with appropriate support, both in the short and long term. In this article, we offer guidance on how to navigate this painful situation, providing comfort and companionship to suicide loss survivors.

The Emotional Aftermath of Suicide Loss

Suicide loss can thrust survivors into a state of immense grief, often compounded by feelings of guilt, anger, and shame. They may experience a unique type of mourning known as complicated grief, characterized by debilitating sorrow and difficulty in resuming their everyday lives.

Survivors may also grapple with the stigma associated with suicide, which can make the grieving process even more challenging. This can lead to isolation, as they may feel reluctant to discuss their loss due to societal judgments and misconceptions about suicide.

Because of these muddled and complex feelings, and the societal tendency to shy away from suicide, one of the most important things you can do to help a survivor of suicide loss is to listen. Listen actively, without judgment, criticism, or prejudice. Let them share on their own timing and with their own discretion. Remember to be patient and to take a back seat; do not impose your own ideas about grief. Their experience is personal and unique, and you are there to support them, not shepherd them.

Here are some ways you can support a suicide loss survivor, now and later.

Providing Short-Term Support to Suicide Loss Survivors

In the initial aftermath of a suicide, survivors need tangible, immediate support. Here are a few ways you can help:

Be present: Simply being there, offering a shoulder to cry on, or listening to them express their feelings can be enormously helpful. Avoid passing judgment or offering solutions. Instead, let them know you’re there for them no matter what.
Offer practical assistance: Helping with daily chores, meals, childcare, or even administrative tasks related to the death can alleviate some of their immediate stress.
Encourage professional help: Encourage survivors to seek support from mental health professionals or suicide loss support groups, who can provide therapies and/or support specifically tailored to handle the complexities of suicide grief.

Long-Term Support for Survivors of Suicide Loss

Providing long-term support is equally critical, as the grieving process is often extended, lasting months or years. Here’s how you can be there for survivors in the long run:

Maintain regular contact: Stay connected beyond the initial period of loss. Regularly check in, reminding them that they are not alone in their grief and that you are still there for them.
Acknowledge anniversaries and milestones: The deceased individual’s birthday, the anniversary of the death, or other significant dates can be particularly challenging. Reach out during these times.
Promote open communication: Continue to encourage open discussions about their feelings, and ensure they feel heard and validated.
Support self-care: Remind them of the importance of self-care. This can include ensuring they get adequate sleep and exercise, eat healthily, and take time for activities they enjoy.
Facilitate access to support groups: Encourage them to join support groups for survivors of suicide loss. These offer a safe space to share experiences and feel understood by others who have been through similar situations.
Say their name: Speak the person’s name out loud, at the level you, and their person is comfortable with. Too often speaking of someone we lost may be avoided due to concern it will upset their loved one. Share stories, remember them, and engage in ways that honor their memory.

Advocating for Suicide Loss Survivors

Supporting survivors of suicide loss is not just a personal obligation. It is also about advocating for societal and systemic changes to improve support for those grieving suicide loss. This can include promoting suicide awareness, fighting stigma associated with mental health concerns, and lobbying for better access to mental health services. Support suicide prevention, research, and advocacy by donating today!

Suicide loss is a deeply personal and devastating experience. It is essential that we, as a society, step up to provide the necessary support to those left behind. By offering a helping hand, a listening ear, and an understanding heart, we can make a difference in the lives of those affected by suicide loss.

The American Association of Suicidology (AAS) curates support groups and peer communities for anyone coping with a loss, navigating their own experience with suicide, supporting someone else, or simply looking to be part of a community that understands. Explore the collection below to find the right fit for you.

Resources are for informational purposes only. The American Association of Suicidology is not responsible for their content or accuracy. Inclusion does not constitute endorsement.

Questions? Contact info@suicidology.org

Available Support Groups

Finding Your Way

By Alliance of Hope for Suicide Loss Survivors

For women who have lost husbands or partners. This 8-session online support group offers grieving women a way to connect with each other and with others who have already traveled a similar grief journey. It is designed to offer friendship, wisdom, and guidance for those whose lives have been suddenly altered.

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Healing Hearts

By Alliance of Hope for Suicide Loss Survivors

These support groups for mothers who have lost children to suicide are designed to offer friendship, guidance, and hope after heartbreaking loss. Groups are small, private, and led by experienced facilitators who are experts in the field of suicide loss.

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Surviving & Beyond

By Alliance of Hope for Suicide Loss Survivors

This 8-session online support group is designed to give grieving dads a way to connect and discuss topics that make a difference for them in the aftermath of loss.

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TrevorSpace

By The Trevor Project

Start meeting LGBTQ friends today! TrevorSpace is an affirming international community for LGBTQ young people ages 13-24. Sign up and start a conversation now.

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2026 Suicide Prevention Summit

The American Association of Suicidology is proud to partner with Mental Health Academy to sponsor the 2026 Suicide Prevention Summit, a free online event equipping mental health professionals with evidence-based, culturally informed strategies for identifying and managing suicide risk. The Summit brings together 20 leading experts in mental health and suicide prevention for live webinars, Q&A sessions, and continuing education opportunities, with a mission to strengthen the frontline workforce best positioned to reduce suicide rates.

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Annual Awards

The American Association of Suicidology recognizes outstanding contributions to suicide prevention, intervention, research, and advocacy through its Annual Awards program. Since 1971, AAS has honored hundreds of individuals and organizations whose innovation, leadership, and lived experience have advanced the field and strengthened communities.

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Annual Conference

The American Association of Suicidology’s Annual Conference is the field’s premier venue for translating suicide prevention research into practice, convening researchers, clinicians, and crisis service leaders to share emerging evidence and evaluate its real-world application.

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Paul G. Quinnett Lived Experience Writing Competition

Since 2015, the American Association of Suicidology, in collaboration with the QPR Institute, has invited suicide attempt survivors to submit personal essays reflecting on survival, hope, and recovery from suicidal ideation and attempts. These narratives deepen public understanding of suicide survivorship and contribute to more informed conversations within the field of suicide prevention.

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By Dese’Rae L. Stage

Content Note: This submission reflects the author’s lived experience and perspective. It may include descriptions of suicide, grief, or trauma. The views expressed are solely the author’s and do not necessarily represent the American Association of Suicidology. This material is for awareness and education and is not a substitute for professional advice, diagnosis, or treatment. If you or someone you know is in crisis, call or text the 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline, or visit 988lifeline.org for free, confidential support 24/7. Please do not reproduce or distribute this work without permission.

I tried to kill myself in the summer of 2006. I was 23.

I spent a month deeply entrenched in an exhaustive cycle of breaking up and getting back together with Emma, the girl I’d loved for three years. She was cheating on me, but neither of us could sever ties completely. We’d break up, we’d sleep together, we’d get back together in rapid succession. It was always over again as quickly as it began. We had some serious codependence issues. I tried to accept this as it came, but I felt helpless. Walking away wasn’t an option. I thought that the very act of loving her was enough to make it work.

I wasn’t eating. I was barely sleeping. I was trying to maintain a job and a social life. I’d been accepted to graduate school in Miami, and I was preparing for a cross-country move. I was trying to do all of this without betraying the fact that I was not okay. I was suicidal.

Emma and I were both pasta slingers at everyone’s favorite Italian chain. We worked the early shift on a Tuesday and settled into my favorite booth afterward to have lunch together. We had an argument—one of many which, over the years, had escalated to being emotionally and then physically abusive.

The year before, I bought a car for the sole purpose of escape. When the fights got bad, I’d drive. It was better than getting punched in the face by the person I loved, or retaliating—the latter of which was absolutely soul crushing. This brand of escapist panic driving escalated into suicidal fantasies about driving off bridges or into ditches. Rural Tennessee provided plenty of fodder.

