It is Suicide Awareness Week, a fact I wasn't aware of until a few minutes ago. My sister-in-law shared a wonderful post on her Facebook page, which I shared. I also wanted to tell you the story of how suicide has affected my life. Most of you know that my father took his own life, June of last year. I wanted to tell his story. But first you should know that my father was not the first suicide that has affected me.
When I was in college, I was part of the RIT rowing team for a year, and I had a blast. It was a great team to be a part of and I got into the best shape of my entire life. I made a ton of friends, and part of my success was do to my coach, Margaret. She was an amazing, friendly, outgoing woman that encouraged us every day. Over the summer, I worked for her at the RIT library for a while, and then one day it all came to a crashing halt. I received a call from one of my teammates with the news that Margaret had taken her own life. I was blown away, uncomprehending. She had seemed so happy and engaged. We gathered together as a team, and all I saw around me were stunned looks and disbelief. We came to find out that Margaret had struggled with depression all her life. I struggled to understand, but I walked away from rowing. My teammates and I never really talked about it. It was too painful to be there without her.
Flash forward to almost twenty years later. The specifics may be something I get into another time, but suffice to say, my father had struggled for a very long time with depression. It was a battle I knew that he fought but it's one of those things that is emotionally charged and difficult to talk about. As a result, it was largely avoided. I asked how he was but I didn't know how to help him. I tried to make sure that he knew that I cared about him and loved him. Additionally, he had Hepatitis C, probably from sharing needles. It was a debilitating horrible disease that drained him away. He took part in experimental treatments that nearly killed him. They made it hard for him to think, to move, to eat, to do anything at all. He lost himself, who he was. It was hard to watch him go through this, so I withdrew. I only saw him rarely, and it was always painful. I will regret that for the rest of my life.
In my opinion, he pinned a lot of his hopes on the experimental treatments, and when they were through he was still not the same. His memory was gone, he couldn't remember how to do things that he had done a thousand times. He had always worked on cars, and now he couldn't remember how to change a tire. Depression was a raging beast that chased him every second of every day. He fought as much as he could but it wasn't enough. I don't know if I could have done anything to stop it. He was losing himself, and I don't blame him for what happened. I wish I had been able to spend more time with him, that I wasn't afraid of the pain it caused me to see him struggle.
When people ask about my father, it hurts to talk about. It's a hard thing to have to do, and there is stigma attached. There is shame, where there shouldn't be. Depression is so common, I guarantee there is someone in your life that faces it. They may hide it- but be watchful, be persistent and most of all-be there for them. Give them the strength they need to get the help they need. It's okay to be scared, but you must face that fear. Don't waste an opportunity, you may never get it again. I guarantee that you will be in far more pain when you look back on the wasted chances.
