Suicide and the pain left behind

WEST PALM BEACH, Fla. — A couple of weeks ago I accepted an invitation to attend a support group meeting for survivors of suicide — no, not those who had attempted but those left behind. I introduced myself and explained that I had twice attempted suicide when a teen and then again in college.

I told them they were pretty lame attempts, but the intention was there.

I was drunk during both times and like most young women who try to kill themselves, the decision was made very quickly, sometimes just moments before the attempt. Both attempts were hidden — also very, very common among young women.

After telling them what I did, I looked around, cringing on the inside and waiting for something to happen. I expected things to get ugly: "How could you possibly do that to your family?!" "Suicide is so selfish!"

That did not happen. Not even close.

They welcomed me and the meeting continued.

I listened to the minutia of their lives after their loved one's suicide. Activities we take for granted: Talking to friends, returning to work, going back to school.

But then they talked about things I had never considered: What they saw when they gazed at the bodies of their dead children. Stumbling upon family photographs months later. Who should be allowed to read the suicide letter?

All they wanted from me was to know what it feels like to want to die. What does the pain feel like? What thoughts go through your mind? What is it like?

They looked at me as though I could channel their loved ones. There was no judgment. They genuinely wanted these answers.

I tried the best I could. It was many, many years ago. Even my recent suicidal thoughts during my last major depression four years ago were difficult to explain. At one moment you are stuck in the hopelessness of the present and the next you see yourself in the future, still hopeless, weary and making those around you miserable. Every decision that lies ahead will be wrong. You can find no value in your life.

The muscles in your face go slack. There are no more tears. The connection between my brain and stomach vanished, and there was no hunger. I shed pounds. I could not watch television or read because my mind refused to focus. I wanted to sleep. Just sleep.

They wanted to know why I thought they would be mad at me. Their needs were very simple: to learn to live again, to prevent people like me from going through with it and to make sure their loved ones are never, ever forgotten.

I wish everyone who has tried or considered suicide could have this opportunity to listen to those devastated by suicide.

I would not recommend it for those still deep in their depression. It is for us who have climbed out and want to be believe that suicide is never, ever an option.

They thanked me and I thanked them. Then we left.

Christine Stapleton writes for The Palm Beach Post. E-mail: christine_stapleton@pbpost.com.

Distributed by the New York Times News Service.