I’d even set a plan in motion on Halloween 2005, but Emma came home and stopped me. She didn’t support me. She told me I’d ruined her holiday—one of many ticks on a very long list of ways in which I’d wronged her over time. She knew this list by heart, and could recite it to me at the drop of a hat.

So when I found myself with her on that afternoon as she went down the list yet again—loudly, and in earshot of our coworkers—I grabbed my keys and went back to our apartment. We were on that day, and I was terrified that the argument would flip the switch. I was frantic.

She came home, packed some things, said she was going out. I was given no further information. I begged her not to go. I cried. I tore at her shirt. She went anyway.

I paced. I waited. I cried more. I tried to watch TV. I tried to listen to music. Hours passed. I felt like I would combust.

I called. I called again. I felt untethered, like a ball of raw nerves. I felt like I would die if I couldn’t hear her voice. Eventually, she picked up and I screamed her name, begged her to come home. She said no. I screamed more. I felt like I would die anyway. I felt like there was nothing else I could do, there were no other options. Even if she did come home, I didn’t think I could live with her anymore. It hurt too much.

I was in absolute terror of being alone, but I didn’t know where to turn. My best friends lived across the country, Emma clearly wasn’t coming home, and I felt isolated from my local friends. If Emma ever suspected that I was discussing our relationship with them, she’d tell me, “You’re turning them against me.” I feared the repercussions, so I was left with myself.

I was not safe with myself.

I’d spent weeks sitting on our porch scribbling in my journal, writing “DO FOR YOURSELF,” over and over, page by page, like a mantra, trying to convince myself to leave. I listened to the trains pass behind the house and willed myself to lie down on the tracks and wait. I tried to work up the resolve to make deeper cuts with the razor blades I’d used to cope for nine years.

By then, the skin on my arms looked like a roadmap. Whenever I found myself in extreme emotional pain, an intense pressure would settle in my chest. It made me feel trapped and breathless, and there was only one way I knew to alleviate it.

The way I used to see it, if I could make myself bleed, it meant that my pain was real. If I could see it, then I could believe that it wasn’t just in my head because it was right there in front of me. Seeing it made it tangible. It made the pressure in my chest fade a little bit. It made the panic lessen. In its own way, it was helpful, but I also knew what kind of damage it could do if I lost control.

I wanted to lose control.

When I thought about leaving, I panicked. When I thought about being alone, I panicked. When I thought about a life that didn’t include her, I panicked. When I thought about any kind of future, I panicked. I wanted to die. The longer I was alone, the more hopeless I felt.

I had a bottle each of painkillers and wine. The plan was to get so obliterated that I’d eventually lose that control, and that loss would allow me to cut deeper. I’d be so numb that it wouldn’t hurt.

Movies show suicide as a romantic drift into nothingness. None of that is real. It’s messy. It’s painful. It’s terrifying. Especially when you’re in it, woozy and bloody and blubbering.

I called again and again. Her phone went straight to voicemail. Eventually, she picked up and, again, I begged her to come home. She hung up on me. She called back two minutes later.

This time, she stayed on the phone, but just long enough to make sure the police had arrived. They pounded on the door, staccato like gunshots, and barged into my house. Our small living room was suddenly full of policemen and paramedics asking who I was and whether I had taken anything.

I was so hysterical that I couldn’t even tell them my name. I dialed my mom’s number. She gave them my information. When they put her back on the phone with me, she told me to go willingly. If I didn’t, they’d handcuff me and take me anyway. I didn’t have an option. She reminded me that having mental health issues on my records could ruin my chances of getting a job—in that very same field—in the future.

I wasn’t allowed to get dressed. I was wearing a pair of thin, oversized, blue cotton pajama pants and a ratty t-shirt. I couldn’t even put on a bra.

I remember the quiet of the ambulance ride and the tungsten halos on all the street lights. My next memory is of lying in a hospital bed in a cold, beige room. I was alone. I don’t know how much time passed; it felt like a long time. I got little cell reception, so I couldn’t call or text anyone. I was left to think about what I’d done and where I was as a consequence of that—and the fear. I was feeling such an overwhelming amount of fear.

That experience of trying to die made me realize just how much I wanted to live. I knew that, if I didn’t find some way to change, I would die. I promised myself that I would find a way to stop hurting myself, no matter what that required.

A nurse showed up. She was curt and addressed me only when necessary. I told her I was terrified of needles, which she disregarded as she matter-of-factly gave me a tetanus shot and drew my blood. The only warmth I felt was that of my own blood in the full vials she laid on my stomach one by one, in a neat line. She left and the on-duty psychologist came to do a psych evaluation. I lied my way through it. I told her what she wanted to hear and swore that I wasn’t suicidal.

My mom called my friend Amy and asked if they’d pick me up. Amy was the one friend Emma and I hadn’t shared, the only one I didn’t feel isolated from. She left the party she was throwing that night, and had a sober friend drive her the hospital. I was released into her custody under one condition: that she stay the night with me.

We walked out to the parking lot, where I climbed into the front seat of her friend’s Audi. Everything looked so normal and unchanged, though it felt very clear to me that I was on the other side of one of the most significant life experiences I would ever have.

We stopped at Taco Bell. Everything resumed as if it was any other evening. When we got back to Amy’s place, the party was still in full swing. She led me upstairs to her bedroom and I crawled into her bed, onto the side I always slept on during our sleepovers. I could hear the music and voices below. Amy put on her sleepytime playlist. She told me to find her if I needed anything. I remember Iron and Wine’s “Fever Dream” and the sweet lilt of Sam Beam’s voice. I’d never heard it before, and I still think of that night whenever I hear it—not with a sense of fear or shame, but with a feeling of comfort and love. I felt safe.

The next day, I called my best friend, Liz, and told her what happened. We talked next steps, and agreed that I wouldn’t be able to heal and move on unless I left Emma, and that meant leaving town entirely. We shared a bank account, and there was nothing in it. We lived paycheck to paycheck. Liz wired me $300—enough to carry me the 16 hours and 1,000 miles to Denton, Texas, where she lived. She had a room waiting for me.

I finished out the week at my job. I packed my stuff. I tried to ignore the stares and the whispers of everyone around me. The night before I left, Emma and I saw what was left of Lynyrd Skynyrd play “Freebird” under the 4th of July fireworks in Bristol, Virginia. I meant to leave at noon the next day, but I was so terrified of saying goodbye to Emma and the town I’d started to call home that I kept stalling.

I put the last of my things in my car at around 5pm. I kissed her one last time before I turned heel and, literally, ran out the door to my car. I didn’t get out of it again until I pulled up in Liz’s driveway the next morning. I started my life over again after a long nap and in the care of my best friend.

If I could go back and talk to the girl who ran off that porch and into the unknown that day and tell her all she’d come to see and feel and accomplish, she would never believe me.

I started small (a new bank account, a new job). I traveled (all over the country, mostly by Greyhound). I went to grad school (nope, not for me). I moved to New York with a thousand bucks and whatever I could fit into my car. My dad died (in prison, alone). I got a job at a record label (not as glamorous as it sounds). I taught myself photography (the camera went everywhere with me and the rule was manual settings only). I met, photographed, and interviewed most of my heroes (Tori Amos, Tegan and Sara, Amanda Palmer). I got married (a week after the Marriage Equality Act went into effect). I quit my job and decided to chase my dreams (definitely as terrifying as it sounds, but equally rewarding). I got divorced (she cheated on me six months later). I fell in love again, and it’s not a love that hurts, but a love that heals. I learned to take care of my mind and how to keep it safe (accept that you will have awful days, be kind to yourself, ask for help when you need it).

