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To Brian Welch: Show Compassion, Not Criticism, for Suicide

By Dorothy Paugh

I believe that society’s lack of understanding of those in health crises causes suicidal individuals to scorn themselves.

Having lost my dad to suicide when I was 9, I can understand why Brian “Head” Welch, Korn guitarist, is angry at his friend, Linkin Park singer Chester Bennington — calling his suicide cowardly.

For decades, I was angry at my father for leaving my mother, a stay-at-home mom, to raise the five of us alone. I vowed at an early age that no matter how bad things got or how hopeless I felt, I would not do to anyone what my dad did to us.

But when I lost my beautiful son five years ago at the age of 25, I could not be angry for very long at the person I’d loved since the moment he was born. I felt so much pain from losing him, that death seemed preferable, so at last I could understand some of what he, and my father before him, must have felt.  When someone is in that much pain, they need help. They need to feel our compassion for them, not our judgement of them.

I believe that society’s lack of understanding of those in mental health crises causes suicidal individuals to scorn themselves. They would rather act on their pain than face any more anguish, confusion and criticism. It has to be seen as respectable, even laudable, for a man to admit “weakness” and seek help.  Life is too hard to soldier through alone.

"I am Alive" Dan Pallotta's 2002 Out of the Darkness Speech

"I may have lost my brother, my sister, my parent, my child, my friend, my spouse, my partner ... but I am alive.   

I am a survivor of the dark night of unspeakable loss, of my own darkness ... and I am alive.

I am unwilling to stand idly by and allow shame to defeat love or silence to defeat action.  I stand for the enlightenment of a society that would hide from suicide ... and I am alive.

I am unwilling for my perseverance to be in vain. Unwilling for the passing of my loved one to be in shame. I loved them more than I loved myself and their life will have meaning in my action.  I am alive.

In a world blinded by the pursuit of pleasure, I am here to say that people are in pain. In a world rushing to get ahead, I am here to say that people are being left behind.In a world obsessed with the value of the market, I am here to speak for the value of life ... and I'm alive

This will be no quiet fight. 
I am the voice of audacity in the face of apathy.
I am the spirit of bravery in a world of caution.
I am a commitment of action in the face of neutrality.

I am into the light and I am alive."

Dan Pallotta at the Out of the Darkness
Suicide Awareness Walk in DC, 2002

Is the Second Year Worse?

by Cynthia Slider

 

Is the second year after a loved one's suicide worse? The simplest answer to that question is, "It depends." It depends on many factors. For some, the first few months are the absolute hardest and once those pass, if becomes not easier -- but less hard, if that makes sense.

 

For some people, the entire first year is absolutely the worst pain they could possibly feel. Then, after getting through all the "firsts" (birthday, anniversary, holiday season, and other dates that have special memories) it gets easier.

 

Other survivors are in a deep "fog" during the first months and year and sometimes find the second year harder than the first one. Their minds go to such lengths to protect them, they do not really have a chance to truly grieve for their lost loved one. Once that fog lifts and the subconscious mind begins to allow "reality" to intrude, it can feel like the pain is worse than it was at the beginning.

Beyond Surviving: Dan Pallotta

"Two years after Alan died, I decided to launch a huge fundraising event to take suicide out of the closet and put it on the map."

by Dan Pallotta

November 29, 1999. Alan and I had been seeing each other for a year. We were in love. We were planning a life together. But this night, just before we went to sleep, he said he felt a kind of terror inside.

He had just graduated from law school and had been hired by one of the top law firms in Los Angeles. But he hated the job. His passion was for helping people in need--especially children, and the law firm wasn't giving him any satisfaction. I told him that he should start looking for general counsel positions in some of the non-profit organizations working on the causes he cared about.

That Tuesday night, I got home early and waited for Alan to get home to have dinner. But he didn't call and he didn't come over. My repeated phone calls to his office and cell phone went unanswered.

Just after 9:00 PM, the phone rang. It was his roommate: "Danny, Alan has hurt himself very, very badly. The paramedics are here. I'll call you as soon as I know what hospital we are going to."

Five minutes later, the phone rang again. It was Alan's roommate once more. "Danny, I have some bad news. We're not going to the hospital. Alan's passed away."

My Morning Cup of Latte

by Anonymous

It's 5:00 am and I'm wide awake ready to start my day. This was my routine for years. As a woman who juggled a busy career and a family, I claimed the early morning quiet hours to be mine. The corner of the couch, my book and a cup of tea greeted me each day at the same time.

