I switched on NPR as I maneuvered through side streets to sidestep rush-hour congestion. My children and I have made it a habit to listen to the news during our evening commute. They were secured in their car seats behind me, one dangling his legs while the other playfully kicked the seat. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I caught sight of my eldest son, his face smeared with mud and his hair a chaotic mess after an energetic soccer practice. It was three years ago when he was just six. We jolted over a pothole right as the news anchor announced the tragic loss of a beloved comedian to suicide.
“What’s that?” my son asked, curiosity evident in his voice. I paused, searching for a gentle way to explain. After my response, he sighed, “Why would anyone do that?”
These discussions can be challenging. Many parents grapple with whether their children are ready to tackle such heavy and heartbreaking topics. Some wish to shield their little ones from their own traumas—perhaps having lost loved ones to suicide. For others, it’s difficult to find the emotional space to even think about such conversations. Is it truly appropriate to engage in this?
For me, it feels like a matter of honesty. Suicidal thoughts are a recurring theme in my life, intruding unexpectedly like unwanted reminders on a to-do list. They linger, a tight ache in my chest, teasing and taunting me as if they were a secret lover brushing against me unnoticed by my children, my partner, or my friends. It’s like a relentless shadow that follows me, whispering doubts about my worth and abilities.
As someone who has survived trauma, I understand that healing involves more than just attending therapy or returning to a routine. For me, it means acknowledging the reality that these feelings may invade my life like uninvited guests, taking hold before I even recognize their presence.
Now, we often listen to the news during dinner. The sound of forks clinking against plates fills the air as I prepare a colorful salad, its vibrant greens and juicy tomatoes sitting at the center of our wooden table. My kids laugh as they munch on crunchy cucumber slices, fashioning them into silly facial features. We lower the volume of the radio, but I still hear a mention of “the third suicide…” My gaze drifts, and the once-vibrant salad appears dull in my peripheral vision. I instruct Alexa to play music to drown out the report. A familiar ache settles in my chest, signaling the onset of anxiety. I long for a moment of peace, the kind that eyelids crave when they feel heavy.
My children inquire about what it’s like to have suicidal thoughts. I pause, searching for the right words. I can’t articulate the graphic nature of my darkest thoughts—those that seem to poison the very air I breathe. I explain that there are days when my mind wanders into dark territories, even while I appear to be present, folding laundry and assisting with homework. I reassure them that I don’t wish for my life to end; sometimes, those thoughts simply take over, and though they aren’t logical, they feel all too real.
I tell them that, while they may not face these feelings now, it’s possible they could in the future—and that doesn’t make them flawed or unusual. Just as diabetes or cancer can affect certain families, I know my own history carries its share of mental health challenges. I emphasize the importance of reaching out for help and that recognizing when we need support is vital. We acknowledge the reality that many people we love may be grappling with similar struggles, even if they haven’t shared their experiences with us.
We discuss coping mechanisms—how some find solace in dance, others in humor, and how I express myself through writing and community. We all seek healing in our own ways.
There are moments of silence, during which I wrestle with how to express my thoughts without resorting to vague reassurances. My children fidget with their utensils, and I lean in to comfort them, wanting them to know they can ask me anything. Yet, I don’t have all the answers, and I don’t want to pretend otherwise. We talk about the confusion surrounding these feelings, which can be perplexing for anyone, especially those living with them.
Recently, the news reported on the suicides of two young adults and a father following traumatic mass shootings—topics that have understandably worried my children. I wish for lighter news to discuss, but this is the reality we face. Our kids practice safety drills in school, preparing for worst-case scenarios that all too often become real. Perhaps in some way, I’m preparing them for the unknown.
While I’m not in immediate danger to myself, I recognize that individuals who take their lives often experience a similar existence to mine for extended periods. At some point, the burden becomes too great.
I want my children to understand this reality and feel comfortable checking in with me about my well-being or sharing their own struggles. So, we continue to navigate these awkward and uncomfortable conversations about suicide. It’s challenging, but it’s necessary.
Summary:
In this reflective piece, Jamie Lawson shares her approach to discussing suicidal thoughts with her children. Through candid conversations, she aims to create a safe space for understanding mental health challenges. She emphasizes the significance of honesty, the importance of seeking help, and the need for open dialogue about difficult subjects. By addressing these topics, she hopes to prepare her children for future struggles while reassuring them of her own commitment to life.