My story is not unique. There are so many others out there just like it, but the society we live in tells us that we can’t talk about suicide, that doing so is attention-seeking behavior, that it only happens to “crazy” people. The truth is, this can happen to anyone, and until we stop sterilizing it by talking in figures, stereotyping it, romanticizing it, sensationalizing it, or avoiding it completely, we’re not going to save any lives.

In the late summer of 2010, I decided to address the issue head on using art in a series called Live Through This. I took a voice recorder and my camera, and I went to the source. I started to talk to other attempt survivors about their experiences—what led up to their attempt(s), their recovery, how they were treated by medical professionals, their feelings about psychiatric medications, what their support systems look like, other factors, and wherever else the discussion led. After each conversation, I made a portrait. I moved in close and asked each survivor to look into my lens as if they were looking directly into the eyes of the viewer.

I started to publish these portraits and stories online as a kind of experiential catalog—as proof that, not only are we not alone, but that this issue spans all age ranges, ethnicities, faiths, sexual orientations, gender presentations, and any other box we might want to put a person in. I’ve interviewed 115 suicide attempt survivors in 13 US cities. I have no plans to stop.

I’m not trying to normalize suicidal feelings. I tell this story and I do this work because I want people to know that this doesn’t happen in a vacuum. The suicidal mind can’t be stereotyped. When we do it safely, talking about these feelings can be empowering. It can create identification and breed compassion. It can heal. It can open us up to possible solutions, both for ourselves and the system at large. Maybe it can even save lives, but we won’t know until we try.

I wish I could say that I didn’t still battle my mind and the thoughts that I’d be better off dead sometimes, but I do. The difference now is that I’m not afraid to talk about it. I’m not afraid to ask for help when I need it. I know I’m loved even when I can’t feel it. And I know I will be able to power through any difficult moment because I know, without a doubt, that I’m not alone.

By Emily Lupsor

I cried in front of my supervisor for the first time today.

It was bound to happen, with the high levels of stress and responsibility that come with my job. He knew something was up, so he paused in front of my office after staffing. He tapped gently on the door frame before slipping into the chair next to my desk. He asked if everything was okay, because I looked a little down in the meeting this afternoon.

Everything was not okay, but how could I possibly explain? That I don’t belong here. That I am a phony, a fraud. That I am damaged beyond repair and unsuitable for this work. That if he knew the person I truly was, he would have me fired straight away. I felt it happening again: the pressure building in my chest and the tears burning my throat at the prospect of someone discovering my deepest, darkest secret. The precursor to my entire life falling apart.

I told him, unconvincingly, that everything was fine.

We sat in uncomfortable silence for a long moment. I fixed my gaze on my shoelaces, unable to look him directly in the eyes. Part of me wanted to tell him everything, but the rest of me knew that it was impossible.

He caught the hint and let out a soft chuckle. As he rose to his feet, he reminded me that I could talk with him about anything bothering me. Once he was gone, I fled to the restroom, sweating and shaking, trying to make it stop. I thought again about his offer to talk. Did he suspect what I knew to be true? I bent over the toilet bowl and prepared to hurl.

Life has always, at times, been more than I could handle. I was a sensitive, worried child, crying “at the drop of a hat,” as my mom likes to say. I was twelve years old the first time I thought seriously about killing myself. In high school I got pegged as the lonely girl who self-harmed and was routinely called in to see the school counselor. It was a lot of things: family conflict, poor academic performance, interpersonal challenges. Mostly it was an overly emotional response to everyday situations. An inability to cope with stress in the way other kids could.

The worst of it came in college. I was initially energized by a fresh start and the free creativity of a music major, but eventually the all too familiar emotional instability crept back in. I knew things were back to baseline late in my first year when I overheard my roommate whisper to our mutual friend, “I don’t know! She’s like, bipolar, I think,” as explanation for why I had snapped over something trivial and spent the rest of the day alone in my room, sobbing.

I started cutting again, and people noticed. Some graciously presumed my roommate’s cat had scratched me, but others seemed to know my injuries were the physical manifestation of inner agony. Most people had no idea what to say and politely disengaged in all meaningful conversation with me. I began to isolate more and more.

Near the end of my sophomore year, I was skipping all of my classes, except for choir. I lived in a state of deep, unabating sadness, punctuated by piercing episodes of anxiety. Tufts of my hair fell out in the shower, and I stopped eating regularly. I sometimes found myself wandering the streets of our small college town in a withdrawn daze, battling the internal demons and picking at my self-injury scabs in the hot sun. The panic came almost nightly – heart thumping, palms sweating, thoughts racing – until I would collapse in a tearful heap on the bed. My patient boyfriend would spoon me and stroke my hair for hours, saying everything he could in an attempt to soothe me. But I was perpetually inconsolable. In time, I became too much for him, just as the rest of my social network had disappeared before my eyes.

When it was evident that I would not pass the majority of my semester hours, I moved back home with Mom and Dad over the summer. I felt like a complete failure. I knew no one in town, as most of my high school acquaintances had relocated by then. I floated numbly through community college coursework while working an assortment of odd jobs: making ice cream, cleaning houses, caring for pets, for children, and for adults with disabilities. Filing papers and ordering supplies. And living enveloped in the dark, heavy fog of depression.

I tried every antidote I knew. I eliminated sugar from my diet. I ran a mile for the first time. I tried to make new friends and be more outgoing. I saw therapists at the urging of my parents. Derrence had kind eyes and taught me how to manage my day to avoid the panic attacks. Tony was calm and reassuring when I wept in his small office, but I could only see him for eight sessions, per the community college counseling center policy. Elizabeth told me medication would probably help, since nothing else really had, so my mom’s primary care doctor prescribed Ativan as needed. When that didn’t make enough of a difference, Dr. S added Prozac, shortly followed by trials of Celexa, Lexapro, and Wellbutrin. At first she said I would only need this support until I got “back on track.” In time, it became clear to her that my neurochemical makeup would necessitate medication for the rest of my life. “Some people just need a little help balancing things out, Emily. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” I didn’t believe her.

Angela was next, because life continued to spiral out of control. Angela tried to teach me how to “ride the wave of negative emotions” on a metaphorical surfboard, but I never did get the hang of it. I frequently called her crying, spun out in a whirlwind of frantic thoughts and feelings. She would try to talk me through the hysteria. She listened to me describe desperate visions of driving my car off the road or darting into traffic at a busy intersection. “Emily, you know, I can help you set up a stay in a psychiatric hospital…” The mere mention of this option terrified me as I replayed scenes from Girl, Interrupted in my head. From then on, I learned only to share half the story with Angela so she wouldn’t be ethically obligated to act during a crisis.

The days somehow trudged onward. I worked as a receptionist at an optometry practice. I spent the long hours of my afternoon shift behind the plexiglass front desk window, choking back tears and trying to justify my death in Google documents. I wrote for hours. It’s not like anyone would miss me. It’s not as though I’m actually contributing anything meaningful to the world. Maybe some people just aren’t meant to be happy. Maybe life just isn’t for me. I am worthless. I am a failure. I will never get better. I was doing everything they asked of me, but it was never enough. I could not imagine a reality in which things might ever improve, so I made a plan and tucked it away for the right moment. No one could know.

Three weeks after my 22nd birthday, the time came to enact my plan. Looking back, it seems impulsive, but on that particular Thursday it felt as though years and years of buildup were all pointing to that moment. I wanted out, once and for all. On the way home from work, I pulled into a Walmart parking lot and took an overdose of pills.

