What Can I Say About Suicide?

When I think of all of the things I want to say about suicide, I often feel as if my brain gets bunched up and I can’t really put my thoughts into words. But still, I feel as if I have to somehow address, not the death of Robin Williams itself, but rather the intense response it has garnered through both traditional and social media. I feel a need to address the effect this must be having on his loved ones and, in fact, on anyone who is a survivor of a loved one’s suicide. I feel a need to address the effect it is having on me.

I wrote about the media coverage of Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s death because I felt for his family and thought I understood, maybe a bit, what they might feel. Robin Williams’ death hits far closer to home for me. My father was 59 when he died, in the same time of life as Williams. My sister and I were in our early-to-mid twenties, as Williams’ children are now. And, of course, he died by suicide. 

Unlike me, his loved ones have to hear the opinions of a myriad of people who did not even know him. They are getting hateful messages on Instagram and Twitter. Everyone, including me, is writing about his life and his death. Not only do people feel a need now to share their thoughts on suicide, but they feel the need to vehemently defend their stance. They, apparently, feel confident in facts and answers that I do not. For the survivors, both his and those of everyone who has died this way, it opens wounds. Each statement that “people who commit suicide are X,” or “people who commit suicide because Y,” is like a commentary on that person we lost. It causes us to retreat once again into hiding, not wanting those who will judge to know the truth.

Which brings me to my title. What can I say? What can I really say that makes any difference? I can tell you what I know. Death by suicide is painful for everyone it touches. It leaves questions that will never be answered. When you feel like you have closed a box on how you feel about it, something happens that reopens it and makes you doubt everything again. It is difficult not to blame the person who died. It is difficult not to feel guilty yourself. Dealing with the stigma and the taboo can be overwhelming. When you are yourself grappling with feeling of anger, blame, and guilt, it can be so difficult to hear someone else piling more on top by characterizing the person you’ve lost by their last desperate act. In some ways, it takes away the ability to fondly remember a person whom you dearly loved.

I have found it difficult to stay away from articles about Robin Williams. In some ways I think I’m hoping I’ll find those answers I’ve been searching for for 10 years. Maybe someone out there really does have some insight I haven’t yet come across. Perhaps I think I’ll find others who feel the way I do, and I have. But as I read the articles posted on my Facebook feed and the subsequent comments, although there are some that are supportive and insightful, overall I have found myself disappointed. It seems there is still a strong stigma surrounding suicide and I honestly believe that that cannot be helpful to anyone–not to those contemplating suicide, to those who have attempted, or to those who have lost people to it.

It is only human to try to distance oneself from death. We all do it. We read an article about someone who died skydiving and think, “I would never take a risk like that.” We hear about someone who died of lung cancer and think, “It couldn’t happen to me, I don’t smoke.” It is self preservation. A lot of how people feel about those who kill themselves is this distancing. “I would never kill myself. I’m strong.” “That wouldn’t happen to me. I would choose life.” “I would be different.” 

Unfortunately, many of these rationalizations are just not realistic. Clearly, a person who commits suicide is not working in a normal mindset. They are not at a place where they can choose to be strong or see the good things that life offers. Rational thoughts are not the thoughts that lead a person to take their own life. Saying that depression is not a disease, that if a person can just choose life, that it is selfish–these are not helpful statements–whether or not you feel that they are true. Everyone gets their opinion and can share. But I’m here to tell you that it’s not constructive.

Suicide is a subject that is murky and twisted. It is wrought with emotion and even the experts do not understand it entirely. No one has all the answers about suicide. Not everyone who commits suicide is suffering in the same way, has the same background, the same mental illness. And, as illustrated by Williams, not everyone who kills themselves looks depressed to others. Simplifying it down to a ‘choice’ or a ‘weakness’ or even the result of a ‘disease’ doesn’t begin to explain the complicated and malfunctioning processes that bring a person to that point. We cannot really find out the why, because those who commit this act are no longer available to ask.

