I wish I could give you a comprehensive checklist or even a flow chart on warning signs of suicide. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could easily make the next move based on what someone says, does, or even insinuates right there in print? I would even color code it for you too. But I can’t. My heart hurts that I can’t offer you any of that, and I am guessing if you’re reading this, your heart hurts too. But I can tell you what happened to us. I can be brutally honest and tell you where I missed it…the “it” that maybe would have kept him alive another day, year, or 50 years.

Losing Brian to suicide four years ago was my worst nightmare and still is.

I would desperately lay awake every night for years, trying to avoid the scenario of him taking his life. I would ask him directly and also in roundabout ways if he was going to do it. I reached out to family and close friends. I made all the doctor’s appointments and went with him. I was honest about how bad things were getting in the sense of the “lows” coming more and more often. I removed weapons from our home, searched our cars regularly, counted pills, and watched to make sure he was actually taking the medications (once we decided to go that route). During the first six to eight weeks of any medication, he was not left alone for a single second. My world revolved around him, his safety, his health, and our children.

August 16th, 2018

On August 16th, 2018, with our four children watching, Brian attempted to take his life and succumbed to his injuries a few days later. I was asked countless times “what happened” by hospital staff, interviewed by police, questioned by family, you name it. All of whom were hoping maybe I could trace back to what ultimately led us to his devastating death. The untraceable lines of mental illness and suicide are murky and blurred with my tears to this day.

So that’s where I will start. Mental illness is a tricky thing because you can’t actually see it. What makes it even more mortifying is there actually weren’t many concrete signs at all for us in the thick of it. Even as an RN, I was taught that people who are suicidal do have clear signs. Some of those include giving away items, making comments about death, fixating on dying, etc. It didn’t look like that at all for us, though. It was not a black-and-white illness for us but also what mental illness is?

So here is the hard truth…..I missed it

I admit it, and I have to live with it. I missed how much pain he was in. He didn’t speak of wanting to die constantly but more of the frustration of having to live. I didn’t see they were one of the same. He wasn’t sure why he had to have this disease when God could just take it away. He wasn’t sure why the 3rd and 4th medications he tried weren’t working. He wasn’t sure I would stick around to fight this with him. The lies crept in and because he appeared healthy and kept working…so many of us didn’t actually think it was that bad. I grew complacent in a way and was also starting to think this was how life would be from now on.

The hopelessness

I missed the hopelessness he felt daily and for years. I missed the exhausting tone in his voice throughout the day. I missed the emptiness in his eyes in family pictures. With me being so task-oriented, it meant we would keep moving forward. I would check search histories to make sure he wasn’t trying to look for ways to end his life. There were honestly only a few moments Brian expressed suicidal ideation, and each was met with a specialized doctor’s care. So on to the next doctor that was recommended to us. On to a less chaotic job and schedule. On to the next medication. On to the next bone-broth recipe. On to the next minute, hour, and day of keeping him safe. And it worked for a little bit…or at least I thought it did.

I remember the few specific times he spoke of wanting to die, and each time was how we (the kids and I) would be so much better off. I called him selfish. Ugh, I hate to admit that, but I did (crying as I write this). I asked how he could ever think of doing that to us. Just like that…I cut the only lifeline he felt he had in me. He wasn’t selfish. Not. One. Bit. I guilted him further and told him I would never get past him taking his life. I told him I would never recover. So he felt even more hopeless. Without knowing, I heaped on even more guilt and shame. He was hopeless, and I unknowingly confirmed it.

Self-sabotage

One other clear sign I missed was self-sabotage. I knew what suicidal ideation looked like, so if he wasn’t expressing it…we were in the clear. He was doing anything and everything he could to feel better. Some were great ideas, and others were not. I did not notice this was him grasping just to find something, anything at all, to alleviate the pain. I made the mistake of thinking he was trying to hurt me. But the opposite was true. He was doing whatever he could to make the pain stop, so my pain of watching him struggle would also stop.

In our last conversation, he told me he had tried everything. Before trying multiple medications, doctors, and psychiatrists, he even tried going vegan, healing his gut, working out, meditating, constantly praying, and seeing Christian counselors, you name it. Yet he said nothing was working. I didn’t recognize the hopelessness in his voice. I became frustrated because, of course, we hadn’t tried EVERYTHING. In my mind, it was time to call the doctor again and go back to the drawing board that day like we had so many times before.