Gagging on the chalky lump in the back of my throat, I panicked and dialed my best (and only) friend. He came and got me safely to his apartment, then eventually coaxed me into going to the hospital “just to get checked out.” I was sure it would be over quickly. As soon as the nurse led me by the hand through the locked entrance of the psych emergency department, I knew I was in for more than I had bargained for.

That night is mostly a blur now, but a few things stand out in my memory. Being asked to strip naked and be searched by a tech. The quiet ambulance transfer to the medical hospital. The five doses of saccharine charcoal and the sour taste of vomit in my mouth. IVs and catheters. Sweating, shaking, and losing touch with reality. The shrill ringing in my ears. The terror of being held down against the bed, of being told to calm down and get myself together. Safety precautions: the grid of bars over my window, the “sitter” at my bedside, security officers, plastic silverware, and a lack of privacy at all times. The task of calling out sick to work and devising a fake stomach bug so no one would ask any questions. The dread and shame of seeing my parents for the first time. I stayed in the hospital for five days over an extra-long St. Patty’s Day weekend. I was re-evaluated on Monday, and by then I knew exactly what the social worker wanted to hear in order to move forward with discharge.

I actually felt worse after I was released. I still wished I were dead and had the added trauma of the hospitalization, which gave me nightmares for months afterwards. I felt conflicted. Based on the reactions of family and hospital staff, it seemed people would rather I stay silent about how awful I was feeling. At the same time, I wanted more than anything to talk to someone about what was going on without the threat of judgment or involuntary commitment.

Things didn’t get better right away after my attempt. Back at school, there was the incident during which campus police escorted me out of a lecture hall full of classmates when someone dropped a tip that I had expressed a desire to harm myself. A few months later, Angela let me know that she couldn’t see me anymore because I was too challenging to work with. She believed I may have borderline personality disorder and referred me to DBT group with Christy, since this was out of her scope of practice. My new psychiatrist forced me onto different, stronger combinations of medications (adding Geodon, then Abilify) by threatening to call the police if I refused to sign her treatment plan. The mood stabilizers made me gain weight and feel nauseated all the time, but somehow life kept progressing.

Near the end of my undergraduate coursework, I had the idea to pursue a master’s degree in social work. I had a furtive hope that I might be able to vindicate myself from all this psychiatric mistreatment. Maybe I could prevent others from having to go through what I did to get help. Plus, I had always been good at convincing people to open up.

To my astonishment, I was accepted into the MSW program to which I applied. Having finally achieved something entirely for myself, I decided it was time to take matters into my own hands. The summer before I started classes, I intentionally tapered off all my meds, carefully and secretly. I threw myself into graduate school with full force, making up for all the years of underachievement and missed opportunity. For the first time, I learned that I was not alone on my journey. I discovered that all the best social workers have been through things, whether it be personal experience with the child welfare system, homelessness, or addictions, which draw them to this work. A lot of us were the “different” kids who served in-school suspensions or required the intervention of a counselor. Miraculously, these connections with other survivors are what ultimately gave me new reasons to keep going. They drowned out the voices in my head telling me that nothing mattered and that I didn’t deserve to live. They gave me hope.

I graduated last May, was named Student of the Year, and landed an incredible job shortly thereafter. I am now living the dream I never knew was inside me.

Back in the bathroom stall at work, I roll up my sleeves and trace the thin, pale scars on my forearms. I doubt anyone even notices them anymore. I unlock the door and step into the fluorescent light. I splash water on my face, clean myself up, and lean in close to examine my reflection. She has bloodshot eyes, but this girl in the mirror will pass for a professional. I turn on my heel and march back to the office.

I stand in my supervisor’s doorway. He invites me in and I start to explain. I don’t share all the details, but I tell him what I know for sure:

I have come to understand that there is something different about me, some quality that makes it harder to cope. I feel things more deeply than most. When everything goes according to plan, I fly higher and laugh louder. When confronted with adversity, heartache, or fear, my body quickly becomes wracked with insurmountable pain. And when I fall into that negative tailspin of emotions, I am more likely than others to act impulsively and hurt myself.

Framing it as a strength is more helpful than viewing it as illness, because I have come to believe that these struggles will always be part of my life. Call it bipolar, or borderline, or the up-down spirit of the tortured artist; I am tired of living on someone else’s terms. I know now that these experiences make me the person I am today. They are not events of which I should feel ashamed or hide from others. Instead, they are gifts which allow me to empathize and connect deeply with the people I serve. I am truly privileged to have a second chance at life. To come to work each day with an opportunity to alleviate even the smallest bit of human suffering, and to advocate for broader social change.

It occurs to me in this moment that I am not an imposter. I was destined to be here.

The tears fall, and I let them. It feels so liberating to finally speak my truth.

By Tracey L. Medeiros

Resilience. Interesting word. For people who’ve known me most of my life that may not be the first word that comes to mind. You know that game we all play? What’s the first word that comes into your mind when we say a person’s name? I suspect most people might respond with angry, violent, unpredictable, but not resilient.

I am a suicide attempt survivor. But that’s not what defines me. I’m also a certified peer specialist, a project manager for a spiritual wellness check series for attempt and loss survivors, and I help oversee a teen center. I’m a trainer for More Than Sad and ASIST, and I’m a public speaker about healing from my suicide attempt. And it goes on. I live with bi-polar, borderline personality disorder, depression and PTSD. I was traumatized by sexual assault as a child, been married and divorced, have step-children and step-grandchildren. And, oh yeah, did I mention that I just spent 18 months battling breast cancer and other blood infections after a double mastectomy?

So where did this all begin and how did I end up here?

I was misdiagnosed, over medicated and dismissed. As an adolescent, I was sexually abused and then ignored when I sought help. Instead of receiving help and support from my parents, I was blamed. By my mid-teens, I was beyond angry, bitter and violent. I tried to fit in, to do the society says dance. My only real relief was sports. I was an excellent athlete throughout high school, but academically, I was just pushed through classes.

And the anger continued to fester wrapped with irrational shame and guilt that it “must have been my fault.” The “it” being everything from the abuse as a child, to my grades, to always getting into trouble, to lack of parental support…the pain inside burned like a volcano ready to erupt.

I’d love to say that my childhood was normal. When I look back, it sucked. I was seven or eight the first time I was molested and too scared to tell anyone. I went to church. I went to Sunday school. My mother wanted me to be like my sister and take tap dance lessons and become a child model. I tried that and hated it.

Then I found little league baseball – not, softball, baseball. The real deal. And I was able to escape my fears on the field. But that only helped for a little while. At twelve, I finally went to my mother to tell her what was happening to me. Her reaction?

“What did you do to cause that?” She blamed me!

My world crashed. Where was God? Why was it my fault? I didn’t do anything wrong. And the rejection and fear and pain just grew. I existed in my own little hell and that young me became convinced that I was a bad person, no good, and whatever happened to me was my fault.

At 14, my friends and I began to play the eraser game – rub your skin as hard as you could until you couldn’t take the pain any more. I always won – that should have been a flag waving in my face…that I was able to try to erase my skin away until it bled…and we walked around showing everyone what we’d done. No one ever said a word about it – like why did you do that? Or, don’t do that to yourself. That’s about the time I began to self-medicate to try to numb my feelings.

In high school, I threw myself into sports. I also threw myself into a few other things like drugs and alcohol, the wrong crowd, really bad behavior in class, and worst of all, considering the work I do now as an adult – I became a bully. Other kids were afraid of me.

I graduated from the eraser game to punching walls to hurt myself and to not hurt other people. I’d punch anything – the wall, a door, the car, school lockers were good targets. My pain was internal and manifested itself in an incredible rage. I had no idea why. I know now that I had buried the sexual assaults so deep, they didn’t exist. But the anger and drive to hurt myself did. I know how hard it is for someone to understand, but the pain actually gave me some brief relief from the storm inside of me.