What I really want to say is that while you are entitled to your opinion and you have the right to share it, that does not mean that what you say doesn’t hurt people. Preventing suicide is a daunting and sadly, sometimes impossible, task. Yet, for those who feel passionately about it, it is an important goal. Commenting negatively on those who cannot change the horrible thing they’ve done only hurts those left behind and pushes those who might still be able to ask for help to shrink away from it for fear of being judged in the same way. I firmly believe that lifting the stigma, this idea that only weak people selfishly make this deliberate choice, can only help. It can help those left behind to heal and it can hopefully help those on the brink to find their way to treatment. Open discussion, an end to the blaming and categorizing, and a commitment to better understanding, better research on, and better treatment of mental illness is imperative if this fight is one to be fought.

I want to send my sympathy and understanding to Robin Williams’ family and friends. They have a long and difficult road to walk and, unlike me, they don’t get to choose who will know the truth. I wish them peace and comfort although I know that it will be hard to find.

As I do with every post I write on the subject I’m adding some links here. If you need help, please reach out.

Crisis Text Line

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

This time I’m adding a link to the Out of the Darkness Walks as well. I am planning to walk in my father’s name at the NYC walk in October.


Burn Baby


Burn Baby

The fire that sparked with his birth
Burned for months,
Its flames fanned by his midnight screaming,
Turning the forest of me to ash
And covering me in a shroud of thick smoke.

Those days of smothering heat are blurred,
In my memory,
Punctuated by both of our sobs
And moments of surrender,
That kept us alive.

When the fire burned out and the smoke
Cleared at last,
The bright blue of morning was waiting
Shining sunlight on what remained
And nourishing new life.

The fire took a lot, leaving
Only the oldest trees.
But I know now that it was necessary,
Lovely even,
How that destruction ushered in

Something better.

Summer Boy

Three years ago the day was hot, even hotter than today, reaching into the nineties for the umpteenth time that year. I waddled around to camp dropoff and pickup and even the playground, sweating and cursing as my contractions became stronger, and that night Declan became a part of our lives.

Being a winter baby myself, I was always jealous of the people whose birthdays never got snowed out and who could celebrate with picnics and pool parties. After having a late fall baby, I envied those with summer babies even more, not always having to worry about reserving a ridiculously expensive space in order to invite enough friends. When my second was born in August it seemed perfect. He could have the birthdays I always wanted. And having a baby in summer is definitely preferable in more Northern climates–not having to worry about coats and blankets and snow and rain in those early days was blissful. Yet, somehow, I overlooked the effect that the perpetual emptiness of Manhattan in August would have on a summer baby.

Declan’s first birthday was wonderful–a picnic party in the park like I had dreamed of, surrounded by friends. But once his peers grew older their families also fled the city, as we do ourselves, for much of the summer. This year I’m cobbling together family parties here and there with some playdates thrown in. We celebrated today with just y husband’s family.

While I may get a bit down about it, summer is a part of this boy. He is sunshine and light and it shows. He was perfectly happy to celebrate today with whoever was here. There were decorations and presents and cake and he was utterly content. Before he came along, our family was comprised of three first-borns, all cold-weather babies. Declan brought the summer to our lives and reminds us to smile when things aren’t perfect, to just go where life takes us sometimes, and to soak up the sun while we can. We needed a summer boy and we’re so lucky to have him.


City Boys In Nature

We were away last week visiting with my family and spent the weekend in Maryland at my brother-in-law’s family’s “cabin.” It’s actually a house, but it is out in the woods with very few neighbors, so I think it still counts. We had so much fun “camping.” We did it up with campfires and s’mores and walks in the woods and even threw in some ATV riding (don’t worry, B was NOT riding alone, far, fast, or without a helmet) and wild animals for good measure. Oh and we got to hang out with my super, duper, uber adorable niece! Such a welcome break from city life.

Here’s a look, with some photos courtesy of my sister’s father-in-law who made sure we all had a wonderful time.