Invisible suicidal signs and unspoken words

Obviously, I wish I could tell you I saw the invisible signs and heard the unspoken words, but I can’t. Some days the “what ifs” cloud my mind, and I dream of doing that day all over again. I hurt when insults are hurled like flaming arrows that if only I loved him harder, didn’t encourage medication, or had Baker Acted him; he would still be here. All that is left now is for me to tell you where I missed it…where I missed the hopelessness.

There is so much I can’t tell you about that day or Brian’s illness. But I can tell you there is always hope. I can tell you the thoughts that we would be better off without you are NOT true. I can tell you to please stay and fight another day. I can tell you that you matter. We are not better off without you in the world. We are better because you are in this world. Please stay, and I promise we will hear what you’re not saying.

Please, if you or anyone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts or mental illness, call or text the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988. You can also contact the Crisis Text Line (text HELLO to 741741).

Krista has written many articles for us on mental illness and suicide. If you would like to read more of her story, you can find it here. You can find Krista on social media as well, she is on Instagram and Facebook.

How did I survive Brian’s suicide?

The unedited version is…I didn’t. I desperately want to put a beautiful bow on how I successfully made it through to the other side of this immeasurable grief, but I can’t. I deeply wish I could tell you I leaned on my faith in those early times of confusion and pain, but that would be a flat-out lie. The me I was before suicide inflicted a death blow; died with Brian. I just couldn’t accept I had lost him and myself. It felt like defeat at every turn.

Admittedly, I walked around like a zombie regretting my choice not to climb into the car with him for well over a year. I relived every second and knew I would have had more than enough time to stop breathing before any kind of help would have shown up. In those moments of self-disdain and being so utterly lost, I can also tell you the only reason why I didn’t that day was because our kids were right there. The kicker is they had to watch Brian die, and in so doing, they were the only reason I was breathing (ok, that was REALLY difficult to write). I remember saying, over the beeping of machines keeping him alive for those few days, “I just want to be with him,” and I didn’t mean in that room. He was already gone, and so was I.

I didn’t survive

I didn’t survive, but I sure was trying to make it look like I did. I continued to run at 100 mph. There was SO much pressure. Pressure to grieve “correctly,” handle legal matters, run a household, hold space for all of the kids’ pain, etc. The list goes on, and I feel sad for the girl I was trying to be. It was like I was standing over my own dead body, trying desperately to revive her. If I could just grasp what I lost…I would be ok. I could make this pain go away if I tried a little harder. I mean, Brian would still be here if I tried a little harder, right? If I just could be good enough and do enough. If I could fill all my seconds with busyness, then the darkness wouldn’t come. All the lies that I swallowed to fill the void are something I was doing out of despair and desperation.

This new and chaotically beautiful life

I kept trying to be who I was before Brian’s suicide, and it took years to see that just wasn’t possible. I had to learn (and am still learning) some hard lessons in order to not only survive this incredible loss but to thrive in this new and chaotically beautiful life.

1. I had to learn to rest.

I never really understood this concept before. I didn’t know how to rest, and I didn’t want to. If I could just keep up the charade that I had my life under control…then I would eventually feel better. If people believed I was ok, then maybe I would feel it, right? The rug was pulled out from under me, but I was not willing to accept Brian wasn’t coming back or why. I couldn’t be who I used to be, and it was slowly killing me. I kept trying to fill the void, and nothing worked. Much like depression, it finally sunk in that I took a major blow to my body. A trauma had occurred, and I was finally willing to understand that this was my story. The only way I can explain it is, “imagine if someone had half of their body amputated…you wouldn’t tell them, “Quit crying and let’s go!” It would take YEARS of therapy to relearn how to use the half that was left. Yet I placed this pressure on myself to keep moving as if I was intact. Grief and pain finally caught up with me, and the only thing to do was to stop running and rest. To let my body heal. This was and is still imperative to my healing even close to 4 years later.

2. I had to learn to show myself grace.

I lost Brian and so much more. I watched as my children lost their father. I lost ANY sort of security in my and their future. I lost my dreams. I lost my financial security. I lost my protector. I mean, now, who was going to get up in the middle of the night when I hear a strange noise? I lost my reason to believe God is good. I lost my world. But here I was pretending like everything was normal. Why is it that if my best friend was going through what I was going through, I would heap so much grace upon her? Why was it so difficult to extend this to myself? Once I realized I could actually be kind to myself and extend grace, THAT became my oxygen. I didn’t need to carry this weight anymore. I found friends that bestowed immeasurable grace on me and still do when I am incapable of extending it to myself.

