The Tragedy of Suicide

Featured in the Dayton Daily News

When Robin Williams took his own life, the world wept. Someone so full of talent, intuitive understanding of human nature, and flair for making us laugh has left so many sharing in sorrow for his family. His passing has not only left a collective broken heart, it has also touched upon the tragedy of depression, addiction and mental illness.

My family knows something about suicide. Two of my brothers died on purpose leaving the scar of their absence forever etched in our hearts.

My brother, Pat, died 30 years ago at the age of 30 from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the chest. Victim to years of soul wearing depression, he left behind a young son, Michael, who has little to no recollection of his father. Only through the sharing of photographs and memories from long ago can Michael touch the essence of his dad. Pat had the most tender of hearts. Even after all these years, I long for his strong hug, his all encompassing laugh, and ability to beat anyone in any game at anytime.

Losing Pat was horrible. Our family unit was permanently changed. Removing a chair from the dinner table due to senseless death is never reconciled. With suicide, the remnants of conflicting emotions include confusion, anger, sadness and regret. They never clear from the waters that flow beneath shocking and sudden loss.

No one knew this more than my second brother Neil, and no one missed Pat more. Every family gathering, christening, birthday or holiday celebration included acknowledgement of our absent brother, especially with regard to Michael. Neil assumed the role of surrogate father. His tears were the first to flow when memories of Pat were shared. His grief was palpable.

You have to believe that good can come from anything. The byproduct of Pat’s death meant that my two brothers, my sister and I (the remaining unit of 4), would hold on to each other with fervor and intention. We vowed to be attentive, love each other, be there in times of difficulty, and NEVER allow another to fall into the darkened well of hopelessness. We established a new invincibility in Pat’s honor. Other than my incredible nephew Michael, our tightened family unit was his legacy.

It worked for a while. Almost 30 years passed since Pat’s death. Our family worked through marriage, divorce, children, illness and life in between. Neil was always at the family center, making us laugh, calling us to group hugs, and reminding us of our tenacity and resolve. His loyalty to family was unmatched. He was like the Robin Williams of our world; caring, loving and leaving us doubled over in enjoyment.

The last several years of Neil’s life were challenging. A painful divorce, failed business ventures, and financial insecurity were factors that threatened to chip away at his confident exterior. We knew he was having some troubled times, but he hid his deepening despair with the façade of humor. Neil’s adult daughter Megan was the light of his life. They were close and seemingly indestructible as a father-daughter unit.

Two and a half years ago, Neil, then 56, slit his wrists. We were blindsided. Perhaps we were clothed in denial, perhaps Neil exhausted himself in trying to hide his depression, or perhaps it was a combination of both. Regardless, upon hearing of Neil’s unsuccessful attempt at death, our family rallied. We knew what it was like to lose a sibling by suicide. We knew what it felt like to redefine our family. Neil knew. We vowed never again.

The night he returned home with bandages on both wrists, my sister and brother took him to the local Emergency Room where our hope was he would be admitted for psychiatric evaluation. The nurse and physician, after carefully examining the wounds, somehow accepted my brother’s story that a “knife slipped.” I wonder in hindsight how different our lives would be if only they had encouraged my then fragile and broken brother to seek help. They didn’t. He was discharged.

We had three months to try to love Neil to wellness. Our determination was intentional, honest, and unwavering. Megan came to her father’s side. She willed him to desire healing and engage in counseling. We felt almost grateful for the opportunity to re-write the history of Pat in hopes of bringing Neil to wholeness.

June 19, 2012, Neil died from a self-inflicted gun-shot wound. I can pull up from the bowels of my soul the immeasurable heartache and sorrow my family felt that cloudless summer morning. How could this have happened again? Of all people, Neil knew the devastation, yet his act shouted the profoundness of his depression.

My heart bleeds for the family of Robin Williams. There are many questions that will never be answered, and there is little I know for sure. Depression, however, is persuasive. For those who succumb, it is like a tsunami of darkness flowing to every crevice of their being. For those who take their life, I believe their intent is just to stop the pain.

One week before Neil died, he was at our home for dinner. In attempt to reach into his dark and distant eyes, I reminded him of how much we loved him. He couldn’t hear me that night. I saw the blank, far away look. Some part of me knew he was unreachable.

I pray with all my heart for those who feel the same. I pray they can breath space into their darkness. Perhaps Robin Williams’ death will help to bring light to the world of hopelessness. In the meantime, my belief is these precious and treasured souls are no longer drowning in pain. It is a lame consolation. I wish love could have rescued them.

I have learned to respect my brothers’ decision. It takes courage and determination to kill yourself. If only they could have used such conviction to save themselves. Ultimately, we need to love them unconditionally in their death, and hope the power of that love transcends the heavens so that finally, they will know.