S-Bomb

Originally published in Chrysalis Journal, 2016

S-Bomb

      As a child, I loved curse words. Loved hearing them on my frustrated parents’ muffled breath or in the PG-13 movies I secretly watched. I practiced them in front of my mirror, silently mouthed the words to avoid punishment, but reveled in the quiet rebellion of profanity. As an adult, I probably use them too much. I’m positive my own children giggle as they spill out of my mouth in irritation and I’ve snickered to myself when my five year old has repeated an “inappropriate phrase” as his Lego creation falls apart. This sly rebel heart of mine, my secret from the world.

     A new word entered my arsenal of unacceptable words a few months ago. Suicide. My sixteen-year-old brother took his own life and I’ve learned, unlike my precious other curse words, this one does not bring me the same devious joy. Like a baby carrot, lodged in my esophagus, it cuts off my breath. My internal mute button is pushed, my mouth moves, but there is no sound. It is a maddening combination of denial and shame that shuts me up.

    No one thought such a great kid could possibly do this to himself or to his loving family. I couldn’t believe it. There would be signs, bright neon billboards of teenage depression, quiet whispers of unrequited love, physical evidence of stress, that I, his sister could not miss. He told me everything I told myself.  Guilt that I might have ignored his chatter muddled my perception of what really happened. Did he say something, give me a clue to his sadness, his sorrow, his desperation? Was he standing in front of his mirror but rather than armed with curse words, was he armed with such unbearable sorrow? There were no silent whispers of explanation, but only concrete farewells. Doubt faded and shame appeared.

     Sleepless nights, drowsy days filled with guilt—how did this happen?  The first human being I loved unconditionally—my brother—was gone. There had to be something, some minute message I missed. I was nineteen years older and wiser but I missed something. Or was he just really great at hiding things?

     Even though suicide is the second leading cause of death in children aged 10-24 in America, no one wants to hear the word uttered. Suicide is deplorable to the ears living in the confines of concealment.  People prefer untimely death, accident, tragedy, passing, but those words lie.

     Suicide is a tragedy, but it is not untimely and it is no accident. Like I’ve learned the term passing is a loaded one, chock full of religious overtones, often followed by statements that his soul will never rest, always be in a state of flux between heaven and hell. I’ve also been told his soul passed to the other side, finally found peace. I choose to believe the latter. Unlike other curse words, suicide cannot be bleeped out. It is the s-bomb.

     Guilt clenched my fists, my heart like a punching bag taking blows from shame and sorrow. Bruised and beaten, my mouth swollen by disgrace, my throat raw from the sting of grief, the word suicide never parted my lips. I tried. I sat in front of my mirror, desperate to spit it out, to say it. But saying it, admitted it. Admitting it was a declaration of disappointment in myself as if there was something I missed, a clue to his sorrow, a whisper of his despair. My rebellious heart was dueling with the truth.

      All three of my children armed with intuition, banded together to fight the army of my shame.  My eldest child told me she believed he knew what he was doing. My middle child agreed with her sister, but still did not understand. My youngest child told me it was not my fault.  It was not my fault, I told myself. It was not my fault, I screamed, pounding my fists, kicking my feet, sobbing. Someone needed to tell me, someone who knew how much I loved my brother, that someone who possessed the same love, my son. With this fierce battalion by my side, I finally said it. First, as a whisper, inaudible outside my body. Then, armed with courage, I said it, Suicide. With tears clouding my eyes, snot all over my face, hands shaking, I said it, SUICIDE. I prevailed the victor. Shame, guilt, and doubt lay bloody and overthrown. With my children’s sticky fingers interlaced in mine, we wove the surrender flag, relinquished to the truth.

     This was a short-lived victory. It is one thing to be honest with yourself, an entire different strategy to face the world. Suicide is not a popular word. The word conjures discomfort, disbelief, and disgrace. Sometimes, when the reaction is obvious, prayers of redemption for his soul is offered. Other times, the word is like a virus, people fear they, too, might catch suicide. People want to know why. They must have a reason.

     I no longer stand in front of the mirror, abused by my shame. I do not fret about what it sounds like, how the listener will feel when I drop the s-bomb. My love for my brother, whom I do believe has finally found peace, is the glass of water that shoved the lodged baby carrot down, saved me from choking on guilt. The more I stay quiet, keep his suicide a secret, the more I shame those like me.

     I am a suicide survivor. My brother killed himself. When he did, a small spark ignited inside of my soul. Shame, guilt, and disappointment tried to douse the embers but adoration for my witty, smart, snarky brother was the explosive kerosene to the blaze. My rebellious heart is aflame with desire to show the world that my brother’s life was more than its end.