My husband who, by the way was never a morning person, teased me relentlessly about losing out on another hour of sleep each day before shuffling off to drop kids at school and head to work. I told him he should try it. That by having an hour of no stress and just quiet time seemed to prepare me for my demanding day. We both had careers in management and both shared the same stressful demands that came with it. Add in five kids to boot and you had what often times felt like a mixing bowl with the beaters on full speed and only dry ingredients. Many years later my husband finally decided to try my "early morning rise and relax" therapeutic approach to life. The next thing I knew every morning at 5:00 am he would roll over and ask "are you ready? Let's go, I'll make the coffee."

Our routine quickly became what would I would describe as one of my most beautiful times in my life. Reading a book at 5:00 am gave way to early morning discussions and opening up to each other. For the first time in years we got to know one another, every morning on the corner of the couch over a cup of coffee. We talked politics, our managing styles and challenges at work, kids, church, family and sometimes his depression.

One day he thanked me and confessed that he had never been a morning person and now after all this time he found that inner peace I often spoke of and explained that it really did help him prepare for his day. He was an amazing leader, passionate, visionary, inspiring and always wore a big smile. His hobby was restoring old cars and over the years we had what felt like a local car dealership with and endless variety of vehicles in various stages of restoration waiting their turn to shine again. Once finished he would sell that one and start the next.

We had all kind of adventures over the years, some with positive outcomes and others less desirable. Challenge seemed to be the norm in our family so we just learned to embrace the ever shaking ground beneath us and kept going. His worked moved us all over the U.S. and we never stayed in one place beyond 1-3 years. Our kids learned to be adaptable. Okay maybe more like tired of it but it was what it was.

I would describe him as someone who quickly became bored with things so he was always into something or in need of something different and new all the time. This, in and of itself, was tricky as a spouse because about the time you think hes finally satisfied, he was looking for his next fix.

He was a great dad although he second guessed himself much of the time. We were a blended family and our children were very young when we married. Our story isn't perfect but certainly qualified for unusual. Our children meshed like biological children. We never used the term "step" and always referred to each other as dad, mom, sister or brother. Most people who knew us couldn't even tell we were blended. Behind the scenes of course there were many of the challenges of working through the demands of "Ex's" and the all too tiring push and pull of getting kids to the other parent and then back again. Stress, stress and more stress.

My inner dark thoughts and feelings bring me back to reality where I am still angry and sad. Still, as I look back it amazes me how much of the good I can focus on. It's a beautiful story but I know behind it all a thread that once bound us all together has simply been pulled out, unraveling everything.  Here I want to memorialize his beautiful soul, forget the wrongdoing, the disagreements, the imperfections and focus on just the happy parts of what was our lovely and sometimes dysfunctional life.

I still get up every morning and sit on the edge of the couch. I rarely read but in the quiet I whisper to him all the things I would say as if he were sitting there. Sometimes I feel like he's actually there and it brings me peace. He was my morning cup of latte. 

 

This post originally appeared on the Alliance of Hope Forum and was reprinted with the permission of the author.

Tips from Survivors: Accept Help

by Tom's Wife

I just replied to a post here from someone whose family had just left and they were now alone. This really got my mind spinning, so I've decided to write this post.

On the day that my husband Tom took his life, the first person I called was my nephew. He's 34 years old and a pastor. A year earlier his own father-in-law had taken his life also. Jeff made calls to the rest of the family for me and then headed up here - a 500 mile drive - early the next morning.

That night I was alone. I had told my neighbors I was just fine and needed to be alone. Wrong. I ended up calling the chaplain's 24-hour hotline with a lot of worry about whether to call 911 for myself. I couldn't stop shaking - my legs just continued to kick, my head was pounding, I was crying so hard I felt like I couldn't get a full breath. That wonderful woman explained what was happening to me physically and the hormonal flush that was happening to my body due to stress. She talked to me from 11:00 p.m. until 2:30 a.m. I finally had calmed down. She told me I had to lay down, I didn't have to sleep, but I had to rest. I never did sleep that first night, but I did finally calm down a bit and rest.

This New Life: Seasons of Grief

by Jan McDaniel

October. The turning season. This autumn is the tenth one without my husband.  I have entered a new kind of “after.” The seasons seem to insist on moving on; the protective shock, pain and active grieving I experienced for a decade are different now, too.  This new path is leading me to new places.

I feel like an old oak tree.  My gnarled branches reach out further than I ever expected.  My leaves that sheltered growing children have turned different colors and fallen to the ground though grandchildren still adore those interesting, crackly playthings.

