Tell you what: suicide is one big bucket of suck. A big suck-bucket.
People just don’t know what to say. And I can empathize. We fall back on platitudes when other words fail in an attempt to help the grieving. No judgment here. If you find yourself wanting to verbally support me or someone in my shoes, here are a few suggestions the next time you’re about to blurt out the following phrases.
“You did everything you could.” Really? Did I? How do you know? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure my son is dead and I must have misplaced my “Parent of the Year” trophy. I know, I know … you’re trying to comfort me, and I’m grateful for that. I’m just letting you know what it feels like to be in my shoes as a parent whose child died by suicide. Maybe I’ll look back some day and think that I did everything I could. But give me a few years, okay? Right now, I’m stuck on what I couldn’t do.
Instead: Say nothing about my parenting. Unless you know everything I actually DID do, then you have my permission to acknowledge those efforts. But wait about two or three months, okay?
“Once someone’s set their mind to it, there’s no stopping them.” So not true. Suicide is preventable. And it’s not a choice someone makes. People contemplating suicide don’t want to die. They want their blindly pain to end and it’s the ONLY way their brain tells them that can happen.
Instead: Say nothing because you don’t know what you’re talking about. Unless you do, in which case you should also say nothing.
Any sentence with “commit suicide” in it. Please, please detach the word “committed” from “suicide.” You commit a crime. You commit murder. You commit rape. You commit a sin. “Commit” implies intention and culpability, usually associated with something bad.
Instead: Say someone “died by suicide” or “died from depression.”
“He’s in a better place.” I know what you’re trying to say. Heaven is a better place. I agree. But you know what the best place is for my son? At home, next to me, perhaps even on my lap. Now that – THAT – is a better place.
Instead: Just give me a big hug. No words needed.
“How are you?” How am I? I feel like … my insides got ripped out. The pain is excruciating. There’s a weight on my chest I can’t describe. I’ve been brutally traumatized. A huge piece of my heart is missing. I can’t get out of bed. I can’t sleep. I’m indescribably sad and broken. Unspeakable grief pervades my every thought and movement. I’m challenging every belief I’ve held my entire life. Sometimes I actually struggle to breath. It feels like I’m physically fighting off unhelpful guilt the best I can.
Instead: “How are you TODAY?” or “How was your week?” THAT, I can answer.
“How can I help”? I have absolutely no idea. Bring my son back? Turn back time? Erase the pain? Take my place?
Instead: “I’m (dropping off a meal, shoveling your driveway, washing your sheets) on Tuesday at 9 a.m. I won’t bother you unless you want me to.”
“Let me know how I can help.” Thanks. I won’t be reaching out to you because I’m useless right now. Somehow grief has reached my typing finger and calling hand. Don’t even start about my brain.
Instead: See “How can I help?”
“I’m here for you.” I know you mean that, and I know you think you won’t step back from that promise. What I’ve learned is that my life stopped on June 11, 2021, and your life will continue.
Instead: “I’m here for you” and actually be here for me in one month, one year, ten years. Let me know you’re still walking through the pain with me by sending a quick message that you’re thinking about me. It helps so much to know I’m not alone.
“I know how it feels to lose someone you love.” I’m sure that’s true. And was it your child? Did he take his life in your home? Did he have his whole life ahead of him? Did his loss mean you’ll never become a grandma? Did your family tree just lose an entire branch and your namesake with it? Does his sister with autism threaten to kill herself because that’s what her big brother did? No? Then I’d venture to say that our experiences are different.
Instead: Don’t compare our losses because then I’ll compare our losses. And your loss will not be as bad as mine – or it will be, which doesn’t make me better either. I’m truly sorry for your loss; I just don’t have the capacity to mentally debate whose pain is worse and challenge whether it’s possible that you “know just I feel.”
Some Tried-and-True Things to Say
When in doubt, keep it short and simple. Here are some condolences that never go out of style … and don’t provoke the grieving.
“I’m so sorry.” Period. Then give me a big hug that lasts as long as I want it to.
“There are no words.” Correct.
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” Correct. And I hope you never do.
“Take all the time you need.” I will because I don’t know what else to do.
And please: talk about the person who died. Say his name. Jonas. Jonas. Jonas. Tell me what you loved about him. Don’t worry about making me sad; I’m already sad. Recall the good times. Bring him up in conversations. Celebrate his birthday with me. Hang his stocking. Serve his favorite food. (Ribs.)