Are we ready for this yet?

We can all do it together.

The thought didn’t initially scare me. It had been about two months since I found my son dead from suicide, and I didn’t want to live anymore. It was too hard. The pain was too much. I did not want to live in a world that didn’t include my son. But I couldn’t leave my family. What would happen to my kids if I were gone? My husband wouldn’t be able to handle them alone, and I didn’t want to hurt them any more than they were already hurting.

I knew how I would do it – the same way he did. I wanted to feel what he felt, to think what he thought, to know what his last moments were like. When I thought about it, I saw him again the way I had found him. I shook my head hard trying to make it go away. The images haunted me, taking over my vision when they flared. I even avoided looking at pictures of my son because I could no longer see my beautiful boy with his crystal blue eyes and curly brown hair; all I saw was his face the way it looked when I found him. I knew that I would look that way too, after I did it, and I worried about who would find me. My younger son and daughter were home with me when my son died, and I was so thankful that I, and not one of them, found him. I didn’t want them to bear that burden, and I certainly didn’t want to put the same burden of finding me on one of them.

We can all do it together.

It made such perfect sense. I wouldn’t hurt anymore, and I wouldn’t hurt my husband and kids if we all did it together. But my little guy wouldn’t be able to do it the way I wanted. I would have to think of something easier for him. Perhaps something we could drink? Then we could all just lay down and go to sleep together. It would be so peaceful, and then everything would just go away.

Wait. STOP. What are you thinking?!?

Initially, I wasn’t thinking of killing my family. I saw us all agreeing to end our lives together because none of us wanted to live without each other. We needed to be together, stay together with him. I don’t know what would have happened if they didn’t agree. Would I kill my kids? It would be easy to say that I would never do that, but it would be a lie. I knew I could do it if I thought it was best for them, and that terrified me. I yelled at myself that my kids wanted to live, that they needed to live. I could go, but they had to stay. And then I was back to the issue that brought me here in the first place. I didn’t want them to be hurt by my death. I decided I would have to stay, for a little while, at least until they don’t need me anymore.

I thought back to the first time I had thoughts of suicide. I stared at the empty picture frame. I don’t know where it came from, but I held it in my hands and thought that if I broke it, the pieces would be sharp enough to cut. I remembered my mom cleaning up broken glass and warning me to stay away because it would cut me. The year before, my mom had married my stepfather. Despite the new family and new house and new school in a new town, my sister didn’t let up. I hoped for a different life, but she still told me every day that I was ugly and no one liked me. I was shy and had trouble making friends, so I believed her. No one liked me. No one would even notice if I were gone. I stared at that picture frame and thought about breaking the glass, but I didn’t. I was scared that it would hurt and that I would get into trouble. My stepfather would scream at me and tell me how stupid I was for doing something like that. His screaming and insults were more painful than his hands. My sister would tell everyone at school and they would laugh at me. That time, when I was eight, I didn’t have a reason to live, but I knew that if it didn’t work and I didn’t die, everything would be worse. This time, though, I had a reason to live – for my kids, for a little while, just until they don’t need me anymore.

I remembered the time I had to go to the emergency room. I hid in the closet and cried. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t make myself get up. My boyfriend didn’t know what to do so he called 911 and told them I was having a breakdown. I don’t remember the ambulance ride, but I remember laying in the hospital bed with the blue blanket and wishing that I could just go to sleep and not wake up. Someone came to talk with me. I told her about my stepbrother taking me to his hiding spots and making me do things to him. I was tired of keeping it a secret and I wanted someone to know. I didn’t really feel better after I told her. My mom was at the hospital. She wasn’t in the room when I talked about it, but surely, she knew. She had to know, didn’t she? I don’t know what she said to the doctors, but they decided that I was under a lot of stress with college and sports and stuff. They sent me home and no one ever said anything about it again. That time, when I was eighteen, I didn’t have a reason to live, but I also didn’t have enough reason to put the effort into dying. This time, though, I had a reason to live – for my kids, for a little while, just until they don’t need me anymore.

