Shelly Hickman

Today marks two years since my dad ended his life. He left no explanation so I will never know for certain why he made that decision, though I shared my own ideas in this post written shortly after his death. August the following year, a close friend’s son took his life. He was eighteen. He did leave an explanation, and his family was blindsided to learn he’d been living with a sadness and hopelessness he could no longer tolerate.

I have lost a child. I know what it’s like to be in such a dark place that when your head hits the pillow each night, you wish you would no longer wake. I know what it’s like to live in that darkness for months on end. That being said, I have never once considered taking matters into my own hands. I’m not saying that as some sort of judgment. I’m just saying I don’t know what it’s like to have those thoughts.

I do know this. We have a mental health problem in our society that is not being addressed. People are hurting, often silently, and so we are left feeling confused, rejected, guilty, or any number of painful emotions when someone we love dies of suicide. They didn’t seem unhappy. Why did they feel they couldn’t confide in me? Why didn’t I see the signs? I should have checked in with them. How could they leave me this way?

For whatever reason, there is a stigma attached when someone reveals that they are experiencing mental or emotional struggles. Things are slowly getting better, but we’ve still got a long way to go.

Western society tends to have a “suck it up, Buttercup” mentality that makes it difficult for people to reveal their internal struggles, especially men. I’m not suggesting we have to be a culture of 24/7 diarrhea of emotions – there’s a time and place for everything. But clearly, many are not finding a balance between having healthy coping skills for when life is shit – as we all know it can be at times – and feeling safe enough to reach out for help when those coping skills are not cutting it. Or in the case of a young person like my friend’s son, may be altogether missing. And the subject of suicide? We’ve deemed it too uncomfortable and scary to talk about, so most of the time we just don’t.

What saddens me the most about my dad – aside from missing him so much every damn day – is that despite how close our family had always been, he felt he couldn’t tell a single one of us what he was going through. The loneliness he must have carried breaks my heart. When I was in high school, Tears for Fears was one of my favorite bands. I don’t remember how it came about – maybe I told my dad how much I loved their album The Hurting – but he borrowed my cassette and listened to it on his bus ride to and from his job at the Nevada Test Site. I was generally a happy, content teenager, and hadn’t given the lyrics on the album much consideration so I was puzzled when Dad later asked me if I was doing okay.