Finding hope after suicide bereavement
Lindsay Walker, who is part of our United to Prevent Suicide movement, reflects on the death of her dad — and how she’s found a way forward.
The day my dad died by suicide, Wednesday 6 June 2018, will forever be etched on my memory. It was the day our lives, as we knew them, changed forever.
It was a beautiful summer’s day, the opposite of the darkness that had just engulfed our lives, and I remember saying to my mum and sister, ‘Where on earth do we go from here?’.
The shock and trauma of suicide bereavement is indescribable.
Traumatic grief is incredibly complicated, and it affects you mentally and physically. After Dad died, I remember waking up with a knot in the pit of my stomach and this sense of sheer disbelief that didn’t shift for months.
For the first few weeks, it was a matter of just getting through the day, breaking it down into small parts in order to do so. We tried to keep on moving, however tentatively.
My mum, sister and I became an even tighter unit than we had before.
We leant on each other, cried with each other, and held each other tightly. We kept asking each other the same questions, over and over again, trying to make sense of this senseless experience.
Sometimes I felt every emotion all at once — and sometimes none. There was anger sometimes, of course, but it invariably dissolved into sadness and heavy tears.
Our home was a revolving door of family, friends and neighbours. There were so many flowers and meals delivered. We cried together. Everyone who visited was as shocked as we were and kept asking how could this have happened?
The day of his funeral was on the longest day of the year, which felt very appropriate. I remember thinking to myself, as the cortege made its way to the church, ‘How can the rest of the world still be continuing as usual?’.
Join the United to Prevent Suicide social movement — click here.
There were dog-walkers and joggers on the pavements. People going to work. Cars on the road. As the world kept spinning for these people, ours had stopped, and we had one of the worst experiences we’d ever need to go through awaiting us at the end of the car journey.
We entered the church to a sea of black suits and jackets. It was absolutely packed, with around 400 people there to pay their respects to our dad. The music, readings, and tributes were wonderful. Dad was so loved by so many people.
However, it still felt so unreal and, I thought to myself, ‘Is this really happening to us, to our family? How did it come to this? This happens to other people’.
At the reception afterwards, I talked to our guests, but there came a point when it all got too much, and Dad’s absence was like a screaming black hole.
After Dad’s funeral, we asked each other how were we going to move forward with the rest of our lives? How do you start to navigate something like this with no benchmark?
Suicide bereavement is a grief like no other and has been described as ‘bereavement with the volume turned up’ — and how true this is.
However, little by little, things started to sink in. It takes time, a lot of time, outside help and being patient and compassionate with yourself.
A good friend visited and said to me that my dad’s death did not define him. This was what I needed to hear and something I have quoted to others in our situation.
I knew I needed to get away from the manner in which he died and to slowly try to accept the unknowns. There were so many. What did I miss? What could I have done differently? It was only in counselling that we were able to make peace with the fact that you do what you feel is right at the time.
In our case, like many others we know of, there were no signs that anything Dad had been experiencing before his death would ever lead to suicide. We’d never ever have even considered it to be a possibility.
As well as getting individual counselling from the suicide and murder bereavement charity, PETAL, we joined the support group, Survivors of Bereavement by Suicide, and both were lifelines for our family.
Another huge step in our ‘reluctant acceptance’ of Dad’s death (as one of our counsellors described it) was that death by suicide is an illness, albeit a hidden one. Once you get to this stage, you can start to try and make some peace with it. There is no element of ‘choice’, certainly not the choice you and I would make with a well mind. You can, and never will, know what is going on in someone’s mind. If only you could.
If you have experienced bereavement by suicide, reach out and get help. You will have good and bad days, but slowly more good than bad. Keep talking to your family and friends about how you are feeling. Don’t bottle things up. Don’t keep quiet for fear of upsetting each other. You’re all already upset and talking helps you to process the grief.
However, in time, the great memories and the happy times will feel within reach to you. Be open to them and let them in.
It has now been over six years since we lost Dad. In some ways, it feels like yesterday and, in others, a lifetime ago. I believe it has made me more resilient, though, and I am stronger now. I have a new sense of perspective on life. The little things I may have stressed about in the past no longer worry me.
Of course, we think about him every day, but, with time, came healing, and we can now reminisce about the many wonderful years we had with him. That love never dies.
Even after the darkest and most traumatic of times, there is always hope. I promise that, in time, it builds from tiny glimmers to, once again, bright sunshine. Hold on to that hope, and, in time, the world starts spinning again for you too.
If you are having thoughts of suicide, please reach out for help, speak to someone you trust or call one of these helplines:
- Samaritans — 116 123 or use the online chat at samaritans.org
- Breathing Space — 0800 83 85 87
- NHS 24 mental health hub — 111
- PAPYRUS HOPELINE247 — 0800 068 4141 or text 88247
If you are ever in immediate danger or have the means to cause yourself harm you should dial 999 and request an ambulance.
