Upon the arrival and the chugging along of September, I found myself steeped within the conversation of Suicide Prevention Awareness as a result of 10th September being a crucial day for awareness, and the month providing spaces for discussion. With this was also the arrival of the bombardment of the statistics of people who have died by suicide for platitudes of valid reasons. In all our conversations upon media, social media and writing was there an almost painful blast of having to read in BOLD, ‘how to prevent suicide’, ‘how to cling on to hope’, ‘how to remain positive’, ‘how to know help is always available’,
It was a barrage of how to, how to, how to, how to…
Through all this time, some of us dipping in and out of our own battles with suicidal contemplations as well as times when we have had the misfortune of knowing someone who has passed on from suicide, I find myself feeling compelling whispers that something essential is missing.
Whenever I hear conversations around the same, it feels stifled with fear. There is a sense of what do we say, what do we not say, how do we say it by not saying it. Neither do we know what ‘it’ is. This isn’t criticism. It is an observation. For we are speaking of feelings and moments of desolation, despair and hopelessness that many of us find too scary to think about, let alone hold.
I find myself often reflective, with a sense of curiosity. Curiosity about our ironically existential fear of avoiding confronting the elephant in the room.
And yet, I get the sense that there is a need for deep, deep kindness while we speak of this. Kindness not only towards those holding the question of life or death for themselves, but towards ourselves as we err our way into understanding.
It is only when we dare to speak of the things we fear to utter, will we know it’s impact when it lands. For this, we must be brave. I suspect this bravery is one that shakes and shudders and wobbles, and still somehow, dares to leave our lips. It is the courage of embracing uncertainty as we speak about suicide. It is a quiet courage. The courage to listen to a story of someone, someone you love perhaps, who has pondered a world without their existence. It is a courage that stands alongside crippling fear for their lives but heeding the essence of their need for such ponders.
We indulge their story. We air the wound that bleeds. We understand that we don’t need to understand to accept. We accept that we may never truly understand.
I can see why there is fear for what we may hear. What if we hear ourselves intertwined in the fabric of reasons that cause their pain? ‘What if it is something I have said or done?’,’ What if I have contributed to their feeling of desolation and isolation?’, ‘What if I am the root cause of their pain?’
Yes. Those are valid questions and anticipations. What if we have played a role in it?
We sit with the discomfort of accountability.
When I see it, our support has less to do with how to-ing and more to do with being. It has little to do with saying, and more to do with wordless listening.
With witnessing. Witnessing expression. Witnessing anger, pain, and anguish. Witnessing fragility, jagged edges and feeling broken.
And then, being accountable.
In silence. In apologies. In trying. We exist.
Maybe, we start there.
