The Ones Left Behind: Secrets, Stigmas, and Suicide Part II
It has been 3 years since I first opened up and shared my story with the world; 3 years since I exposed my biggest secret, 3 years since I broke down my walls and let the outside in. I don’t remember why I sat down on that random day in 2016 nor do I know why I felt inclined to sit down today, but here I am.
In 2 days, it will be the 9th anniversary of my dad’s death, nearly a decade since I last had somewhat of a normal semblance of a life. In those 9 years, I started college and graduated from college, started grad school and graduated from grad school, and started a new life for myself in a new city. Over the past 9 years, I have assumed the identity of a “normal” 27-year-old living a seemingly normal life. Despite the smile on my face and my oh so charming demeanor, my journey has been anything but “normal.” Normal is not a word I know, nor will I ever know again.
It took me 6 years to admit to the world that I am a survivor of suicide, 6 years to say the words, 6 years to shatter the appearance of normalcy. (And to be honest, I have yet, to this day, to verbalize the details surrounding my father’s death.) Looking back on the day I first hit “submit post,” I remember the instant feelings of regret and terror, followed by an overwhelming sense of relief. I was relieved that I no longer had to carry the weight of this dark secret that had been weighing me down for too long. But why? Why did it take me 6 years, 2250 days, 54,000 hours to share what was a fundamental part of who I was?
3 years later and I am still posed with that same question. Why is there an instant feeling of shame and awkwardness when I share that I am a survivor of suicide? Why do I still feel the need to fake a smile and pretend that my life has been normal? It’s all relative.
The truth is, I am living my NEW normal. I am living a life that is normal for a survivor of suicide, well as normal as any of us can be. It has been a life full of struggles and confusion and feelings of doubt, a life that has tested me, challenged me, and pushed me to my breaking point. Yet here I am. 9 years later, and I’m still standing. It hasn’t gotten easier, but I have become stronger. I’ve learned, and am still learning daily, how to navigate this world on my own terms, not striving to achieve a sense of normalcy.
To the world, my story may be shocking or sad; I’m often met with awkward moments of silence or “awws” or the condescending “I’m so sorrys.” Rather than meeting these remarks with an awkward smile or uncomfortable laugh like I did for much of the first 6 years, I now see these moments as teaching opportunities. If I have learned anything over the past 9 years, it is that there is nothing to “be sorry” about nor do I feel sorry for myself. It would be too easy to sulk and wallow in self-pity. It would be easy to drown in the sorrys and give in to negativity that often surrounds the word suicide. That would be the easy option.
But nothing about suicide is easy. Nor is it normal. It is a unique experience unlike any other loss. It’s a type of loss that you simply cannot understand without going through it yourself. Because of this, the grieving process is unique; it’s a unique challenge that must be confronted head on. It must be acknowledged and addressed and not hidden behind the label of a “normal” death. It is by taking on this idea of “normal” that we lose ourselves to the pressures of society; we let them see us as weaker, as darker, as less normal because of the manner in which we lost a love one. We conceal our true identities and those of our lost loved ones, often losing sight of both in the process.
The fact is: we are NOT normal. Our experiences are not normal. Our lives are not normal. We have survived not only the death of a loved one but we have also survived society’s reaction to that death. We have survived the stigmas and judgment and countless awkward moments. We have survived society making us feel lesser because our loved one made a choice. We are, as the call us, the SURVIVORS of suicide. We’ve….I’ve…. survived.
9 years and 2 days ago, I was a normal 18-year-old packing up and getting ready to start college the next week. It took 1 moment, just 1, to go from that “normal’ girl to a girl that would never feel normal again. 9 years later, I accept my life as an outlier, as one of the un-normal ones. I acknowledge and accept my past and embrace my future with the hope of shattering what it means to be normal. This is apart of me, a part that cannot be ignored or forgotten. This is who I am. This is my new normal.
So here’s to the other survivors and thrivers out there. Here’s to the other un-normals.