3. I had to learn to be ok with losing people.

Suicide will ripple FAR past what you could ever imagine. Grief not only changed me, but it changed everyone around me. Some were willing to accept Brian’s death, while others kept wanting to talk through the timeline of it; why didn’t I tell them? They would ask me what specific medications he was on, was I aware of the side effects, what was our last conversation, etc. HINT: Don’t do this, please…you are only placing more pain onto someone that feels solely responsible (it needs to be said again that suicide is a symptom of a disease that ravishes the body). In finally realizing my answers weren’t good enough and also they wouldn’t bring him back…I just stopped even trying to explain the unexplainable. When I began to get my life back together or started working, or the forbidden “dating” as a widow…I lost even more people. Sometimes, and this is a hard truth, others like you are so broken so they can repair you how they want to, not necessarily what is best for you. The second I began to come alive again little by little….I gained myself back but lost others. It seems counterintuitive, right? I lost more people on this road of healing, for sure. I just wasn’t willing to lose myself anymore to keep them.

4. I had to learn to NOT people please.

I was living in a fishbowl. I was either too sad OR didn’t seem sad enough. Was it even ok to laugh and smile? Was I joking around too much? I was either moving forward too quickly or not quick enough. Why was I still so sad after the first year when everyone said that was the most difficult? I mean, I either looked too disheveled, or who was I dressing up for? The people-pleaser I was couldn’t keep up anymore. No one was happy with me now. Brian’s suicide clouded so many people’s eyes, and I felt it was my responsibility to try and make them all feel better. But grieving is work, and it takes time to go through the process. But I couldn’t make anyone do it either. Once I let go of others’ expectations of me, I started to breathe again.

5. I had to learn to not only form a new identity but take responsibility for it.

Suddenly I was a “widow” and a “suicide survivor .”Shoot, I didn’t want to be either, and I still don’t. But I am. When the opportunities (and yes, they are called “opportunities”) come up to talk about losing Brian, I better….lives depend on it. When I hear of someone else deeply grieving….eventually, I need to speak up and tell them what I have learned OR better, yet I can just sit there and be quiet (take note this is all you need to do in someone’s deep pain). I need to tell them that who they were before suicide wreaked havoc isn’t coming back and to stop trying so hard. That just being alive when all you want to do is die is more than enough. I so wish someone had told me sooner that just breathing from one painful chest stab to the next was all I had to do. I wish someone would have grabbed my hand and told me to put on my favorite sweatshirt and cry in bed all day. Now it is my responsibility, to be honest about suicide and what it actually takes. Suicide always takes more than just one life, and this may not be who I wanted to be, but it is who I am now.

I had to learn how to come alive again in an impossible situation. I had to let go of Brian and accept a horrible disease had taken his life. I had to let go of the girl who had tried saving him for years. I had to let go of the guilt and the shame that I did all I could, and it still didn’t work. I didn’t survive losing Brian, and I was never going to. Accepting Brian’s death by suicide did not overshadow the beautiful soul he was and still is. I was terrified death meant defeat. It was only by accepting Brian’s death, my own, and learning these hard lessons that I could truly begin to live again.

We can all help prevent suicide.

The Lifeline provides 24/7, free and confidential support for people in distress, prevention and crisis resources for you or your loved ones, and best practices for professionals at 1-800-273-8255. You are not alone in this fight!

If you would like to read more articles from Krista, click here. If you are looking for more articles on mental health, click here.

And remember, If you’re struggling with suicidal thoughts…please reach out to someone, anyone. And make sure you STAY. YOU, my dear, matter.

Brian’s been gone for two years today. Ugh. Two. Years. (Annnnddd reality hit again with typing that)

So today, in a nutshell, was harsh.

I don’t know what I was expecting but it wasn’t this. I mean, we made it through year one, the hardest year, right? But today…it was foggy one moment with “Wait, what happened?” & clear the next as the ache in my chest stole every breath from me.

Today, my mind told me I deserved it all.

Every crack in my heart, every hardship, every tear. That this was my fault. That I didn’t try hard enough, that I didn’t pray correctly, that it was me that chose the wrong doctors. Once again I was able to understand a little bit of Brian’s pain. A small glimpse into depression.

