A blog by Lindsay Mesa, Training Manager at Pathways Vermont
My dad died by suicide in May of 2010. He died after an intense battle with thoughts of suicide. His battle started long before I became aware of it – long before I even existed. But to me, it felt like over a span of 8 months, the person that I had known all my life changed before my eyes, becoming unrecognizable. I knew my dad was struggling with thoughts of suicide, but I didn’t talk with him about it. There didn’t exist for me a paradigm with which to do it. I wasn’t the expert. What if I said the wrong thing? What if I made it worse? I was just his kid.
After he died, my family didn’t know how to talk about it. We so desperately wanted to, but how? We were calling his death an “accident.” It felt like the respectful thing to do. To not risk coloring his memory. To not ask anyone else to hold the pain of the truth.
My experience grieving my father does not make me an expert in suicide. But it is a fundamental part of who I am now. The experiences surrounding losing my dad to suicide cracked me open; they shook my foundation such that I wasn’t able to continue the way I’d been. And from that very vulnerable place, the one searching for any available path, I was privileged to find community at Pathways and to be introduced to peer support. And through peer support, I stumbled into a way to talk about suicide.
In peer support, we often use the metaphor of an iceberg. I can still remember the first time I saw a trainer scrawling the craggly shape across a whiteboard. Its rough edges peaking above the surface of the water, all this expansiveness underneath.
One way to think about talking to someone about suicide is to see the statement “I want to die” as the tip of the iceberg – the part that is above the surface.
So often when it comes to suicide, we get stuck at the tip of the iceberg. If someone attempts to die by suicide, voices they’re thinking of it, or if we’re afraid that may be the case – we respond by having conversations about not dying. If the surface statement is “I want to die,” the response becomes “Don’t die.” The conversation becomes about not dying.
It makes sense that this happens. The idea of losing someone to suicide is deeply painful. When someone is thinking of dying this way, it makes sense that we want to do everything we can to keep the person with us – to keep them alive. It makes sense, too, that we want to convince the other person to want to live. We pour forth all the reasons why someone’s life matters, all they have to live for. We try to instill hope.
What I’ve come to understand, however, is that for many people who are thinking about dying by suicide – dying is not actually the problem. In fact, dying may feel like the solution to the problem. Maybe the only solution the person can identify. So if we get stuck here, at the tip of the iceberg, talking about dying – we’re not actually talking about the problem. That keeps us stuck. Even when we are successful at keeping the person alive for the moment, we’re not getting at the root of why they don’t want to live.
This is why the iceberg matters. If you’re talking about what’s beneath the surface, you’re having a different conversation.
Through my years at Pathways, I’ve had the remarkable privilege to take part in many conversations about what’s underneath the surface of the water. I’ve had conversations about trauma, about grief, identity, chronic pain, and oppression. About fear and rage and hopelessness. About feeling everything so completely, about feeling nothing just as completely. Time and again, in opening up the conversation, I’ve found a different conversation – not about dying, but about all the things that get in the way of living.
And so often in those conversations, I’ve found myself saying – “it makes sense you feel this way.” It makes sense to want to be seen, it makes sense to want to be free from pain, it makes sense to feel so stuck. I’ve felt that way too.
I can’t help but wonder, if we were having more conversations about those things – all of us, out in the open, all the time – would we need to have as many about suicide?
One of the most powerful things I’ve learned is that a conversation about suicide is just that: a conversation. An opportunity to connect, to be heard, to be held in relationship.
Earlier this month, I had the opportunity to participate in a panel discussion with Four Pines Fund as part of the Hula Story Sessions series. Four Pines was being showcased as part of Suicide Prevention Awareness Month, and for the amazing work their foundation is doing to support greater access to effective care for people thinking of suicide.
I was honored to be part of such an important event with brilliant minds who have dedicated their time, their resources, and their hearts to the topic.
I participated not as an expert, but as a person who is willing to talk about suicide. I said what I know, from my vantage point, and I attempted to show who I am. From where I stand now, I can see that was something.
But what was more – after the event, so many people approached me and started talking. Sharing what they know, who they are. Their own experiences, their loved ones, the pieces of themselves they could see in my experience. An echo of “Me too, me too, me too.”
I did my best to listen. And maybe, I started a conversation.
