*Warning: This post is about suicide.*
Today is the anniversary of the night my brother killed himself.
I wrote this a few years ago and shared it with my friends and family. I wanted to share it here because I believe it is important. Suicide affects so many people each year. This year has been an especially difficult year for many. We must do all we can to help - not only reaching out to people, but also making it easier for everyone to have access to mental health services.
The Night my Brother Killed Himself.
In September of 1998 I was twenty-five years old and living in Salt Lake City, Utah. My older brother McKay was twenty seven and lived in the same city - only a mile from where I lived. On the night of September 29th my brother got dressed up (even putting on his shoes,) wrote a note, and shot himself in the head on the couch in his living room.
It was a Tuesday night.
At the time I was working as a swing dance instructor at several clubs in the city. Tuesday night I was at Bricks nightclub.
I remember I did my lessons and hung around for a bit after, but was feeling tired so I went home early. My boyfriend Jim (who is now my husband) was at the club with me and followed me home. Jim and I had just begun dating. Our first date had been the previous Saturday night and we had been inseparable the entire weekend. I was on that new relationship high and life was pretty good.
I remember walking into my apartment and seeing the flashing light on my answering machine. The number 7 blinking on and off indicating I had seven messages. An unusually high number of messages considering I had only been out of the apartment for a few hours. For some reason I ignored them. Maybe I subconsciously knew something was wrong, or maybe I just didn’t want to be bothered.
I remember Jim and I sitting on the couch and talking about family. Again, in hindsight, was this coincidence or did I unconsciously know that my family was about to be torn apart? We were in the middle of our conversation when the phone rang. It was my younger brother Matt. He asked me if I had received my messages. I stared at the light blinking the number 7 on my machine. I told him no, I hadn't checked them yet.
I remember my heart beginning to pound. Something was wrong. Was it mom? Was it dad?
I remember Matt saying that McKay shot himself. In my head I’m thinking - an accident, just an accident. My brothers were always a bit prone to accidents. They have broken bones and gotten into all sorts of scrapes. So I asked “Is he okay?” It never occurred to me that he might not be. Up to that point we had had some crazy accidents and incidents in our family but we always came out the other end.
I remember Matt pausing for a moment before saying, “He’s dead.”
I remember my legs giving way - they just stopped holding me up. I fell to my knees and Jim sprang from the couch to me. He didn’t know what was going on, he just knew that it was something serious. I asked the only other question I could think of to ask, “Is mom okay?”
Of course she wasn’t okay, but Matt assured me that she was coping. I told him I would head down in the morning. We told each other “I love you” and I hung up.
I remember listening to the seven messages on my phone then. Seven messages from different members of my family telling me to call home immediately. (This was before cell phones were common.)
I remember sitting on the couch in disbelief. Jim sat with me until my roommate Barb came home. Barb had been McKay's friend before she was mine. She knew my loss. I didn’t cry that night. I think I was in shock and denial. I didn’t cry until the next day when I drove into my parent’s driveway.
I remember seeing my brother Matt come out to greet me. I broke down then. We both sat on the porch and cried. I cried for my big brother who used to build forts with me when we were little, who threatened a boy bullying me in the third grade, who introduced me to Depeche Mode and Beastie Boys. A brother who helped me move all my stuff out after my divorce and drove me home.
I remember thinking I had no more tears left but I was wrong. I didn’t want to go inside. I didn’t want to see my family suffering, especially my mom. But I went in. My mom saw me and immediately began crying again. Her red eyes proof that she had been crying all morning and possibly all night.
I remember hearing my mother’s heart break. It’s a sound I will never forget. My mother’s loss poured into uncontrollable, mournful sobbing. It shattered my already broken heart.
I remember asking my mom how she ever got through that first night. She told me that she curled a pillow in her arm and pretended it was McKay as a baby and that’s how she slept. Years later when I held my own child I would remember this and my heart would break all over again.
I remember I had experienced pain and heartache before but this was different. This was shared pain. Shared heartbreak is both a comfort and a burden. My heart broke for myself, it broke for my brothers and sisters, it broke for my brother’s girlfriend, it broke for my dad, and it broke for my mom.
My brother McKay was a charismatic, funny, kind man. Our family was better for having him in it. I know he thought everyone would be better off without him. I know that if he knew a fraction of the pain his death would cause, he would have not gone through with it.
But I also understand how he was feeling. I understand the darkness that took him. At one point in my life I was at that precipice. I felt that hopelessness. It’s a very debilitating feeling. I felt like I was on a never ending downward spiral. Like my life would never be better than it currently was. I was in that darkness.
Somehow I got out of that place but my brother never did. I often wonder why. Why was I spared and he wasn’t? Why did I get to go on to discover that life can be wonderful and full of great things and he didn’t?
It’s been over twenty years since my brother’s suicide and it still affects me. As I share this with you my heart is breaking all over again. I still cry. I still hurt. I call my mother every year on McKay's birthday and on the day he died. I tell myself I do it for my mom but I don’t think that’s entirely true. I miss him when I’m sad and he’s not there with a joke to cheer me up. I miss him when I’m happy and he’s not there to share in my joy. I miss my big brother.
Suicide has a lasting effect on those who survive. Time doesn't really heal wounds, it covers them with scabs that can easily be torn off to reveal the pain underneath. If you are someone who needs help, please get help! Talk to friends, family, a school councilor, or call the suicide hotline: 1-800-273-8255.
- Amy Young
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