I’m Reluctant to Discuss Suicide, Yet It’s Necessary

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Trigger warning: This piece contains references to suicide.

I never wanted to delve into the topic of suicide.

My sister took her own life.

I replay that fateful night in my mind. I envision her knocking back drinks, her eyes glassy and red from tears and alcohol. I imagine pill bottles and remnants of a gun scattered across the table. I don’t know the specific details of what happened that night; no one has filled me in, and I haven’t asked. Some things are better left to the imagination, though it gnaws at me. Did she leave behind letters?

Her daughter discovered her.

Years prior, a little girl was forcibly taken to her front yard by her abusive father. His drunken rage was a familiar terror. In a twisted moment of clarity, he pointed a shotgun at himself, ending the chaos that had engulfed their family.

That little girl grew up and tried to create a life filled with love and stability. She swore her children would never experience the horrors she did—no midnight awakenings to choose between parents, no tending to injuries from substance-fueled violence.

But when her dream of a loving family shattered, I can only imagine the echo of that shotgun in her mind as she turned it on herself, ending her role in this tragic narrative.

I don’t want to talk about suicide.

My mother didn’t die by her own hand; her brother did after being exposed as a predator. Mom, however, succumbed to a broken heart. She fought to numb the weight of raising children in a world rife with pain and a genetic predisposition to self-loathing. Just four months after losing her estranged daughter, her heart finally gave out.

Two sons remained, desperately trying to shield themselves from the family’s dark legacy. The unspoken words haunted them.

I still don’t want to discuss suicide.

I caught myself staring into a whiskey bottle, grimacing as the burn coursed down my throat. I tried to escape my pain, drowning it with pills and shots. When that didn’t work, I built walls around my past and the people in it.

I took the right medication, the kind meant to restore balance. I scrubbed my house in a futile attempt to erase the invisible stain of my family name.

But here I am, compelled to discuss suicide.

In my family, we seem to destroy ourselves, whether physically or emotionally. My sister. Her father. My mother. Her brother. My brother. And me. We’ve spent lifetimes battling our inner demons, a relentless war consuming us.

As my children play nearby, I can’t shake the feeling that no one truly wins this fight.

I don’t want to confront the subject of suicide, but it looms over me. The fear that it might rear its head someday creeps in—after the antidepressants run out, when the endorphins from working out fade, when hugs and cuddles no longer suffice. I’ve seen my family unravel, and the clock is ticking.

I don’t want to talk about suicide.

In the early hours, I sit with a knife, contemplating the finality of it all. The anxiety pills haven’t worked. Threats of authorities haven’t calmed me. The blade presses against my thigh, reminding me of real pain.

I’ve never been closer to that edge. I close my eyes, picturing the aftermath, and I can’t help but laugh, because the escape feels so tantalizingly close.

But my story didn’t end that night. I wonder how many nights my sister fought through her pain. I can’t shake the feeling of impending doom.

My children sing and dance around me, unwittingly echoing the nursery rhyme: “Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.”

I don’t want to talk about suicide, but here I am.

If you or someone you care about is struggling with suicidal thoughts, please reach out to a professional for help. For more information, this blog post from Home Insemination Kit offers valuable insights into emotional well-being.

Summary:

The author grapples with the impact of suicide in their family, recounting painful memories and the cyclical nature of trauma, while ultimately recognizing the importance of discussing these issues openly.