Somewhere between my junior and senior years, I attempted suicide for the 1st time. I woke up in the morning and never told anyone. For the next 10 years, I vowed I would never, ever tell anyone how I was really feeling or thinking. I had no idea what was wrong with me but hell would freeze over before I would ask anyone for help. The struggle to keep a lid on my rage was a daily battle. I continued to break a lot of things, including my hands more times than I can count, still punching things so I didn’t punch people.

In my late 20’s, the walls began to crumble. My dad got really sick and he passed. And the volcano inside me erupted. It was like I was rolling down a hill and couldn’t stop. The flashbacks came back, day and night.

The internal pain increased. And that’s when I began to cut, and cut…it began with little scratches, then they got deeper, and all over my body. To this day, I cannot explain why I decided that cutting was the thing to do but it gave me some relief. When people asked me about the scars, I got more tattoos to cover them. But it wasn’t enough. But please understand: self-injury is an attempt to communicate, not to manipulate.

The suicide attempts came fast and furious. One hospital lock up after another. One diagnosis after another. One more bottle of pills after another, all of them wrong (I would learn later). I tried so hard to be well, to be “good.” I put down the drugs and booze, I went back to work, I tried my best to play “house.” I went back to counseling. But the pain inside deepened. It was more than I could deal with. I gave up. I went to my father’s grave and curled up on the ground and waited to die. The police found me unconscious. I woke up in the hospital.

Choosing life did not come easy.

I saw a new psychiatrist who blew my mind when she said the good news was that I was not clinically depressed; however, I was bipolar, had borderline personality disorder and PTSD. She slowly started me on a careful regimen of totally different meds. And what a difference that made after almost 20 years of hell. My entire life changed.

On my job, I deal with some aspect of mental health and suicide issues every day. Who better than an attempt survivor, peer to peer can do that? Who better than a person who self-injured over a 15 year period of her life, peer to peer, can do that? It took me three tries to achieve my Certified Peer Specialist. The first two times I was struggling with my mental health. The third time, I studied harder and then got really sick. I took the exam anyway…and passed!

About 8 years ago, I sat and listened to a suicide loss survivor share her heartbreaking story of losing her 20 year old son to suicide. And although the teen center was crowded, I felt as if she and I were the only two in the gym. I could hardly breathe. For the first time in my life I understood the full scope of devastation a loss survivor experiences. I couldn’t stop crying. I almost did that to my family. It was a turning point in my healing and recovery. It was literally life-changing. I have remained an active member of the suicide prevention coalition that hosted that event, helping out at events, speaking on panels at workshops and conferences. I do my best to carry a message of hope and healing.

The road has not been easy and I still question that anyone would describe me as “resilient.” I still had to battle my roller-coaster emotions and misunderstanding your intentions – what you said was not always what I heard. I finally began to put into practice the coping skills I learned in DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy). My life began to get a little better on the inside and the outside.

The next major milestone was the road trip to the Grand Canyon, with multiple stops along the way at Bryce Canyon and some others. But it was standing out on Bright Angel Point on a spectacular clear sunny day in June of 2010, letting the spectacular surroundings of the canyon wrap around me that had a profound impact. That was as close to a spiritual experience I had ever had. I felt a physical change, and it wasn’t the altitude. It’s really hard to describe. I remember my mentor saying, “Please hold onto that ‘Grand Canyon’ state of mind.” That was a challenge for the next few years.

And then I had a real-life encounter with prejudice and discrimination. Some call it STIGMA.

My mom finally lost her battle with cancer and congestive heart failure. Because I had better coping skills and was continuing to heal I was able to be there and support her in those final weeks. More importantly, I was able to be free of the anger and resentment I had almost allowed to kill me and sit at her bedside knowing that I really did love her. I know now that she did the best she could with what she had to work with. I was able to forgive her and I think she could feel that.

A year later, still coping with grief but doing the best I could, I was just easin’ on down the road when I was hit with the diagnosis of breast cancer. In two weeks, we went from a lumpectomy on one breast, to nope – they needed to perform a double mastectomy and remove all the lymph nodes under my right arm. The cancer had spread. And when I shared that publicly, people tripped over themselves to offer help – they all wanted to help me – to cook, to clean, to drive me places, whatever I needed. Coming home from chemo one week, I had a hissy-fit, totally blew up. In tears, I screamed, “Where the hell were all of you when I wanted to die?” I finally met STIGMA face to face. And I began to feel a determination I hadn’t felt since playing ball. I now know my life matters and I need to step out of the dark and shatter the silence and encourage other attempt survivors to do the same. And I have. And I am.

Cancer altered not just my physical body but my entire being. Week after week, confronted by jaw-dropping challenges – I was getting used to hearing doctors say, “We’ve never seen anything like this” all too often. And yet, I just kept getting back up on my feet and moving forward the best I could. It sounds silly but I reached a point of “don’t sweat the small stuff.” For sure, there were days when I just fell apart and cried and cried. Suicide was never an option. Everyone kept saying how resilient I was. I kept wondering who they were talking about.

I’ve done some PSA’s, participated in suicide prevention film projects, and serve as the advisor for new, way outside the box resilience workshops for attempt survivors (yes, I did say “resilience workshops”), programs I wish I had available not only when I was struggling but also as I was healing. I openly discuss the scars under my tattoos with teens and urge them to open up about why they are in so much pain.

And yet, with all of that said, there I was a year ago, in the midst of 1300 people all of whom are connected in some way to suicide. I was attending a panel presentation and wrote a note to my friend and passed it to her. It said:

For the last two weeks, I’ve been having suicidal ideations. Not sure where it’s coming from and what’s going on. I don’t want to talk about at all. I have no plan. It’s just feelings and thoughts. I’m telling you because it’s the right things to do. And I have been taking my medication.

Yup! Right smack in the middle of a major conference, surrounding by people who could help me. I am a suicide attempt survivor who continues to heal, but no one ever said that “stuff” wouldn’t still happen. Resilience? The next afternoon, in spite of wanting to throw up with nerves, I sat on my own panel and presented about the importance of resilience to attempt survivors.

In our spiritual wellness workshops, we often talk about the “Wicked Awesome Wish List.” Everyone should have one. I’ve spent years dreaming about the three things I most wanted in my life and I’m two weeks from crossing off the last item. In June, June 3rd to be precise – my birthday, I finally bought the motorcycle that my brothers told me I would never have. I returned to college in November, to complete my degree in psychology with a focus on addictions and, after years of struggling with my weight, and with complete support from my medical team, I’m scheduled for a gastric bypass. For so many years these seemed like wishful thinking and so out of reach. And here they are.

Now what? What do I do next? And that might seem like a simple question, but not for me. The wish list gives me hope and a reason to not give up on life. And that can be a lot of hard work to do every day, something many suicide attempt survivors can confirm. And I think I am getting a little better at understanding what it means to be resilient. Last night is an example of what’s next. A loss survivor and I shared our stories at a community conversation. We call them “weaving a tapestry of hope.” Several teens came up afterwards and we talked. I believe I gave each one of them some hope to hang in there. To continue to do that, to share my story and reach out to help others find hope. That’s on the new version of the Wicked Awesome Wish List.

I am a suicide attempt survivor and this is my story of hope and resilience.

By Jess Stohlmann-Rainey

I have anxiety. I have always been a little too aware of the world. Like this…

1.2 million people in the US have HIV. I know because when I was six a boy on the bus snickered to his friend that I looked like an AIDS baby. I didn’t know what AIDS was, but when I found out I had to stay home from school for three days because I was crying, not for myself for being called an AIDS baby, but for all the people living with HIV and AIDS, and how horribly HIV+ people are treated in the world.

