Community Blog Post: Suicide Prevention Month
Each month, I will be sharing a guest piece written by someone from my online community. September’s submissions include pieces about suicide in honor of Suicide Prevention Month. The work of destigmatizing mental health is a community one, and I’m honored to share this space.
This month I have selected two pieces:
The first piece you will read is a short story by Anna Ruckstuhl; a poetic anecdote that gently yet firmly grips the all-too-familiar feeling of what it means to live, and what it might mean to die.
You will then read a narrative by Candace Nichole, an east-coast copywiter who has faced suicide in more ways than one over the course of her 33 years, and who bravely recounts these meetings in her story.
If you would like to submit your writing to be featured next month, please review the submission guidelines at the end of this post.
Reminder, these posts have mention of suicide. If you are not in a mental space to read this, that’s ok. We love you and honor what you need for your well-being. This post will be here if and when you are ready.
September 13, 2022.
Recently I've been fascinated by looking up.
I think there is something up there in the clouds and stars, something bigger and better than myself. As a kid I always looked up at the sky. The adults in my life told me that my chin being raised was bad for my posture so I stopped admiring the way the world turned. I have spent most of my life looking at my feet making sure I don’t step on the cracks in the sidewalk, making sure to save all the little critters destined to fall beneath my feet.
In the last semester of my first year of University I texted my best friend and asked him if he wanted to leave our little dorm rooms, and go for a walk around our silent campus. It had just finished raining. I was struggling a lot and I felt the need to save something in the way I wished to be saved. I made him pick worms off of the wet pavement, and gently place them in the grass.
We slowly made our way over to the gazebo, which always made us feel like we were in our own world. As we were sitting and smoking, the owl who often kept us company on those lonely nights was hooting. The moon was full.
We walked home in silence. I could feel his pain, and I knew he felt mine too.
I walked my best friend home that night and as we were walking across the big field that separated our buildings, I stopped. I looked up at the person who just a few months ago was a complete stranger to me. I grabbed his arm and I asked him what I wished someone would ask me.
“How heavy are your feelings? Will you be safe tonight?” and, “How can I make this all feel better?”
He said everything would be okay, and then he looked at me and said, “What about you? Will I get to see you tomorrow?” At that moment I knew the weight of my feelings. I knew that my answer mattered, but I didn't know what to say to him.
“I don't know. I think so, but I’m scared and I'm tired.”
159 days since that full moon.
This Saturday I was at Stanley Park laying on my back and looking up at the trees, having this internal dialogue that if I were to die in that exact moment it would be fine. Not because I want to, and not because no one cares, but because this is beautiful and I have had a good time. I don't feel as scared when I look up now.
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Piece written by Anna Ruckstuhl. You can find more of Anna’s writing on instagram @annaruckstuhl
TW: I discuss suicide ideation, attempts, suicide loss, and a brief mention of my eating disorder. Ava and Daniel’s names are changed for privacy.
I met Daniel through church when we were young teens and we clicked almost instantly.
He had a crush on me, and regrettably, I was too oblivious to realize it. I was astonished that someone so cool wanted to be friends with me. He was smart and sarcastic. I looked up to him, literally and figuratively, which was a big deal because I was already 5’9” at 13 years old. After a time, he moved away, and we lost touch. I don’t think I had a cell phone yet, and if I did, I certainly wasn’t allowed to use it to talk to boys. The next year, after the sudden loss of his mom, he spent some time back in town and visited the church again while he was there. It was then that we reconnected. After he left, he found me on MySpace and we kept in touch off and on for a while. Eventually, we exchanged numbers and began rebuilding our friendship. He was, first and foremost, my dear friend. A real one. A good one. One of the best, in fact. The kind of friend that wouldn’t compromise your growth in order to spare your comfort zone. Growing up as a neurodivergent person and the eldest daughter in an evangelical Christian family, I’ve been masking since I came out of the womb. I didn’t have to mask with Daniel. Our friendship had enough room for the most authentic version of myself without any of the repercussions I was used to. Finally, it was safe to be seen.
As time passed, love grew. He was in college down south and I was at least 16 hours away. Our phone conversations were my favorite. No topic was off-limits. Some were funny, some were serious, others wordless. We’d answer and set our phones down somewhere nearby and just listen to each other go about our day. He told me about his studies and his plans for the future. I remember the first time he said, “I’m going to make you my wife.” My heart flooded with emotion that day as I suddenly considered the possibility of a future even more beautiful than the one I’d imagined on my own.
