Through the Lens of a Suicide Loss Survivor
Her dad.
Charismatic, goofy and giving, but easily disappointed by people, she recalls when asked to describe her dad. “He was complex, not a simple guy”, but he loved being a dad, and loved his dogs more than anything. Stemming from a generation that doesn’t openly speak about their mental health, how he was doing, in that regard, was rarely, if ever discussed. She goes on to explain that he was all insecurity covered by charisma - narcissistic in a way where he didn’t actually think that he struggled.
“My dad was flawed, but couldn’t see it. Couldn’t admit to it.”
Her story.
“He killed himself, honey.”
Sitting on the couch watching Netflix, the world froze. It was only four simple words, but Bailey couldn’t seem to process what exactly her stepmom was saying on the other end of the phone. Yeah, sure, her dad was struggling in his marriage, and Bailey knew that he feared being left by another significant other. She knew that he was afraid of being alone, of having to start all over again, but she never imagined that it’d come to this. Not exactly. He may have suggested it once before in passing, but in her mind, her dad was, “much too stubborn” to die by suicide.
It feels impossible to create a “new normal” when you don’t know what that life looks like without your dad in the picture, Bailey explains. It’s a paralyzing feeling that you can’t come back from. Grief is funny in that way. Sometimes it comes in small waves, but other moments roll in like a tsunami. The best you can do is soak up every moment, because it stands as proof that the person who you lost meant something to you.
Always convinced that everything was going to “be okay”, it was challenging for Bailey to realize a reality where it wasn’t. After speaking with her stepmom, Bailey called her best friend, Kelly, who was often, and still is today, her “fix-it” person. Bailey’s first few words to Kelly were,
“I need you to fix me, I need help because I don’t know how to breathe right now.”
For the weeks, months and years that followed that dreaded phone conversation, Bailey admits to hearing her stepmom’s voice on replay as she’d lie down to fall asleep. “He killed himself, honey.” The cadence, the pitch, the delivery. Everything the exact same as the moment when she found out that her dad was gone.
“Reliving that call is my trauma.”
At first, moving on felt impossible, Bailey admits. How could life continue? How could one function with that level of pain? She felt nauseous all of the time. Sick to her stomach from an experience that would never fluctuate. An experience that just was.
“I tried to schedule my grief away.”
It was much easier to turn it off, so Bailey tried to pretend like her pain, her loss, her grief didn’t exist at all. It was everything she could do to keep from crying in her cubicle at work. Certain coworkers didn’t know that she had lost her dad, let alone that it was by way of suicide. Creating separation and compartmentalizing, or trying to, was how she coped.
“You really get to learn who your people are, and who can stand by you when things get uncomfortable, because suicide is not an easy topic.”
Somewhere within the next few months, Bailey began experiencing “grief fog”. An intensity where she could no longer recall what exactly had happened directly after the loss of her dad. The one memory, however, that did seem to stick was her birthday a few weeks after his death. “He really loved greeting cards”, she said. “It was kind of his thing.” Bailey remembers holding tightly onto this farfetched hope that somehow, in some way, her dad had sent her a birthday card in the mail, knowing that he wasn’t going to be there for the actual day, but no card was delivered.
“He wasn’t able to think of me – I know that now.”
It is one of the only things that she remembers from the early days after his passing. It was never followed by anger; instead, Bailey remembers feeling profoundly saddened that her dad had been experiencing such lows that she didn’t know existed. It was necessary to understand that it wasn’t about “us”, Bailey explains.
“He couldn’t see how invaluable he was.”
Her healing.
Admittedly, Bailey’s survival revolved around giving herself permission to feel. She hated when people would tiptoe around the topic, because part of giving herself grace was talking about her dad, and sometimes that meant breaking down. Often. Bailey has found that pausing and searching for moments of introspection allows her space to feel all of her feelings, and in some way, carving out that space gives her permission to celebrate her dad.
In addition to the sense of presence that yoga offered her, clinical therapy was also a helpful tool in Bailey’s healing process. Sharing space with a neutral observer, who was not intimately invested, helped Bailey process, not only her dad’s death, but his life, and their relationship while he was alive. Coincidentally, it was always the appointment that Bailey didn’t start with much to say that would end up being the most powerful. Those were the appointments that kept her coming back, and those were the appointments that kept her honest as she worked hard to heal, in whatever capacity was possible.
“Sometimes it’s really hard to find joy…
…and sometimes it’s really easy.”
Bailey explains. But it is an active decision, and rediscovering how to choose joy, and learning how to put herself first has been Bailey’s biggest hurdle.
It took a while after her dad’s passing for Bailey to go after the things that are important to her. The things that support her most in developing as a healthy, happy human being. Acknowledging that some decisions wouldn’t have been her dad’s first choice, Bailey sort of jokingly states, “I’m doing me, and I’m doing it whether or not he would have approved.” She hopes that he would have come around to truly see and choose her, above everything else.
Bailey’s voice grew tight when asked about what she would have wanted her dad to know. She expressed feeling the need to drill into his head how loved he was, and reminding him that he was not alone – that he never was. After a few staggered breaths, Bailey said,
“I want to tell him it will all be okay... but maybe it wouldn’t have been for him. I want him to feel at peace.”
Her voice.
“We don’t learn by giving advice, but by sharing our experiences.”
It took a long time for Bailey to realize that as a survivor of suicide loss, you don’t need to punish yourself. “You’re already hurting enough as it is,” she says. Finding communities that understood what she was going through was pivotal. She explains that you can have the best people surrounding you, but it’s necessary to find a space where you feel like you’re a part of something. A community full of people who “get it” – the traumatic loss, the grief, the inevitable waves of emotion.
For Bailey, support came by getting involved in events like International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day, and the Out of the Darkness walk events put on by the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, as well as a local peer-led support group. It was helpful for her to hold space with other survivors of suicide loss as they process their grief together.
“To hear the gut-wrenching grief – you are bonded.”
You don’t have to know who these people are, or how they exist in everyday life. Instead, it’s the sort of connection that immediately moves beyond the surface level, Bailey explains. All in all, you’ve got to let it be what it’s going to be, she says.
“Loss teaches you that you don’t ever know what will happen.”
…and maybe there is something innately beautiful about that. These days Bailey works on showing herself grace. She no longer uses her dad’s death for shock value to challenge whether or not the people around her can handle it. It doesn’t need to be challenged anymore. Conversations revolving around her dad, his life, and his death come much more organically now, Bailey admits.
“You always need to judge what you protect yourself with.”
Click here to learn more about counseling for depression.
