The ripples of suicide go unimaginably far

One of the Letters to the Editor that was directed at me today was pretty disrespectful, and while I considered a response, I refuse to waste valuable space on that today. There’s something much more important to discuss, so let’s get into it. Story time.

From the first time I met Jeremy Davis I was under a spell. He was a doe-eyed 18 year old with baby blues that brought you to your knees. I was in my early 20s, six months pregnant, and had just moved from Seattle where I was constantly surrounded by superficial, egotistical, and shallow men. Jeremy wasn’t that. He was simple yet complex. Strong and gentle, and loved his family and friends unconditionally. He was magnificent, yet troubled, as was I.

To me, it felt like destiny, and I was proven right when our daughter entered the world. She encompassed the best pieces of us both. The romantic relationship deteriorated, but our friendship and love for our children never did. 

I’ll never forget the day I got the call from his sister, inaudible through her sobs: “Jeremy killed himself.” I fell to the floor, my first persistent thought being – how was I going to tell my children that their lives were about to change forever while simultaneously breaking their hearts? It was horrible and the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life. But in the end, they were stronger than me, evidenced by the fact that I fell into addiction and lost the will to live myself.

That’s suicide.

Fast forward nine years, although it felt like a hundred, and my beautiful 20 year old niece, Natalie, was in Portland hoping to start college, living with her boyfriend, a baby cooking in her belly. They had a fight and he told her he’d been cheating and found someone else. She shot herself that night.

When my brother came into the house after learning the news, he was the epitome of brokenness. Every fiber of his being ached beyond comprehension. He sobbed uncontrollably while throwing up in the kitchen sink. He was broken beyond repair, evidenced by the fact that he fell back into addiction after years of recovery.

That’s suicide.

He was a beautiful soul who saw the world through a panoramic lens; expansive, unpredictable, uncontrollable. Above everything else, he wanted to make the world a better place, but the loss of his daughter destroyed his spirit. On Dec. 26, nine months to the day after Natalie’s death, and after discovering that his wife was going to move with his children to Texas, the combination of loss was too much and he took his own life.

The aftermath was devastating. His father, who had recently lost his wife and granddaughter, was despondent, walking through each day floating in the melancholy of grief and despair. His sister (me) would go through the motions of everyday life completely aware that much of the sparkle had left in the wake of his absence.

That’s suicide.

September is Suicide Prevention Month and instead of quoting statistics or giving a lecture on not giving up, I decided to share the stories of my loved ones instead. The truth is that the ripples of suicide go farther than anyone could imagine. It touches people we don’t even know and destroys the ones we do. It truly is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. That being said, if you’re struggling, please reach out. Do it for your loved ones. Because when someone completes suicide they aren’t only killing themselves, they’re taking the pieces of themselves from the people that love them most, and those pieces are irreplaceable. Like you. 

If you or someone you know is in crisis, please call the national suicide hotline 988 or reach out to a loved one or mental health professional. The one thing you can’t do, however, is give up.