Please call for help. The pain of suicide is never fully gone

To the Editor:

One more desperate man, dead within. He is crippled with despair, too tired to live on in this pain; sees no where to turn, no one to run to. Trapped in this prison of his own hopelessness. He takes one step then another.

Determination to escape growing stronger with each footfall. His decision spurred on by darkness unseen. One last time, he looks at the faces of his family, hanging framed on the wall. Head down continues past the kitchen table that is covered in a sea of bills he cannot pay.

On down the hall he passes the children’s snow boots all in a row. A tear rolls down his face but numbness of emotion rolls over him and his mind is made up.

The garage door closes behind him. He turns the lock. Can he see this through? Crushed by inner pain, sees but one escape from this black pit life has flung him into. Sitting there on the step with the tool of his intended demise next to him, he can hardly breathe.

His chest squeezed tight — he reaches a shaking hand to grasp the gun. Taking one more deep breath, he squeezes the trigger. The flame of life snuffed out.

God sheds a tear. The man had made his choice, leaving his grieving and traumatized children crying out in sorrow. They weep through the night.

In numb shock at first, they mechanically move through each hour, each day. His wife also cries but hers are angry, bitter tears.

The questions roll over her mind unrelentingly. Why? How could he? Why hadn’t she seen any warning signs? What had she done to cause this? He had left her alone in life — alone to raise their children.

In their room, behind the closed door, she grabs his flannel shirt from the hook on the back of the door and rips it. Overcome by sorrowful exhaustion, she falls onto their bed sobbing. She clutches the ripped shirt to her face and inhales deeply.

It smells like him, his aftershave, his pipe tobacco. This must all be a terrible nightmare, but no, the door opens slowly, and her mother silently crosses the room. Mom lies beside her, wraps her arm around her devastated daughter, weeping tenderly with her — heart to heart.

It has been a year now. A year of agonizing firsts, each child’s first birthday without daddy, the first Christmas — hollow and numb but for the raw knife wound in her heart. No joy to be found in baking cookies or shopping or wrapping gifts. No nostalgia or sentimental emotions in decorating the tree.

A first anniversary, kids in bed, she sits by the fireplace. Singular, staring into the dancing, devouring flames. Her life goes on. Time will pass. New routines and memories will push back the past and it slowly fades.

The pain of loss is never fully gone. It is like a scab, torn off by a familiar gesture or expression from one of the children, a little phrase, a look that was his, finding his work gloves in the back of the closet. These bring afresh the raw pain in waves.

His song on the radio, his birthday, his death day, a visit to his grave, the father-daughter dances missed, Little League games without dad cheering at the hit, teaching his sons to shave, to hunt, to drive, showing his daughter how a lady should be treated by a gentlemen, the proms, graduations, walking her down the aisle, the first dance, the great pride that swells the heart at holding the first newborn grandchild, all missed.

Yes, the widow’s life goes on, at first, of necessity. There are the children’s needs, the homework, the baths, dishes, laundry, shopping, cooking, and sifting through the bills after a long day on her feet at work. She tucks the children in, hears their prayers, then crawls into bed too exhausted to think, to cry.

New routines gradually push back the painful, old memories. But she will never forget the good memories of him, those precious stories, the photos, even his coffee cup on the kitchen shelf may eventually coax forth a small smile.

Many old friends seem to avoid them, either not making eye contact or worse yet, gazing on them with pity. New friends are made, some of the old friends remain in the life of the family. Those that remain form a supportive network of family and friends that buoy her up at the hardest times.

What would their lives have brought in time? Promotions at work? A stable financial situation, a larger house? Another child, or two? A 25th anniversary, a 50th? How many sunrises, sunsets soaked in together?

She will never know. Suicide is a desperate act, a selfish act, leaving behind a life-shattering aftermath that ripples outward, stronger at its epicenter of close family and becoming slightly less as it passes out through layers of those whose lives his had touched.

I have known the pain of depression and despair. I know intimately the pain of loosing a close loved one to suicide, my son-in-law and a close family friend to name just two.

There is help available, a light to guide you slowly out of the smothering darkness. Help can be found by calling suicide prevention/crisis lines, your family physician, a pastor, churches, or support groups. 

Please, for your sake and for theirs, please call for help. There is no shame in acknowledging suicidal thoughts or reaching out for much needed help. The shame lies in being too proud or embarrassed to seek out help. Please make the call today.

Evelyn Krimsky

West Berne

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