The thoughts still came for a long time after. My tolerance for stress was about zero. If something didn’t go exactly as I expected, I cried and wanted to die. If someone was rude to me in public, or if I broke something, or if I got cut off in traffic, or if the store was out of something I needed, or if I argued with my husband, or if I burned dinner, I cried and wanted to die. Living was too hard and I didn’t want to do it anymore, but I knew I had to. They needed me.

Eventually the thoughts came less often, and I started wanting to live again. I wasn’t just living because my family needed me; I was living because I wanted to. I still think that I will end my life when they don’t need me anymore, but my perception of when that will be was moving later and later in my life. I want to see them finish college and find careers and get married and have kids. I want to be a grandmother and show them how to swaddle their babies and help them plan birthday parties and hold their hands when their child is sick or hurting. I want to have a new relationship with my husband after he retires and learn who he is when he is not working all the time. I wanted to die because I didn’t want to live in a world without my son, but now I want to live because I want to live in a world in which my family grows up and grows old. Last year, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease and have started having persistent pain and physical difficulties due to joint damage. It’s a cruel twist. I wanted to live so that I can do all these things for them, with them, but now it’s unlikely that I’ll be capable. Will my family still need me if I can’t do those things? Will they still need me if they have to hold me through my pain and suffering? When the time comes and they don’t need me, will I still want to take them with me? I really don’t know.

I didn’t set out to do suicide prevention work. After her brother’s death, my oldest daughter wanted to do something to raise awareness about suicide at her school and I wanted to be a good mom and support her. Talking with people in the school system and in the community about suicide, I noticed what was missing and what people said they needed. I initially hoped to find a training program to teach students what to do when a friend was experiencing an emotional crisis or having thoughts of suicide and arrange to bring it to our schools. The programs I found seemed insufficient. I heard over and over from people that they didn’t know what to say and they were afraid of saying the wrong things, but none of the programs addressed this and told them what to say. The programs were also completely lacking in cultural sensitivity and were extremely focused on suicide being caused by mental illness. What was out there just wasn’t good enough. I had the education and experience to come up with something better, so I resigned and decided to do it. If not me, then who, right? I have slowly worked my way into suicidology and feel like I have a lot to contribute to the field. I’m no longer doing this to support my daughter, I’m doing it because I want to, because I’m good at it. To be clear, I’m not trying to “turn my pain into purpose” or “finding purpose in pain.” I hate when people assume that is my motivation. No good came from my son’s death, and certainly not a newfound purpose for my life’s work. My pain is still there and doing suicide prevention work doesn’t lessen it, but I am glad to be able to make a difference in the lives of people affected by suicide.

Even with my experience in suicide prevention, it took four years before I could share with others that I had thoughts of suicide. At first, I couldn’t say that my son died of suicide without choking on the word. It wasn’t that I was ashamed; I was incredibly open about it, even including it in his obituary. The words just hurt coming out of my mouth. Talking about my own thoughts of suicide was different though. I wasn’t too emotionally choked up to talk about it; I was too ashamed. I started to realize how important it was, though, to share this with others. If I was going to do this work and tell other people that their experiences were nothing to be ashamed of and encourage them to talk about suicide, then I needed to walk the walk and let go of my own shame and talk about it too. It was hard at first, but I have gotten more comfortable with introducing myself as a loss survivor and someone with lived experience of thoughts of suicide. I still can’t talk about the other, though. It’s not safe for me to tell people I wanted to take my entire family with me in death. A mother wanting to kill her children…there’s no sympathy for me. People will think I’m suspect, a danger to my kids. What kind of mother would even think such a thing?!? How could you even think of doing that to your kids?!? We have made a lot of progress in reducing the shame of suicide, but there’s not much empathy or understanding for those with thoughts of familicide. I have hope that someday there will be. Are we ready for this yet?