The many layers of grief I’ve moved through once compelled me to focus on suicide, the causes, the effects, the questions with no answers, and the most difficult work of manufacturing hope. I felt like my life was the “suicide channel,” all suicide, all the time. After that, I found the place on the map where I had to confront the depths of the loss itself and grieve the many parts of that.

I’ve passed through periods of numbness, forgetfulness, and uncertainty when making decisions – even big, life-altering decisions that came to be filed under the category of “had to be done, ready or not.”

Through all of it, for better or for worse, I found my husband’s memory and his love were still there. They traveled with me. The love we shared was still alive in my heart, even when I came to a place called Acceptance. Oh, I danced around the edges of that spot a great deal before making some kind of peace with the entire situation.

But now, I no longer feel the need to talk about suicide with new friends or old.  I drift on the sea of new life, aware that the opportunity to comfort someone, somewhere will come again. And I do consider it an opportunity now, an honor.  Meanwhile, I live. Not like I would have lived if suicide had not entered my life. No. Not like I would have grieved another kind of loss.  But with hope that has taken root and grown up all around me, supporting me in the darkness of night, celebrating with me in the coolness of the morning.

I have unpacked some of the things I used to hold onto and cast them aside.  I’ve made new priorities.  That doesn’t mean I love my husband any less than I did on the day he died.  What it does mean is that I’m healing from the terrible hurt and trauma of losing him to suicide or at all.

When I remember my husband, it is with a comforting closeness. Sometimes that’s not enough, but his death has given me a new awareness of life, its precious nature, its gifts.  We still walk along side by side, he on his side of the universe and I on mine. There is contentment there…and sometimes pain.  If I am the only one carrying that love, that’s okay; that’s an honor and an opportunity for me to share what he meant to me.

Life – anyone’s life – is like that, full of opposites.  Loss – anyone’s loss – is a challenging path through the wide unknown. Sometimes, we have to watch the seasons turn before we are ready, and sometimes the day feels like it will never get done.  Sometimes, we don’t even have anywhere to live, anyone to hold onto.

I’ve been in all those places.  And beyond.  I don’t know what other layers there are yet to find and work through, but I can only try to meet their challenges, one day at a time.  Just as I did at the beginning.

 

Jan McDaniel, a writer from the southeastern United States, lost her husband to suicide in 2007.  As a blog columnist and community forum moderator for the Alliance of Hope for suicide loss survivors, she writes about survival, connection, and hope.  www.LightThatBringsHope.com

Tips From Survivors: Dancing Lessons

by Jean Mellano

Having studied dance for over 30 years, I was privileged to learn from some of the best instructors, becoming the best dancer I could possibly be. But I stopped dancing for years to take up cycling. Several years ago, before my life was turned upside down with the loss of Steve, my soul mate of over 33 years, to suicide, I started taking dance classes again.  I was excited to find a class with people more my own age and even more thrilled to find an instructor (Debbie) about my age. 

Debbie taught me two very important lessons (although I didn’t realize it at the time) and they weren’t about leaps or turns.  The first lesson involved what she said to a young dancer in the class that performed the choreography well, but, Debbie saw that the dancer was capable of so much more. She spoke to the young dancer and paraphrased the lyrics of What I Did for Love , the song from the Broadway play “A Chorus Line”.  Debbie said, “Dance is gift that is only ours to borrow, what are you waiting for? Use it now.”  I never forgot that moment.  

That sentence is a metaphor for anything of value in life, whether it is a loved one, our health, financial stability… all gifts that in many cases we might have to return at some point in our life if we live long enough.  I see that clearly now, Steve and my good health were gifts that I was so lucky to have for so many years.  The sad reality is they were only on loan to me and they had to be returned.

The second important lesson I learned from Debbie was when she would tell us about a certain dance movement she wanted us to do during class.  Probably due to some injury related reason, she could not demonstrate the move, but, Debbie would always say “I am grateful for what I have.”

What she said really blew me away as I thought to myself at the time,  what I did in my 20s, 30s and 40s, I can no longer do, but I can still do things now that I won’t’ be able to do in my 60s.  Now that I am in my 60s, I see what I can no longer do, however, I can still do things now that I may not be able to do in my 70s.

