They died by suicide—that is the politically correct way to say it. I want to be politically correct, but I am not sure words can dampen the impact. Someone just lost a friend, a son, a partner, a child. Somehow, we believe if we say the words prettily, it takes the sting away—it doesn’t. No matter how you say it, they left the world today, or yesterday, or whatever day they exited, and the loss isn’t smaller because we make our words more respectful.
Their exit was ugly and painful—they didn’t want it to be that way—they just wanted to leave. They wished it could be unnoticed, but somehow they knew that wasn’t possible, so they tried to make it as painless as possible for the ones they loved. They wanted their exit to stick—they left a note to explain, or they didn’t, thinking that might be better. They intended there to be no way back, no second-guessing; the pain was too much. The escape was too promising. Somehow, the way I say it doesn’t do anything to make it better. Maybe I don’t want to be politically correct—maybe I just want the world to understand that they wouldn’t have left if there was another option. They tried so many options—the pain remained. It isn’t pretty; it isn’t a learning point or a lesson—it is agony and pain. Please don’t say they should have stayed, should have tried—don’t you think they did?
They may have wanted to stay—they couldn’t see any way but up. I have sat with them—unknowingly—they have reassured me they are well. I didn’t see the imperceptible signs—they didn’t want me to. After they left, I searched to see what I missed and came up empty-handed. Why would they tell me, or you? They didn’t want us to worry, but they just couldn’t figure out any scenario where they could stay—believe me, they tried. Somehow, putting that gun to their temple, that hose in their car, those pills in their mouth made sense. If I could, I would have told them that I could try to make them better with my medicines—a lot of times I can, but in reality, I am trying to convince myself as much as them. Human nature, free will—I can’t overcome it, beg it to listen—in the end, they decide.
I hope if they have ever seen me, they hear me begging them to stay. Hope is not lost; we have treatments that help—please call the suicide prevention line: 988.
Please stay if you can.
Courtney Markham-Abedi is a psychiatrist in Lexington, Kentucky. She has written widely about physician suicide and other psychiatric topics for online publications and has appeared on several podcasts, work that led feedspot.com to name her one of the 1,000 best health care journalists and editors.
Her peer-reviewed work centers on the metabolic and neurologic effects of antipsychotic medications, including case reports on a probable association between ziprasidone and worsening hypertension, ziprasidone-induced catatonic symptoms, and hypertriglyceridemia tied to the direct effects of olanzapine rather than to weight gain.
She has also written a novel, Unlocking Lakin, set in a psychiatric hospital in her hometown. The manuscript won first place for full-length prose from West Virginia Writers, and she is currently seeking an agent to represent it.
