The Untold Stories That Drive The Passion...And Fuel Compassion

When it comes to people dying by suicide, I have both personal and professional experiences. Given it’s Suicide Prevention Month, I’d like to share some of those stories with you here, to help explain why it’s a cause I’m so passionate about.

The word “suicide” has been a part of my life since the age of two and part of my vocabulary since the age of seven. This was in my role as a daughter.

I have listened to and comforted those struggling with thoughts, ideations and intentions over the phone, supported and coaxed them to place a weapon of means somewhere safe and helped them to remember they have a reason to live. This was in my role as a crisis counsellor on a suicide prevention hotline.

I have memories of dealing with people in psychological pain and crisis, most of which have never left me. Sat in the gutter with a man who had cut his wrists and was in tears, chased a teenage girl in a hospital gown along a train station platform, preventing her from jumping as a train approached. Secured a knife from someone who had cut their own throat, had that “is this real” moment speaking with a man who had a self-inflicted stab wound to the heart, even comforted a man who had attempted to hang himself and was unsuccessful, causing significant head trauma/injury.

I’ve unfortunately arrived many times in the aftermath, when my First Responder colleagues and I were unable to save them. One occasion, trying desperately to force entry to a vehicle, hoping in vain it wasn’t too late. On another, walking through a house after finding the deceased, scared to death I was about to enter a murder-suicide crime scene, as I saw children’s toys scattered all over the floor.

As many others reading this would know all too well, hearing the gut-wrenching wail of a mother who lost her son in this manner, screaming at us to help him as he lay lifeless on the ground. A sound that never leaves you. Or being the one to break the tragic news with a death notification. I’ve also been responsible for conducting investigations on behalf of the state coroner. This involved taking detailed, hours-long and heartbreaking statements from shattered loved ones, seemingly trying to answer that unenviable question of “why” that permeates a death by suicide.

Unfortunately, even my colleagues weren’t immune, attending the funeral of a member who made that harrowing decision, leaving questions, confusion and carnage in their wake.

As one could imagine, given the nature of my involvement, those experiences were during my role as a police officer.

I don’t share any of these experiences or encounters to be gratuitous in any way or make it about “me”; many people will have had vastly more interactions and involvement than me, personally or professionally. It’s more to provide context for why this subject is one that I feel incredibly passionate about.

I remember reading books as a teenager, trying to understand why my Dad would choose to leave in this way. Like somehow finding an answer would alleviate the grief and sorrow of growing up without him or would erase the instances of being “that kid”.

The kid who spent more time comforting adults through the uncomfortable moments and awkwardness of finding out how my Dad had died, than truly processing his loss. The kid who occasionally clung to far-fetched notions, on the off chance everyone was wrong, it had all been a lie and he would magically walk through the door one day. The one who had re-occurring dreams of spotting her Dad as he turned and walked away; chasing after him, only for the dimensions of the room to change (Alice in Wonderland style) and never able to catch up to him. The parentified child who said the word suicide many times, before coming to terms with the actual weight and impact it can carry. The one who internalised the notion she obviously wasn’t worth sticking around for if he chose to leave like that.

Suicide. It's a harrowing topic that scares a lot of people just by the mere mention of it. A word that can stop people in their tracks. Why is it so frightening…? Because it’s difficult to understand if you’ve never struggled with those thoughts, to comprehend someone believing this was their best option. And because no one is immune.

Often, it’s the people we least suspect who end up dying by their own hand, after enduring a silent battle no one knew they were fighting. The fact it is seemingly so pervasive in our society, especially amongst the First Responder and Veteran community, is a tragedy within itself.

The people who sign up to serve their community, country or both, the ones we call when we are in trouble or in need of assistance and who show up every day, are taking their lives more often than they’re dying in the line of duty. When we all know many of the roles they perform involve inherent danger. Yet the real danger is the lack of adequate mental health assistance they’re receiving, the decades of cultural stigma they’re up against and the scepticism they often face if they do speak up.