In addition to all of that fun, the boys also had their first motel experience and were thrilled with continental breakfast. Plus we spent time with my best friend from college and her family, who are really like family to us. Our kids always get along so perfectly even though we only see them a few times a year. We returned to the city around 2am on Monday morning, after an uneventful (6.5 hour) drive, feeling refreshed and renewed. Even though every aspect of the trip wasn’t easy, it was well worth it.

Teenage Dream

Teenage Dream

“What’s the frequency, Kenneth?”
Michael Stipes’ voice blares from the black stereo on my sister’s dresser.
Calculus homework and burning incense.
My chin propped on my hands in front of a spiral notebook.

I can almost feel the flannel of my shirt,
Once my father’s,
Encircling my wrists, worn but not frayed,

Pencil scratches paper and
My finger rubs the indent as I wipe away the
Remnants of a re-thought equation
And turn the page.

I have memorized the placement of each piece of furniture
A perfect map to follow:
Beds here, dresser there, shelves, closet, windows.
Each magazine-ripped page that was sticky-tacked
Above the bed still there in my mind’s eye.

Although that me is stretched so perfectly
On the floor of that so-familiar room,
The place I grew,
I can’t remember the rug.

Bad Mommy

Yesterday, I was not my best self. Brady and 3 of his oldest friends started a week of camp at the zoo yesterday. Getting there and back is not the easiest, especially with toddlers in tow, but it’s a cool experience so it’s hopefully worth it. Taking two buses with two children and a folded stroller often makes me want to move to the suburbs where I could just drive everywhere.

But we made there it pretty easily and then Declan and I had fun in the park with our friends for a awhile before taking the easy way out and cabbing home for lunch. My mother-in-law came in for the afternoon so I went alone to pick up Brady and a friend.

After pickup we all decided a stop at the ice cream cart was a good idea. We got some treats and the kids played a bit. When an argument broke out, Brady got frustrated and then exploded at his friend who started crying. When I corrected him, he had excuses lined up and insisted he hadn’t done anything wrong before beginning to sob himself. I hate this behavior of his so much that I, in my 35 years of adult wisdom, responded by doing the EXACT same thing. Yes, as he raged at me about how it wasn’t his fault, I got more and more frustrated and, like a rubber band pulled beyond it’s range, BOOM, I snapped. 

I yelled at him to apologize to his friend, to stop walking away from me, to act better. I used my growly angry voice and my mean, angry words. In essence, I acted like a child. When finally calmed down, I got Brady aside and talked to him in soft words about why I didn’t like his behavior. I pointed out to him that losing your temper is something that happens, clearly it had just happened to me, but that that doesn’t mean it’s ok and we still have to say we’re sorry. I said was sorry and gave him a hug.

But I still felt just awful. I was embarrassed for losing my temper in front of my friends, my friends’ children, and countless tourists enjoying an afternoon in Central Park. I was ashamed of treating my child that way. I felt like a failure as a mother, not only because of my behavior, but because of Brady’s behavior. Even though I was trying to teach my son that being human is ok, that emotions get the best of us sometimes, and that we just have to try to react better in the future, I was not allowing myself the same consideration. 

Today I still feel badly about yesterday afternoon, but I’m working on it. I cannot changed the way I acted, but I can change my future reactions. I can allow myself to be human and I can use this to remind myself to take a breath next time and to be a better example to the child who has clearly inherited my quick temper. 

Vineyard Life

We spent last week in Martha’s Vineyard with my husband’s parents, sister, brother-in-law, and 7-month-old niece, in a rented house with a pool in the back. Life there was a stark contrast from the city. Instead of rushing from place to place along crowded sidewalks meeting people here and there, we took things slowly, immersed in a landscape that went from woods full of song birds to sandy beaches and blue waters, as a family. It was exactly what we needed.  

We swam here.


And walked here.


I did yoga here.


And basically, this was our life.

With all of that fun and beauty, I was totally relaxed, even while living in a house with my father-in-law! Now we’re back in the city and Brady is off to camp during the day for the next two weeks and Declan and I are fending for ourselves. I’m just trying to hold onto a little bit of the slow pace as I make my way through summer.