Funny how we can beat ourselves up BUT if my friend was sitting in my shoes and saying these ridiculous things to me, I would probably have to shake her and scream “STOP! Don’t you dare do this!”

So what can I do to fight against these lies swirling in my head tonight?

Well….I decided to let you into the darkness a little more. I want to try and help you understand grief during the second year. Because let’s face it, none of us are immune to it. We will, or we already have, at one point or another, experienced a significant (the word doesn’t even describe it) loss.

1. It’s not just one day

I lost Brian to depression before I even lost Brian. But today is the day I found him and knew nothing would ever go back to the way it was. Today is the day he met Jesus and become whole. Tomorrow is the day he was pronounced, the following is the day our kids knew Daddy was going to Heaven, and the day after that is the day I received the phone call that all of his organs had been donated. For most of us in grief, there is the last day we saw them, the last day we had hope, the last time we talked to them. It is never just one day of loss.

2. Everyone is lying if they tell you the first year is the hardest.

I woke up thinking it was all going to be better after the first 365 days, but it was worse. Much, much worse. The end of the first year only confirmed I had to do this all over again. I didn’t have to make it through the “firsts” but the “seconds” and “thirds” and so on and SO ON! Booooo!

3. I regret every single moment leading up to it.

This isn’t just a “suicide thing” either. This is anyone that has ever lost anyone. We wish we kissed them longer, harder, more, or even at all. We wish we didn’t take the long way home. That we called and said “I love you” one more time. That we followed our intuition. Anything. It’s hard pulling yourself out of that terrible loop.

4. I am exhausted more now than ever.

I swear adrenaline and denial were the only things that kept me going for the longest time. Now, it’s only by God’s grace I can roll out of bed. People tend to go back to their normal lives while those in grief are left wondering what “normal” even looks like anymore.

5. AND there is hope in making it through another year.

I used to say we lost Brian BUT God is good. I now feel we lost Brian AND God is good. See what I did there? I changed one word and it reminds me that God is God and I am not. I am constantly learning to change one word. I don’t HAVE to get up to take care of the kids…I GET to take care of these loud creatures that God entrusted me with. I am in pain, we all are, AND God is good.

So there you go. Enjoy my dark and twisty thoughts. Even though He has slain me, my future, my dreams, I will praise Him. I will shout of His goodness! Praise Him in my pain! I will point you to the one who gives and takes away! This is the hard part you guys…this is the place between the pain of this world and the promise of the next.

Praying for your heart right now

Please, if you are struggling with your mental health and/or suicidal thoughts, please reach out to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 or text HELLO to 741741

The days are hard and that’s even an understatement.

They’re so busy, ya know? Four kids, sports, work, a household to run…that’ll do it to you. I’m constantly busy. Then the nights come. Ugh, I dread the evenings. The nights are so lonely. When the house is quiet and the last baby goes to bed. The aching grows. This used to be the favorite part of our day. Now I have to force myself to sit downstairs, alone.

This was our time together.

This is where we would go over our day. Where I wouldn’t be just a mom anymore, but your best friend, a lover, the girl you fell in love with. You would remind me I’m not the failure I feel. I’m not the damaged goods I’ve been told I am. This is where you would bring me gently back from the world beating me down. I miss you speaking God’s truth to my heart. Miss the way you loved me. I miss the honor of being your wife. I miss….you. Just you.

How we laughed and were always joking. We talked about each one of the kids. Their quarks and which one we worried about the most. How we couldn’t wait to see how they were going to change the world. This was the time we would both admit we didn’t know what we were doing too. How were we going to keep up this charade of being “adults”? And who trusted us with four kids and a house? This is where we found beauty in the chaos. Together. We created this beautiful messy life, together.

Now…this reality

Now I literally have to set a timer and make myself stay downstairs. Like a child forced into timeout. I’m forced to accept this reality. Even walking up the steps to bed is painful. I remember every night I would race you up because still in my 30s, I was afraid of the dark. A fear you would exploit as you would turn off the lights and hide. Man, how we were kids raising kids!

Fast forward to what the experts call the “separation anxiety phase”. Sounds pleasant enough, right? I would just call it “hell” but the word “phase” puts an official seal on it, I guess. This is where for the past 19 years you were an every single day part of my life. Where I accept there will be a time that my days without you will outnumber my days with you.