However, I want you to know this; the word suicide doesn’t scare me. It conjures up empathy, compassion and the desire to help. Having lived with the concept for so very long now, I can admit my thoughts on it have evolved over time. It felt isolating as a child, because I was the only person I knew who had lost someone in this way and it wasn’t a subject people wanted to talk about openly. It made them uncomfortable, so I didn’t.

As you can imagine I’ve run the gambit of emotions, including heartbreak, sorrow, grief, disappointment, anguish, confusion, anger, resentment, you name it. But there came a point where it was just a part of my life, it couldn’t be changed, so I just accepted it. I used it to inform me how to deal with people with kindness and to gauge perspective on things.

It wasn’t until I gave birth to my first child on my 32^nd birthday, the same age my father was when he died by suicide, that I had the most profound evolution of all. I realised that if he felt even an ounce of the love I felt for that baby, and watched my husband show our son, then it was clear. He must’ve been in such overwhelming, dire psychological pain to still make the choice to leave….that I had nothing left for him; except compassion.

I reached a point where there is no more wondering why or focusing on how it impacted the people left behind. Just simple forgiveness. Compassion and empathy for a minor insight into how much pain he truly must’ve been in and a hope that he was now at peace.

Some of the most impactful moments I’ve shared with people over the last few years, have been them sharing their stories with me. Whether on a podcast or a quiet, private conversation, there is a distinct privilege and profound impact when someone chooses to open up and disclose their deepest, darkest moments with you. It could be their first time sharing it or their 50^th, it will never be a conversation I take for granted or a trust that is misplaced.

The moment they held that firearm in their hand and considered it; the pulled over on the side of the road emotional breakdown, fearing this was their only option. The reckless actions fuelled by passive suicidal ideation, where they weren’t actively trying to die…but wouldn’t have cared or minded if they did. The planning of making it “look” like an accident so their family receives their benefits. The shock and fear of having those thoughts and not understanding why or knowing who to confide in. The waking up in hospital after an unsuccessful attempt; the quiet relief mixed with the burden of shame, as their eyes focus and notice their loved ones looking on. The not necessarily wanting to die…but plagued with an unrelenting desire for the heaviness they carry to ease, and the unbearable pain to stop, feeling like this is their only solution.

Fear is also wrapped up in those that experience it. They are scared they’re the only one; that no one will understand and that they are a burden. Or if they admit they’re struggling, they’ll be removed from active duty, have their gun taken away and lose their job.

Part of the power of sharing people’s stories and experiences, as I’m honoured to do through various mediums, is letting it be known they’re not the only one. That First Responders having suicidal thoughts and ideation, even passive suicidality, is incredibly common. That others have survived those dark thoughts and beliefs, and you can too. It doesn’t mean you are weak, broken or can’t do your job. It means your cup may be empty, your backpack too full, you’re exhausted and burnt out.

That as a cop, a firefighter, a paramedic/EMT/EMS, a correctional officer, a dispatcher, or a frontline worker in healthcare, you see, experience and are exposed to a lot. Without the right support, proactive practices and culture that encourages open discussion about mental health and suicide, no one is truly doing enough.

I share my experiences today, on World Suicide Prevention Day, as the daughter who lost her father, as the call taker on the other end of the crisis line, as the police officer who attempted to stop you, spoke with and comforted you or tried to save you. The one who attended in the aftermath, investigated your death or informed your loved ones.

None of this makes me unique or special; it makes me care. It makes me invested. It informs me of the reality of how precious life is. Of how much First Responders and Emergency Services Members are exposed to throughout the course of their careers and how heavy that occupational exposure can become; sometimes too much to bear.

All my experiences, personal and professional alike, help me to be empathetic, compassionate, understanding and most of all…a safe person to share with. You don’t have to, just know that you can. And I will hold space for it. For your darkness, for your demons, for your pain and your turmoil. For anything you want to trust me with.

I have never shared my experiences in such a comprehensive way before. I hope it is viewed and digested with the amount of compassion and respect in which it was written.

I believe speaking our truth and sharing our stories helps others. That is my intention with this piece.

Thank you for taking the time to read it.