We must end the painful myths about suicide
Our loved ones died of an illness — just like cancer, says Louise Bradley.
I lost my best friend to suicide. It’s been 25 years since she died and I still think of her every day.
I’m part of a club no one ever wants to join. We’re a secret society of grievers.
Our grief isn’t standard issue. A few added bonuses are thrown in for good measure: guilt, self-recrimination, anger. And sometimes, in a perverse call and response, our own thoughts of suicide.
Given the chronic under-reporting of suicide, we survivors should have a special handshake to identify ourselves — a means of solidarity, a safe space free from the stigma that cuts us to the quick.
Each year, 4,000 of our loved ones take their own lives. For each death by suicide, 25 people are deeply affected. That means our club inducts about 100,000 new members every year. We don’t want any new recruits. But our numbers haven’t decreased for more than a decade. In some groups, such as young girls, it’s rising steadily.
In my role as head of the Mental Health Commission of Canada, I’ve met a lot of people who belong to this ragtag club of mine. And when we get together, there’s a palpable relief in knowing we’re in the company of people who “get it.”
The truth is, unless you’ve walked this path — watched a loved one wrestle with the life-threatening symptoms of mental illness, like unrelenting thoughts of wishing to die, insurmountable apathy or irrational self-loathing — you’re likely going to make missteps when you talk to us.
You’re going to say things, unintentionally, that crush our fragile selves. You’re going to reinforce myths and misnomers that colour our world view and distort our self-perceptions.
People don’t die by suicide because they didn’t love their families enough or vice versa. Love never cured cancer, so please don’t insinuate otherwise.
Taking your life isn’t “the easy way out.” It’s most often the culmination of an internal struggle so fierce that death is preferable to searing mental pain. Back to cancer again, but no one says, “She should have fought harder.” Maybe it’s partly because we can see the side effects of chemotherapy, for example, whereas the toll exacted by treatment for mental illness is invisible.
Speaking of that treatment, it’s also woefully inadequate, even if you get the best possible care, because we don’t really know how the mind works. Most psychotropic drugs are happy accidents. Others are off-label adventures. Many have debilitating side effects. And there are far too few of all these medications.
The payday for researching new medications runs too far into the future for most drug companies to double down. Even though the burden of depression swallows up more years of disability than any other, it still gets about two-thirds less funding than cancer.
Don’t get me wrong. Cancer is a terrible disease. But it’s recognized as such. Too often mental illness is seen as a human failing — a fatal flaw — a personal glitch or defect that makes an unwell individual less worthy of life-saving care and supports than their physically sick counterparts.
Today, as we mark World Suicide Prevention Day, I urge you to remember that suicide isn’t a solution. We shouldn’t be referencing “failed suicides.” A failed cancer treatment is one that didn’t work. A suicide attempt survivor has been given a second chance for hope.
To those of you, like me, who have been branded by the special devastation wrought by suicide, I say this: Your loved one died from an illness over which they had no control. Grieve and cry. Own your loss.
But as for those bonuses I spoke about earlier — the guilt, the self-recrimination, the anger — let those go.
Be a teacher in your community. Share your story. Help rewrite the narrative around suicide.
If we want to prevent suicide, people need to truly understand its causes. Only then, maybe, will we start reaching for a cure.
Louise Bradley is president and chief executive of the Mental Health Commission of Canada.