On Sunday morning my mother called me.  She wanted to tell me about a relative of ours who had died by suicide on Friday.  She asked me if I would go to the viewing with her later on in the day.  She thought it would be beneficial for me to go and speak to the family, if the time and situation was right, and assure them that there was nothing they could have done to stop their son from taking his own life.  As she and I both said on the phone, it is one thing to be a mental health activist sitting behind a computer, where I can stay some what disengaged.  It is something completely different to do that work in person.

Even though this person was a relative of mine, I really did not know him.  My extended family is rather large and most of the time we only see each other once a year at the family reunions.  Because of that, not many of my extended family know about my suicide attempt. The opportunity has not presented itself to share something like that.  Which meant telling anyone at the funeral home about my suicide attempt was completely new territory for me.  It made me a little anxious.

As we entered the funeral home, I was introduced to one of my mother’s cousins, who also was the aunt of the person who died.  She was holding it together pretty good under the circumstances.  The mother was not.  She was crying uncontrollably for most of the time that we were there.  The wife was sitting in a chair beside the coffin, and there were pictures of the deceased’s children all over the room.  It was difficult for me to be there.  Seeing how devastated everyone was made me think about my own attempt and how close I had been to causing this much pain to my own family.

After we had said hello to a few people, I went and sat next to one of my mother’s aunts.  She really is a nice person, she has always treated me well, however, she is also like most people, uneducated about how mental health issues can affect people.  She sat there giving me the gossip about the whole situation, part of it involved the marital problems between the deceased and his wife.  Basically, the long and short of it is that the wife is being held responsible for her husband’s death by suicide by some of the members of the family.

That made me angry.  It made me angry because it was NO ONE’S FAULT! Not even the young man who took his own life was at fault.  He was sick.  If his head was full of similar thoughts to my own when I attempted suicide, then he was very sick.  For the first time since my diagnosis, the misunderstanding that people have about mental illness was right in my face, and I did not like it.

My mother and I did have an opportunity to speak to both to both parents.  The father seems to be doing really well under the circumstances.  He really loves God and has placed himself and the situation into the Lord’s hands.  He is not angry, and is not blaming anyone.  When we spoke to him he held my hand and had his other hand on his back the whole time.  It was as if he was giving me comfort in his own time of grief.

The mother was not doing as well.  I shared with her that some parts of my story, tried to help her understand  that her son had been sick, and that there was nothing anyone could have done to prevent what had happened. I think she was too immersed in her grief to really understand what I was trying to say.  The few things she did say, indicated that she was also very angry and blaming the wife.  I wish what I had said could have made more of an impact with her than it did.

As difficult as it was for me to be there,  I think it was good that I went.  It was my first real life exposure to suicide, outside of my attempt, and it gave me an idea of the types of judgments that people form about someone who has taken their own life. I also learned that being an activist in the “real world” is something I can do, I just need some more practice at it.