And did you know that one in three people in my age group have an STI at any given time, and many of them don’t know it? When I walk into a room I spend at least two minutes looking around and trying to guess who those people might be.

But that’s not all. About half of the voting population voted for Donald Trump, which might mean they have some opinions that scare me about women, people of color, immigration, and a bunch of other things. People like that tend not to like people like me, so I don’t want to talk to them because who wants to talk to people that have scary opinions and don’t like you? On top of that, a third of them might have an STI. That doesn’t make me feel afraid of them but does make me feel a little guilty for saying the STI thing to begin with because there are definitely people out there who treat people differently when they have an STI, which I learned when I was six.

Let’s take a breath. When you have anxiety, it helps to do mindfulness activities that ground you in the moment. I am really bad at mindfulness; quieting my mind and being present in this very moment is really difficult for me. Probably because moments don’t exist in a vacuum. This moment is being squeezed into nonexistence between all the past moments clinging to its back and the future moments that seem to approach more and more rapidly.

Really, how am I supposed to live right here and right now when all of my past and future moments are barreling toward me with no sign of stopping? And it isn’t just that. All the numbers are there, too. Every number there is to fear or celebrate, pushing to the front of my mind, asking me to pay attention.

Anxiety has been a dominating force in my life for as long as I remember. I make decisions, then second guess them into oblivion. I am never completely sure that another person likes me, cares about me, or believes in me. As much as I have struggled, it has also created some of my favorite things about myself. I am an astute observer of tone, body language, and other guarded communications. I believe that only the best is good enough (which informs my commitment to social justice). I throw myself into my work, and everything I care about. I put my over-thinking skills to work for me on a daily basis, and am able to synthesize connections between diverse and asynchronous ideas. When I hear people say that they don’t want to be defined by their mental health condition, I can’t quite relate. So much of what I love about who I am has been shaped by my condition.

I haven’t always understood the gifts that come with my mental health condition. In the past, I have drowned in the challenges. When I was sixteen years old, I went to my high school, locked myself in a bathroom, and tried to kill myself.

A lot of things in my life had been really difficult. In middle school, I realized I was bisexual. It wasn’t hard. I didn’t struggle with my identity. I actually didn’t think it was a big deal at all, so I told a friend. As it turns out, it was a big deal to some people. Middle and high school were a blur of torture, from nasty comments and notes to vandalism. I didn’t do myself any favors. I just sunk deeper into my victimization, found booze and drugs, dabbled in cutting and burning. I was like a hurricane. People around me saw me spiraling out of control, but no one knew what to do or what to say. By the time I was old enough to get my driver’s license, all I could think about was dying in an accident. I thought about it so much, in fact, that when I drove I was afraid all those thoughts would materialize. Once, I attempted suicide at home, but did not die. I didn’t sleep for six days after that. I was busy planning a more lethal attempt, this time at my school. It took months of planning. I practiced.

That day in the bathroom, a girl I don’t know knocked on the door and yelled at me that she needed to use it. Suddenly the whole world snapped into focus for me. By the time I collected myself enough to stand and walk out of the bathroom, the girl I credit with saving my life was gone. In that moment of clarity, I made a decision to get help.

Good help actually took me years to find. I went to an outrageously expensive inpatient facility. The first night, my roommate killed herself, and I found her. I was told not to talk about it. There was a boy who talked to God and took showers in waterfalls no one else could see. A six year old boy broke a pencil and stabbed himself with it. I made two friends, a girl who eventually died from complications from her anorexia, and an incredibly depressed boy my age. What I really learned to do in this facility was to pretend to be the healthiest person in the room.

Later, a therapist told me I might not be able go to college or live on my own. I went to sessions, and got really good at telling my therapist about the parts of my life that were going well. I told her about every positive thought, social interaction, grade, until she said I didn’t need to see her anymore. I felt like I won, as if therapy was a lying game and I was the best.

I faked it pretty well for years, until my ex-girlfriend killed herself my second year of college. My mental health spiraled again, but this time was different. Activism, and my activist community, saved me. Being able to see myself as part of a group of people who were strong and capable made me feel strong and capable. My struggle was not just my struggle, it was a part of a larger search for justice and equity.

Being a survivor is a political act. We have lived in the darkest parts of our minds, the parts created by an unjust world, and found our way out. Survivorship is integral to my activism. I am as much a survivor of my suicide attempt as I am a survivor of the conditions that created my vulnerability. It was only after activism allowed me to make meaning of my experience that I was able to access treatment that worked for me.

After years of anti-oppression work around gender and sexuality, I found myself drawn back to suicide. This time, not because I wanted to die, but because I knew what it meant to confront the darkness and choose to live. For the last six years, I have worked in suicide prevention and postvention. One of my primary goals in my work has been to elevate the voices of people with lived experience. To this end, I began collecting stories. Not stories about people’s suicide attempt, but about how they lived. I learned that my experience was not unusual or rare. The 108 people I interviewed had the same core experiences.

Becoming Willing to Live

Most people think that all suicide attempt survivors have this moment following a suicide attempt where they feel like they made a huge mistake, they wanted to live all along. Based on my interviews, some people had this type of experience, but it was more common for people to give in to the idea of living. I heard things like: “I figured out that being alive wasn’t the worst thing, even though it hurt…” and, “When I was in the hospital I was alone, in the corner with my dunce cap like “you have to find a way to stop hurting yourself.” Becoming willing to live is no easy process, and while it can be transformational for people, it doesn’t change all the factors that contributed to people’s desire to die. It is just the first step.

Finding Refuge

The next common experience was for people to seek out sheltering, positive, nonjudgmental spaces to heal. Some found physical spaces, like the woman who returned to her college town. “I went back to the town I went to college in because It was the last place I remembered feeling good,” she said, even though she didn’t know anyone who was still living there. Others found refuge with people who felt supportive. One person said, “I lived with friends who were safe, loving, and supportive. It was so much better than family.” Finding refuge is like laying the foundation for the other parts of the process.

Speaking Truth

Suicide attempt survivors feel significant pressure to be silent about their experiences. We hear that we should not talk about it from mental health providers in group therapy, our families, our friends, our doctors. Keeping our experience a secret was at best, annoying or frustrating, and at worse, shaming and contributed to more acute suicidal intensity. Telling was an important experience. One of the people I interviewed said, “It was just burning on my tongue. I felt like I had this big secret and I couldn’t go on keeping it. So I told. Then I couldn’t stop telling.” In The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action, Audre Lorde says “I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken… I was going to die, if not sooner, then later, whether or not I had ever spoken myself. My silences had not protected me. Your silence will not protect you.” All of the people I interviewed expressed the sentiment that giving voice to experience was liberatory. One person asserted, “I felt so powerful when I finally talked about it. Like I wasn’t a slave to my secret anymore.”

Finding Kinship

Once we begin telling our stories, we also search for others like us. Because our identities as suicide attempt survivors are so often erased, and the discrimination we faced is so significant, finding kinship networks of people who understand our experiences is incredibly important. Being able to share recovery strategies, talk about the challenges we face without judgment, and provide mutual support is integral to our journey to hope. There has been a pervasive practice within the mental health system of not allowing suicide attempt survivors to share their experiences openly in groups, whether or not a clinician is present. It is clear from my interviews that survivors are not only finding each other and having these discussions anyway – one participant stated, “What was so weird was that in the hospital we weren’t allowed to talk about our attempts. So we said, “f*** you,” and started our own outside group afterward. We are still friends.” – but that finding kinship and solidarity with other suicide attempt survivors is an irreplaceable part of recovery. One person explained how vital finding this network is, saying, “I just knew there had to be more people like me, and it was so much worse for us to be all alone.” This was frequently cited as the most important experience. The value of connectedness as a protective factor has been confirmed by suicide prevention research many times, so it is not surprising that this process feels so valuable to suicide attempt survivors.

