Sixteen years

Content warning: suicide. 

Sixteen years.

Sixteen birthdays.

Sixteen Christmases.

Sixteen periods of 365 days. Days filled with joy, days filled with pain, day after day that went by.

What is October 15th, anyways? And why did you choose this day to leave, to die, to have this be your finality?

Sixteen years.

You’d think sixteen years would be long enough to process. Time is supposed to heal wounds, that’s what they say, right? But the more time passes, the more you miss. 

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I have learned through these years that it’s not necessarily in the highs and the lows that I miss my dad. Sure, there are moments I am filled with joy that I wish I could share with him or moments that I deal with difficult news I wish I could ask him for guidance, but honestly? If I could choose any hour of my life to spend with my dad, it’d just be an hour talking, maybe sharing a meal, maybe meeting a friend. 

You see, honestly, I don’t remember much of my dad. That used to be one of my biggest fears, but I’ve grown to realize it was an inevitability. I was six years old. He’s not been in a great majority of my life. I never called him before, so when I need help or want a laugh, it’s not like I’m in the habit of picking up the phone and calling my dad. I try to hold space for him, but if I would pass him on the street (in some crazy alternate reality) today, I’m not entirely sure I’d recognize him. And I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t recognize me. 

There’s a great deal of pain that comes with that reality, especially in this situation. My dad wasn’t taken from me or lost to a disease; he chose this. Yes, suicide is far more complicated than walking out on a family, but to a six-year-old, there’s not much of a difference. That morning, he chose to leave us behind. He chose to never spend another holiday with me or meet my future loved ones. And although I’d never, ever advocate for anyone else to choose the same, I have to accept that was the choice he made that day. 

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Each year, I try to write about my dad to hold some space for him. After all, he didn’t walk out on me – it was much more complicated than that, and I know that. But I mostly write about him each year to try to get anyone who will read it to understand the importance of suicide prevention. 

This year, you may have noticed, was the first year I didn’t post anything for suicide prevention week/month. I wrote a lot but didn’t want to share it. It felt choppy, and I was hoping to write a piece that was eloquent and moving. But you know what? Suicide isn’t eloquent. This is more accurate. So, in honor of sixteen years without a father, here is what I wrote: 

Suicide. 

When did you first hear that word? 

I was six. Detectives were searching our house. I didn’t know until years later they were looking for a note. I went to school on Monday and had to try to explain to other six-year-olds what suicide was. It changed my whole world. 

Plenty of “well-meaning” adults told me that because my father killed himself, I’d kill myself too, because “suicide runs in families.” I was about 8 when I accepted that one day, I’d die of suicide just like my dad, because after all, we were apparently quite alike. 

I kept this belief for years. I never knew when, but I figured it’d just happen someday. It was always in the back of my mind.

When I was 18, my dearest aunt also died by suicide. And that thought came rushing back. The family thing, how I was doomed to the same fate. I knew suicide deeply hurt those it left behind, but at this point, I figured my loved ones were all already attached to the suicides of my dad and aunt – I figured mine wouldn’t change much. 

It wasn’t until I was 19 that I was actively suicidal. I had been sexually assaulted, didn’t know how to tell anyone, and felt like I was completely failing in life. I didn’t see any way forward. 

Every single day, I am thankful for the conversation my mom had with me on the steps that night. I had tried to leave, but somehow my 12-pound mother stopped me, and told me I had a choice. This didn’t have to happen just because my dad made that choice. Though I’ve continued to deal with anxiety and depression, I haven’t been suicidal since. I no longer think I have to die that way.

I will not die by suicide. 

I will do everything in my power to make sure that sentence is true. 

But when we talk about suicide prevention, a lot of people miss the point. 

*** And hey, that might mean you, reading this. ***

People love to post little quotes or things like “warning signs” or “check on your friends!” Those aren’t helpful for survivors of suicides. My dad exhibited NONE of those “warning signs.” Neither did I. There wasn’t a warning sign I – or anyone else in my family – could have recognized that would have saved my dad’s life, or my aunt's. Just “checking" on them wouldn’t have stopped them. That isn’t suicide prevention.

Prevention for anything has to look at the root causes of the problem. 

For many people, suicide prevention is a bit of a performance. But suicide seeps into every single intersection of life. It is raw, real, and much bigger than posting a suicide prevention hotline number. 

The stigma around mental health is a major cause of suicide. No adults in my life should have ever told me my dad was in hell because of the way he died, nor should they have told me it runs in families. 

The lack of access to mental health care is also a major issue. Mental health is, for many, but mostly for Black and brown communities, policed, and not treated in the U.S. When one of the biggest centers for mental health treatment in the country is the Cook County Jail, that is a sign of a problem. Police and corrections shouldn’t be treating mental health (in fact, all they do is add trauma to existing issues). If some of that money was diverted to mental health care access, our communities would see fewer suicides.

Trying to access and afford therapy and medications is a difficult process to navigate – even for me, a white person who had health insurance. BIPOC are also underrepresented as therapists and having access to a therapist that shares life experiences is important. 

The lack of access to healthcare in general is a problem. Without healthcare, including mental healthcare, life is much more stressful – which is a cause of mental health problems. The Affordable Care Act is up in the air right now. Yes – even things like not supporting Amy Coney Barrett’s nomination to the Supreme Court is suicide prevention. If the ACA is ended, many people (including me) will not have healthcare. 

LGBTQ youth also have higher rates of suicide. Encouraging, accepting, and supporting LGBTQ people is suicide prevention. Yes, that even means supporting healthcare for those who are transitioning. 

Women attempt suicide more than men. Equal pay, childcare for working women, and the ability to make decisions about their own bodies are suicide prevention for women. 

Poverty, including homelessness, poor housing, un- and under-employment are all causes of suicide. Supporting welfare, job support programs, as well as unemployment pay, are suicide prevention. Not focusing on productivity as the height of success in our nation is suicide prevention as well. 

Empathy and being able to seek help are suicide prevention. However, empathy does not mean condoning hate. 

Ending toxic masculinity in our culture is suicide prevention. My dad’s demographic – white, middle age, middle class men – are actually the highest rates of “successful” suicide attempts. Encourage the men in your life to seek help when needed and show them it’s good to process emotions.

If you aren’t willing to consider all of these things, and so many more – it’s not truly suicide prevention. 

If you care about suicide prevention, that’s great. But please, take it from someone who has intimately known suicide since she was six years old. It’s not one quick post of the suicide prevention hotline number, warning signs, or saying to check in on the people in your life. It’s a lifetime of work. And it’s important. 

All of these things add up. Maybe you don’t fully see this picture because you haven’t experienced it. Be grateful for that. But please listen to those who have had these experiences. Public policies and our culture add up to our suicide rates. And I would love if nobody ever had to experience what my family has had to experience. 

It’s been sixteen years since I hugged my dad. I wish that weren’t the case. But the truth is, suicide is a lot more complex than one story. There are so many factors that go into suicides, and if we want to never have anyone go through this pain again, there’s a lot we can work on in our communities. 

So yes, encourage, support, and check on the people in your life. Have more empathy. Follow some of those cute little Instagram posts. But please, when you are voting this election season, think of suicide prevention too. When you live your day to day life, think of suicide prevention. 

Sixteen years today, Dad. That doesn’t seem real.