This is where the painful process of “two becoming one” is ripped from my body.

From my soul. From my heart. This moment is where I bring my dreams to the cross where they must die again. Where the beautiful dance of marriage is unraveled day by day. Where my ring finger feels oh so heavy and so light at the same time. This is where I not only miss you but I’m left to figure out who I am without half of me.

Like an amputee, you’re cut from my body and life over and over again at night. The phantom pains of the life we had is gnawing at me. Half of me is missing. I’m learning how to walk and talk again. How to function now without you still.

You aren’t really here sitting with me.

I want to pretend you’re in the other room so I’ll even call your name. To taste it on my lips again. I call out for you and again my heart sinks when there is no response. Just silence. A silence that is deafening. I never knew silence could be so painfully loud.

Here it goes. The memories flood in. The good, bad, and the ugly. I’m left with thinking why did I ever complain about you leaving dirty laundry everywhere? Man, what I would give to find a trail of dirty clothes leading to your hamper. You never did understand that dirty clothes go IN the hamper, did you? I want that back. Want you back. I want it all back.

You were already gone way before you were gone.

But, let’s be honest here too. You were already gone way before you were gone. I missed you when you were sitting right next to me. Longed for your laughter more than I longed for air. I was desperate to hear your voice. Days would turn into weeks of feeling alone. Even when you were here, you weren’t. For years I would miss you for hours, days, weeks, and months on end.

Depression stole you from us.

Depression stole your smile. It stole your energy. Depression stole your sense of humor. It stole your joy for life. It stole you from me. From us.

You fought though. You fought so hard. But then you got so tired of fighting. I fought for you when you were done fighting for yourself. Fought for every appointment. I fought every reason you said you were “fine”. I fought to make you breathe when your were already gone. The scars on my knees are a painful reminder of how I wouldn’t accept defeat with your last breath.

I know you didn’t want this.

You didn’t want this for us. The pain. This isn’t the outcome you would have chosen for yourself or our babies. But your brain said we would be better off. The one organ you tried to reason with was the one organ that was so sick.

So, here I am to set the record straight for anyone considering suicide.

So, here I am to set the record straight for anyone considering suicide. For anyone thinking “they’re better off without me.” That suicide is the answer. It’s a lie. A flat out lie.

Make the decision

Make the decision to:

to get help
tell someone you’re wanting to harm yourself
to FIGHT

And keep making it! Every single day. Even every single minute if you must. It’s not a fix-all. One appointment or one conversation may not do it. But have it anyways. Then have the next one. It’s a battle. You’re battling for your life. For the lives of those you love. You are breathing for a reason. Don’t stop. Keep living. Fight. Keep fighting. And fight some more! We need you. Stay!

We can all help prevent suicide.

The Lifeline provides 24/7, free and confidential support for people in distress, prevention and crisis resources for you or your loved ones, and best practices for professionals.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
Chat option available
1-800-273-8255

Please if you’re struggling with depression, your mental health or thoughts of suicide tell someone. Stay.

Losing Brian to suicide four years ago was my worst nightmare and still is.

August 16th, 2018

So here is the hard truth…..I missed it

The hopelessness

Self-sabotage

Invisible suicidal signs and unspoken words

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How did I survive Brian’s suicide?

I didn’t survive

This new and chaotically beautiful life

1. I had to learn to rest.

2. I had to learn to show myself grace.

3. I had to learn to be ok with losing people.

4. I had to learn to NOT people please.

5. I had to learn to not only form a new identity but take responsibility for it.

We can all help prevent suicide.

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So today, in a nutshell, was harsh.

Today, my mind told me I deserved it all.

So what can I do to fight against these lies swirling in my head tonight?

1. It’s not just one day

2. Everyone is lying if they tell you the first year is the hardest.

3. I regret every single moment leading up to it.

4. I am exhausted more now than ever.

5. AND there is hope in making it through another year.

Praying for your heart right now

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The days are hard and that’s even an understatement.

This was our time together.

Now…this reality

This is where the painful process of “two becoming one” is ripped from my body.

You aren’t really here sitting with me.

You were already gone way before you were gone.

Depression stole you from us.

I know you didn’t want this.

So, here I am to set the record straight for anyone considering suicide.

Make the decision

We can all help prevent suicide.

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