Developing Power

The final key experience that emerged was developing power by making meaning of the experience. This experience was defined by actions that allowed something positive to come from our suicide attempts. The two most common ways of developing power were helping and activism. One person served as a Court Appointed Special Advocate for abused and neglected children. She explained, “I wouldn’t say I was “recovered” until after I started volunteering as a CASA. I couldn’t believe they let me do it, actually. I was so dark and twisty, who would let me help kids? But they did. It changed my life. I was part of something and it healed my soul.” Another person worked on a crisis line, saying, “Once I got on that hotline everything changed. I was whole again, and I could help people. That was the moment I knew I would live. Really live.”

I think it’s important to note that that throughout these interviews, there was no treatment or experience with the mental health system that people consistently identified as integral to their recovery process. That doesn’t mean that traditional mental health treatment was not effective; for many people it absolutely was. When in this process people found traditional treatment helpful varied greatly, and many of the people I interviewed did not find benefit in traditional treatment modalities at all. What this tells me is that surviving depends on so much more than just mental health treatment. That means everyone, with or without training, can be a part of helping people recover.

By lifting up these voices and centering them in the work of suicide prevention, we can make sure that another sixteen year old girl knows how to ask for help before her darkest moment, and that her parents, friends, and school know how to help her when she can’t help herself. If I had known any other suicide attempt survivors’ experiences then, I wouldn’t have felt so scared and alone.

Now, when my anxious brain turns to numbers, I have some really inspiring ones to remember. I can name 108 other people who have kept the darkness at bay. For every one of those people I can name, there are thousands more. And every time one of us uses our voice, we are all lifted up. Those are the numbers that I wake up with every day; the numbers I am fighting for.

This work is my way of looking back at that terrified girl trying to die in her high school bathroom, and telling her, “You did it. When you decided to live, you made the right choice.”

By Laura Mayer

I was 12 the first time I walked into a psychiatrist’s office. I never looked at anyone’s eyes and I never knew what was on their faces when I met them. But I did know what color the carpet was. The carpet was green. They said she was a ‘child psychiatrist’ who specialized in people like me. I was not sleeping well and I had lost some weight and I did not want to feel anything anymore. They said I was anxious and depressed. I just felt pain.

A lot of survivor stories start just like this. Many survivors, just like me, had a rocky start to their lives and a lot of people struggle throughout their lives and not in just one singular moment of despair. My story isn’t all that different because honestly, my story is not over, it’s only in the middle. The story I am sharing with you today doesn’t necessarily have a happy ending where the thoughts of suicide are gone forever and I live happily ever after. What I think makes my story useful is that despite all the things that didn’t work out so well, all the treatments that failed, one thing was fluid throughout; I had people who made the difference. Humanity, compassion, empathy and courage were my lifesavers. Every survivor has people or things that help them connect to life. Music, hobbies, art, culture, sports…they all keep us human. For me, it was the human connection that kept me living.

When I was 12, the childhood of trauma and the neglect I experienced began catching up with me. I realized that not every kid lived like me and not every kid felt as much as I did. That realization of being so different is what began my thoughts of suicide. It wasn’t my symptoms like the insomnia or the lack of appetite, those were just reminders to me that something else was going terribly awry. In fact, the symptoms were nothing to me at all, but they were the ‘red flags’ for everyone else. My psychiatrist prescribed me Paxil and Trazadone and said she would see me once a month. I should go to a therapist and work on my ‘worries’.

I took the medications because that is what I was told to do. The medications didn’t really work much because they were treating my symptoms, not the thoughts I was having about myself and those thoughts were rooted in shame and blame. It is true, I slept more and I felt less sad but those symptoms were replaced with feeling antsy and my thoughts moved much faster. If someone could feel caffeinated and deeply depressed at the same time, that was me; an energizer bunny with thoughts of dying all the time. What I walked away with however was a belief that If all these things were happening to me and not to everyone else, it must be something wrong with me right? Right?

By 14, I did not have any more answers to why I was different or why I did not fit into my peer group. A sexual assault by a peer during my freshman year only reinforced that something was wrong with me. I was the problem. My parents continued to medicate the symptoms and send me to a therapist. Their own mental health problems became paramount and they reinforced often that the reason they felt so sad and angry was because of what was happening to me. Soon, I would be the one sitting in the waiting room for my therapy appointments while my father talked the entire session. He was having thoughts of suicide too.

At 15 things got worse. I stopped eating all together, stopped having any friends and then the unimaginable occurred. My father ended his life. I did not feel anything. I rationalized. They said “he was in so much pain, he’s better now.” I said “what about me and what about my pain?” They said I did not understand, and maybe when I was older, I might understand better. My mother decompensated and stopped parenting. I was on my own and anxiety became my handcuffs that trapped me inside my head and depression became a dark room I lived in. What was interesting is that my entire bedroom was white, including the cold tile floors. Even with all that light, I only saw darkness.

I stopped going to school because I didn’t think there was any point. No one noticed either. It’s hard for me to believe now that any school system would allow a child to just disappear. But I did and they let me. This was not the first failing of my childhood, nor would it be the last. My therapist suggested I join her church to make friends, join a youth group. Find God. I listened because I wanted her approval, I wanted her to be proud. What other reason was there to get up each day? I went to Mass every morning and prayed for the thoughts I was having to go away. I believed then that the reason I was suffering so much was because I was supposed to. The carpet was red in the church and it smelled like incense. It was the only place I felt safe because at least there, I knew I was never going to worthy enough anyway.

Soon, my therapist, the same one I’d seen since I was 12, decided that I was developing a personality disorder. I was dissociative from the trauma of my father’s death, the sexual assault and previous abuse and was unable to communicate. How do you even find those kinds of words? My brain was moving at the pace of that energizer bunny still yet my mouth was paralyzed. That therapist had thick blue and grey carpet in her office. I think the walls were white. She often wore the same brown shoes, but I can’t remember if she ever smiled or what color eyes she had. We worked together for 5 years. When I didn’t get better the way she wanted me to, she decided that she no longer wanted to work with me. I was 16.

At 18, I had no parents, no life skills, no therapist and I was no longer medicated. I spiraled. I tried to take my life one night because the anxiety ripped through my body and put me into a deep panic that I felt would never end, my entire body felt like it was on fire with anxiety and pain and I wanted to make it stop. I woke up with next day torn between disappointment and utter regret and shame. How could I mess that up too?

I sought treatment, which escalated the symptoms I was having because no one understood why I wouldn’t just explain what the problem was. The less they understood, the louder the symptoms became. Eventually, I landed myself with a young therapist. I liked her because she dropped a lot of F-Bombs and shared her music with me. She used songs to connect with me and I could give her a song back to describe my world to her. Let’s be real here, I was not easy to work with. I trusted no one and everything irritated me when it wasn’t easy. Every assignment given was a waste of time, every hour spent not accomplishing or changing anything made me less sure I was ever going to get ‘better’.

This therapist was different though. She found small ways to show that I existed beyond symptoms. She was available after hours…within reason. She showed me compassion when I had none for myself and she fought for me when I ran out of energy. She showed me that I was cared for even when I hated her and that nothing I said or did changed her opinion of me. She could see me underneath all the stuff.

