MENTAL HEALTH | NON-FICTION

He Shared His Suicidal Secret With Me

If you knew, would you tell?

*Trigger Warning* Article contains mention of suicide and mental health issues.

He told me he dreamed of suicide and wanted to end his life. That’s a heavy load to toss to a friend. Should I catch it? Or do I pretend he was joking? He had tried it previously, so doubting him wasn’t in the cards. But I could ignore him or overlook his cry for help because, according to him, his disclosure wasn’t a cry for help. It was merely a statement.

We were friends, and intimate sharing was hardly unusual. On that day, we were on our way to grab coffees and enjoy the spring breeze. That’s when he sprung it on me. There was no hype, no over-exaggeration. He had a thought, one as good as any other, and he wanted me to know.

“When?” I asked. “When do you plan to end your life?”

He was vague and non-committal, making the conversation that much more daunting.

“It may be today, tomorrow, or in a month. Then again, it may take me a year or five, but it will happen,” he said.

What do you say to a suicidal threat that’s not a definite imminent concern?

“I’m not ready to lose you,” was all I could muster. “What can I say to make you change your mind?”

My friend, who I’ll call Jack, had a history of mental health issues. He was brilliant, charismatic, and had a lifetime full of charm. But despite a successful career and loving relationship, he couldn’t get past the overwhelm born of depression. He bravely fought the battle with his demons and was buckling under its force.

I lived every day burdened with this knowledge. Should I tell anyone? I thought I should, but who? His skill at pretending everything felt fine was flawless; no law enforcement or hospital would believe me. Instead, he’d tell them I was wrong.

And his friends and family? They knew Jack lived tortured, and they knew of his suicidal tendencies. Would telling them help, or would it break our communication bond and drive him further underground, no longer willing to share his thoughts?

I understood his grief. I also suffered from mental health issues, and suicide is a genuine symptom of the condition my friend and I shared. Although I had never tried to kill myself like my friend had, I appreciated the despair.

So, I kept quiet at first and continuously did mental health checks with him. He assured me he was fine while reminding me the day was coming. I wanted him committed, for someone to watch him behind a secure door of a hospital, but who’d commit a man of sound mind? And unfortunately, that’s what my friend portrayed daily.

As I watched for changes in behaviour or state of mind, my friend continued to live his life full of love and spirit. But I was cracking under the strain. It was a secret too large to bear.

So, I told. First, I told friends who knew him. The ones who nodded in agreement. They recognized there was no one we could tell who could keep him under lock and key, but we were worried. Later, I told his family. None of us turned the other cheek; it was a terrible way to live.

But if I asked him, he repeated his original statement.

“It may be today, tomorrow, or in a month. Then again, it may take me a year or five, but it will happen.”

And I repeated I wasn’t yet ready to let him go. “Don’t kill yourself,” I said. “If for no other reason, change your mind for me.”

I asked him to think about those who loved and would miss him, but was I a hypocrite?

Only a few years before, I contemplated ending life myself. In an uncontrollable depressive state, I could not see relief. The only answer to getting the Mac truck crushing my chest off me was to end it all.

So, I went to Jack, who lived in the apartment a few floors down from me with my Chihuahua in hand.

“Here, Jack. Please take Beans for me. And Jack, if I killed myself, would you keep and care for him for me?”

It was an honest question and very telling. In my confused state, I hadn’t realized I had divulged my frightening plan.

After returning to my apartment, I began washing my dishes. I wanted to ensure when someone found me; they wouldn’t find a dirty home.

The knock was quiet and urgent. When I opened the door, two police officers greeted me and asked if I was okay. I was honest with them as each noticed my packed bag. It was the one I kept around for hospital visits in case, during my suicidal ideation, I’d opt to go for help instead.

I went willingly to the hospital emergency with the officers that day and spent a few days getting grounded. That was all it took to give me a new lease on life. The doctors couldn’t cure my depression, but I managed it.

Thanks to Jack’s swift move to contact the police, he may have saved my life. But unfortunately, despite wanting to return the favour, Jack’s lack of transparency made him a more complex case to crack than mine.

The days after his disclosure were harrowing. Jack gave us a good reason to worry. And concerned as we were eight months in, we weren’t off the mark because one day, Jack was his usual self; the next day, he went missing.

It took three days for the police to find him in his vehicle. By then, his suicide was successful.

I can’t help wondering whether he changed his mind in his last minutes of life? Or if a relief washed over him as he took his final breath?

I’ll never know.

His death was tragic on so many levels. Jack lived in pain and could not get the help he needed. He took medicine, had health care, and friends who understood the hardship of mental illness, but nothing could save him.

Once he had decided, he could only find solace in finding a way out.

It’s been seventeen years since his death, and I still wonder if he had it to do over again, would he make the same decision? I still carry the burden of the secret, a disclosure I shared with his friends and family without a positive outcome or relief.

Jack didn’t leave a suicide note. None of us saw his suicide as imminent. Yet, we all hoped we could have stopped him.

I wish I had seen him on his last day — when the hurting got too much.

I would have told him,

“Don’t give up. Don’t give in. Wake up, release your warrior and tell your demons, ‘Not today!’” -Helen Edwards.

I feel blessed to share my story. It’s thanks to writing a memoir that I’m able to keep Jack’s memory alive. Nobody deserves to be forgotten. Reading Missy Crystal’s memoir about her complex relationship with an ex and child-rearing makes for a fascinating read. Her story highlights her patience, fortitude, and courage in living a life wrought with unjustified accusations and malice. I highly recommend reading it.

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