As I reflect, I think of all the gifts I have been given; my eye sight to see the beautiful purple irises and fantastic orange hues of the tiger lilies in my garden, my hearing  to listen to the sounds of  the birds chirping in the morning, my sense of smell to breathe in the beautiful aroma of lavender plants, the ability to feel the soft fur on my bunnies’ heads, having the capability to be able to  taste my favorite chocolate bar, the great times I shared with Steve; even walking; all wonderful gifts I had taken for granted.

Even after my diagnosis of Parkinson's Disease, I can emphatically say I am grateful for what I have and I will use my gifts wisely since I now realize they may not be mine forever and are only borrowed. Thank you Debbie for these words of wisdom you have shared.

 

Jean Mellano’s soulmate of 33+ years, Steve, took his own life on March 15, 2015.  She has found purpose in raising awareness of mental health by telling Steve's story: www.SlippedAway.org

This New Life: Love and Suicide

by Jan McDaniel

At one time I believed my husband's death had destroyed me.  Over time that pain weakened.  When it did, I found precious memories of our life together.  Still there, drifting somewhere inside me, surviving.  Using them as a starting point, I wrapped his love around me.

We just don't know a lot about death. We take much of what we believe about it on faith.  Sounds like love.  Love begins with faith.  Forty years ago, I did not know what would happen if I married this man. He was handsome and tender, intelligent and caring.  Yet, I knew little about him and less about who he would become and how I would have to change.  We grew together, closer and closer over the years. 

What amazes me is that I feel closer to him every day, just as I did when he was alive.  In fact, I know him better now than I ever did before.  How can this be? 

The explanation could be as simple as perspective.  I can see the smallest things he did in a new light now.  I can appreciate them more, too.  I think there is something about being alive that inhibits the deepest heart connections.  We loved and celebrated each other and many moments in our lives, but we also grew tired, worried, and focused on other things.  I could not be as close to him then as I am now.

I do not feel our love has ended.  It feels more like he is somewhere else right now and that our separation is just temporary, the way I used to feel when he was at work or in another room.  He doesn't feel ended.  And with this new perspective, I can look back on the whole of his life and see that suicide was a very little part of it.  He was so much more.

Maybe that is why the heart struggles against accepting loss.  The mind knows immediately what has happened.  The mind grasps the physical realities and often grasps at the first logical explanation.  The heart, on the other hand, must sense there is more, must know on some level that logic has very little to do with suicide and that death is not the sum total of a person’s life.  Therein lies conflict that must be resolved between head and heart on the long grief journey. 

Perhaps the heart knows death is not the end.  Many cultures and religious beliefs accept the concept of life after death.  Is that just a comfort mechanism?  I don't think so.  I don't always sense my husband's presence around me, at least not that my conscious mind detects, but there have been times when the evidence was undeniable.  I've heard the same from others.

No matter who you lost or what your relationship with that person was, listen to you heart.  It knows. 

Enter faith.  Promises are based on faith.  Love and healing are much the same.  When you talk about whatever you believe with others who have lost those they love very much, most often you will find respect, perhaps curiosity.  We have been put in proximity to whatever lies beyond the grave.  As for me, I trust that the same God who gave me my life with my husband will reunite us in Heaven.

Why did our lives unravel this way?  How could he leave me?  How could he leave the children I know he loved more than his own life?  Each survivor must ask tough questions like these as part of finding a path to healing and recovery, but healing is possible.  That is one thing we learn from each other.  There is hope.  On the journey from despair to healing, I learned about guilt, regret, blame, shame, loneliness, and many other things, but honoring my own feelings and the memory of my precious soulmate led me to the joys of life and healing.  I know him well enough to know that is what he would want for me.

 

Jan McDaniel, a writer from the southeastern United States, lost her husband to suicide in 2007.  As a blog columnist and community forum moderator for the Alliance of Hope for suicide loss survivors, she writes about survival, connection, and hope.  www.LightThatBringsHope.com

Help Me Care for Him as You Did

by Woody

Our cat and I were never "close," so to speak. He typically hung with "Moma" and followed her everywhere throughout the house. They were never apart. Any place she was -- he was there as well. I’m sure losing her was a great tragedy to him. It's been nearly 8 weeks since she left us. He has spent the majority of his time in my closet, under my bed and sleeping on the patio when the evening was cool.

I never really saw him cry but I'm sure he did. I've had that cat for over 10 years. He was never affectionate. He was never "lovey-dovey" nor did he really want someone to pet him. My cold little watch cat.

Today, he seems different. Today he jumped up on the couch and lay on my chest several times. His little nose drooled all over my shirt as he purred his way to sleep. I couldn't bring myself to move.