A few years into our work together, a friend of mine died by suicide in the hospital I was frequently sent to. I did not understand how to process any of it. Everything collapsed in on me and there I was, 15 years old again, and the choice was mine. To live or to die. I remember vividly how cold it was, that it was on a Tuesday and that my friend had died the night before after calling me and I did not answer. I remember sitting in my therapist’s office, knowing something was wrong before she told me and the rush of feelings that overtook me. Not a single word left my mouth. Every breath I took in felt like searing pain. I lasted several weeks vacillating between numb and agony. I don’t remember much more than laying on my apartment floor, watching movies for days. That pain had nowhere to go. My ability to sit with feelings was tapped out. I imagine my emotion reserve as kind of like an old leaky bucket. Mine was completely full and her death paralyzed my coping resources. Living was not an option. Anticipating my poor ability to cope, I was hospitalized and on ‘Behavioral Observation’ at the same place she took her life. I made the decision that I was not going to survive the day and I just had to wait for the right moment. The agony I felt that day, lying on the floor of my hospital room is something I will never forget.

My therapist showed up at my door, she looked at me and she demanded that I get up and talk with her. The carpet was a pale brown. I didn’t want to talk, I wanted to die. I begged her for her permission, I begged for her to give another alternative of which she did not have at the moment. What she could offer was not a choice between life or death, but instead she offered a ‘wait and see with me’ alternative. She couldn’t promise me that it would be ok soon, but she could promise that she would be there for me and she stick with me until things did change. It was the pause I needed to keep living.

I attempted to take my life 2 or 3 times after that, each time I had longer periods of time in between that weren’t so bad. Hospitalizations were no longer the norm. I moved several states away and became stronger away from the chaos of my old life. I continued to work with the same therapist as she had moved too. She showed me that I can care for myself but that she was there if I needed her. I cannot remember the color of the carpet in my therapist’s office. But her eyes are brown and she smiles a lot. I found ways to make meaning of my past. I eventually left the therapy relationship as a client although we still touch base every once in a while.

Today, I run a crisis center. A place full of people who will go to great lengths to show people how cared for they really are. I am immersed every single day in a world where suicide is not a scary word, it’s a word to describe the pain and suffering people are in. When people ask me, what kept them alive, I often say “I dunno, I guess I’m just a survivor.” As time has gone on, and I have been the listener, the life connection, the friend and occasionally the rescuer…I know it wasn’t because I was particularly good at surviving.

I am alive because the people around me cared. My therapist used more than a risk assessment and putting me in a hospital. My therapist used our relationship, the connection and the humanness of us both to save me. She used fingertip touches, art projects, CDs with her favorite songs. She used silly meerkats, poems, emails and late night phonecalls to prove to me that my life mattered. She taught me the standard I should set when I allowed people into my life. She showed me what I deserved and what was not my fault. She became the human in my life that I had never experienced before and she taught me how to care for me. She didn’t tell me how to fix my symptoms, she taught me how to take care of my heart, my mind and my body and from that I was born an adult with resiliency, coping and hope. She taught me to surround myself with the helpers and to give back to others.

She taught me that I am valuable, that I have purpose and that living through the pain would be worth it. I can’t say that I feel that every day or that the thoughts of hopelessness are gone. I still feel deeply about my past and I am constantly having to work on my ‘stuff’. I can say that I have added some pretty awesome people to my life who remind me daily of my life connections and what this is all for. But again, sometimes I don’t believe them and sometimes I feel bad. I can’t say it always gets better, because some tough stuff has happened since. What I can say is that the good often outweighs the bad and I am finally able to use some of the awful stuff for good.

The point of all of this, people are people and the only way to save a life is to connect to that life first. Without our strong, passionate and informed clinicians…we cannot move forward in our quest for zero suicide. Without our curious and risk-taking researchers, we cannot understand how to improve our methods. Without our survivors, we cannot learn from the lost and make a difference. Without our lived and shared experience, we cannot provide hope. We must strive to understand from our failings and we must be passionate innovators. We cannot limit ourselves to only science or only clinical work. We all have a role and it’s all possible. All we have to do is look up, look around and see the world beyond our own experience and understanding; we must not only know what color the carpet was. Sometimes we must remember to look up, look around and see the world beyond our own space…that’s where we find the hope, the helpers and the humanity.

The American Association of Suicidology (AAS) has been approved as a U.S. Department of Defense (DoD) prevention provider for the Integrated Primary Prevention Workforce Credentialing Program for Prevention Personnel (IPPW D-CPPP) Continuing Professional Education (CPE) credits, expanding access to accredited suicide prevention training for the DoD and affiliated workforce.

Several sessions at the 59th Annual Conference have already received DoD approval, with additional workshops under review.

Approved Workshops:

(PERD) Applying Thirty Years of Suicide Prevention Research to Community-Based Solutions
(PERD & PHB) Breaking Down the Silos: Community-based Development of a Substance Abuse and Suicide Prevention Community Helper Training
(PERD) Determining the Relative Importance of Risk Factors for Suicide Attempts in a Sample of Residential Patients with Opioid Use Disorder Using Dominance Analysis
(PERD) From First Response to Prevention: Coordinated Crisis Care in Rural & Frontier Communities
(PERD) Growing Together: Enhancing Community Engagement Strategies for Veteran Suicide Prevention
(LEAD) Quiet Battles: What Military Leaders Carry—and How Moral Health Heals
(PHB) Restoring Mission, Restoring Lives: A Community-Centered Strategy for Veteran Suicide Prevention
(PHB) Rewiring Hope: How Neuroscience Explains Mindfulness as a Lifeline in Suicide Prevention
(PHB) What We Learned After the Unthinkable: Postvention, Healing, and Suicide Prevention

Approved (Category Pending as of April 28, 2026):

15 Years of Zero Suicide: Looking Back — Looking Forward
A Cultural Infusion Implementation Framework for Sites Using the Zero Suicide Approach, With Lessons from New York State
Factors Impacting Officer Suicide and Effective Interventions
First Responders / Service Members Paper Session 1
Beyond PTSD: How Lived Experience, Moral Injury, and System Leadership Shape Suicide Prevention
Mission Connect Vermont: A Governor’s Challenge Initiative to Prevent Suicide Among Service Members, Veterans, and Their Families
QPR Gatekeeper Training to Support Law Enforcement
Silent Aftershocks: Mental Health and Suicide Prevention for First Responders and National Guard During Natural Disasters

Pending Second Review:

988 Update — Progress and Future Directions
Clinical Innovation for Suicide Prevention in Systems of Care: What’s Working for Whom
Contemporary Treatment for Complicated Grief through Meaning Making in Suicide Loss Survivors
From AI Tools to Clinical Impact: Achieving (and Measuring) Results in Responsible Ways
From Training to Practice: Using Structured Mentorship to Strengthen Crisis Counselor Confidence and Suicide Prevention Care
Integrating Narrative Identity in Suicidology: A Clinical Exploration of Story, Identity, and Suicide

These offerings are part of the AAS26 Annual Conference, taking place May 17–22 in St. Louis. This year’s theme, Moving Forward Together: Advancing Suicide Prevention through Science and Lived Experience, highlights the integration of research, practice, and lived experience.

Registration is open through May 17. Learn more at suicidology.org/conference

Support Groups

Available Support Groups

Finding Your Way

Healing Hearts

Surviving & Beyond

TrevorSpace

Events

2026 Suicide Prevention Summit

Annual Awards

Annual Conference

Paul G. Quinnett Lived Experience Writing Competition

Redeemed

Reclaiming My Voice

The Wicked Awesome Wish List

Developing Power

Suicide Recovery: From the Floor Up