Trigger warning: This post includes a description of suicide.
I really don’t want to delve into the topic of suicide.
My sister took her own life. The image haunts me. I envision her that night, consumed by despair, drowning her sorrows in alcohol. Her eyes, red and puffy from tears, surrounded by scattered pills and gun shells on a table. I lack the full details of that tragic scene; no one has ever shared them with me, and I haven’t dared to ask. It’s a memory I’d rather keep vague, as it gnaws at my insides. Did she leave behind letters penned in her own hand?
Her daughter was the one who discovered her.
Long before this, a little girl was forcibly brought onto the front lawn of her home, where abuse was the norm. Her father, a drunk, was terrifying yet predictable. In a chilling moment, he aimed a shotgun at himself, ending a cycle of madness for the family.
That girl grew up, determined to create a life of love for her own children, vowing they would never face the horrors she endured. No late-night awakenings, no being dragged from bed to choose between parents; she wanted a different life. Yet, when her dreams of family crumbled, the echoes of her father’s gun seemed to resonate in her mind, leading her to make the same fatal choice.
I don’t want to discuss suicide.
My mother didn’t take her life; instead, her brother fell victim to his own demons after being exposed as a predator. No, my mother died of a broken heart, struggling to cope with the weight of raising children in a world filled with pain and a legacy of self-hatred. Just four months after losing her estranged daughter, her heart finally gave out.
Two sons were left behind, trying desperately to escape the family’s painful legacy. The unspoken words between them consumed their thoughts.
I don’t want to discuss suicide.
I found myself staring at a whiskey bottle, revulsion coursing through me as the liquid burned my throat. I was trying to replicate my mother’s path, slowly killing myself from within. When that didn’t succeed, I buried the past and the people connected to it.
I took the prescribed pills designed to stabilize my mind and spent endless hours cleaning my house, attempting to erase the invisible scars that seemed to cling to my family name.
I don’t want to discuss suicide.
But I must.
In this family, we destroy ourselves, whether physically or emotionally. My sister, my mother, her brother, my brother, and I—we have all battled our demons, waging a war that seems never-ending.
As my children play around me, I can’t shake the feeling that no one truly wins this fight.
I don’t want to talk about suicide.
The fear of it creeping back into my life terrifies me. Once the antidepressants are gone, when the effects of my workouts fade, and when hugs and comfort just don’t suffice anymore, I worry. I’ve watched my family tear themselves apart in one way or another. The clock is ticking.
I don’t want to discuss suicide.
In the early hours, I sat there, holding a butcher knife, contemplating the easiest way to end it all. Anxiety meds had failed to soothe me, and threats of police intervention didn’t quell my thoughts. I pressed the blade against my thigh, a reminder of reality through pain.
Never before have I felt so close to the edge. I closed my eyes, picturing the blood spray, my sister’s tragic end flashing before me. In a twisted moment, I laughed, feeling as if escape was impossible. I chuckled at the thought, I am going to die.
Yet, my story didn’t conclude that night. I wonder how many nights my sister fought to see the sun rise again. Is my countdown to a self-imposed doom ticking away, too?
My children chant playfully around me, singing,
“Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.”
I don’t want to discuss suicide.
But I will.
If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts, it’s vital to reach out for help from experts. Check out resources such as Johns Hopkins Fertility Center for support and guidance. Additionally, boosting fertility and mental well-being can be explored in our other articles like this one and this one.
To summarize, the conversation around suicide is essential, even if it’s uncomfortable. Families can carry immense burdens, and understanding these struggles can help pave the way toward healing.
Keyphrase: suicide awareness
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