He came to visit me one winter. I will treasure that visit for the rest of my life. We laid in bed for hours listening to music, discussing the state of our world, and thinking of all the ways we wanted to contribute to improving it. We walked across the city in the freezing cold to play darts and drink beer. We ate delicious, local food. We got into an argument that was so silly, I don’t even remember what started it. We caught up on years of time apart in just a few days and I’ll forever be grateful for that. I took him to the airport when he left, and I remember him poking fun at me for running back for a second hug before he finally disappeared amongst the other travelers. As he faded from view, I told myself I’d see him soon. We’d talked about maybe meeting up in the summer at the beach and that was comforting. We didn’t make specific plans, and we never got the chance to. By the time summer arrived, Daniel was gone.
He ended his life less than 6 months after that last hug. He didn’t call before it happened. I didn’t know he needed help. He didn’t seem different when we texted or from what I saw on the internet. The last conversation we had was three weeks and six days before he died. He had just put an offer in on a house. He told me how proud he was of me and my accomplishments. That was all he said. That was the last thing he said to me. That was the end of our story.
After dropping my phone in a pedicure bowl, I had a new phone with no contacts so I decided to jump onto Facebook to message my friends for their numbers. I typed Daniel’s name into the search bar, so blissfully unaware that my heart was about to fracture as I stumbled onto a page full of endless condolences. When I got the news my world stopped. There is no easy way to learn that someone you love is gone. But I can guarantee you that finding out on Facebook is on my list as one of the worst. I remember going outside. Everything was surreal. Why was the sun shining? Why were little kids laughing? DIDN’T THEY KNOW? Couldn’t they feel the shockwaves? Or were they only ripping through MY body? In the coming weeks, I spiraled. I sunk deep into a depression, and I began self-injuring for the first time. I was a shell. Yet somehow, most of the people in my life thought I was doing just fine. Even our loudest pain can be elusive.
This was not the first time I’d encountered suicide, and sadly, I don’t think it will be the last.
I was 14 when I first learned what suicide was. My home phone rang, and my best friend Ava was on the other line. I assumed she was calling to tell me she’d be visiting soon or just to catch up. I was ready to giggle about boys or complain about school. Instead, she spoke so quietly. She sounded tired and tearful. She said, “I’m sorry, I’m calling to say goodbye.” It took me a moment to wrap my head around her words--goodbye? Where was she going? Then, it hit me like a freight train. “NO!” My mind screamed. She told me she’d harmed herself but I didn’t know how badly. It was impossible for me to fully assess the situation as I was six hours away. I didn’t know how much time I had, but it felt like we were riding a train that couldn’t be stopped. I yelled for my mom, but no sound came out. When I finally found my voice and filled her in, she sprang into action by calling 911. She was connected to first responders in my friend’s area and reported that help was on the way. I knew Ava might be angry at me for interfering, but I was okay with it. I thought even if she doesn’t want to be friends after this, at least she’ll still be here. After the longest few minutes of my life, first responders arrived in time to provide the help that she needed. She made it. I couldn’t have known then, but that moment changed us forever.
Over the years I would find myself in a similar place many times again. I wish I could describe it softly, in a way that is easier to digest. But there’s nothing soft about it. At least seven more times in my life, I have sat with friends, friends of friends, and even total strangers who wanted to die. Those moments were dark and yet, I’d relive them over and over again in comparison to the darkness that engulfed me when Daniel died. Losing him to suicide after seeing so many others fight the same battle and ultimately choose to live broke something in me: why were some saved and not him?
***
In late 2020, I spent several months in a small town in Kentucky. As the pandemic was starting I was in Maryland helping my parents sell and pack their home. When they moved, lockdowns were in full effect and I didn’t like the idea of them moving so far on their own, nor was I confident that it was the right time for me to move across the country as originally planned while things were still so uncertain. So my dog Kai and I followed them to Kentucky. I hated it there more than I’ve hated any place in my life. We were obvious outsiders and I can assure you that southern hospitality was neither invented nor implemented in London, Kentucky. On top of that, I had been laid off. I was feeling lost and scared as my savings dwindled. I was at odds with my parents after years of unearthing childhood trauma and realizing how unseen and unknown I’d felt in my family for my entire life. I was hoping my time with them would repair our relationship and it seemed to be going in the opposite direction. I had just been diagnosed with an eating disorder (ED) and the changes my body and mind experienced as I began recovery were incredibly painful. Recovery meant abandoning my coping mechanisms. The actual world felt like it was falling apart alongside my personal world, and for the first time in my entire life, the light at the end of the tunnel burned out. I had no control over anything and the pain was insufferable. I felt like a horrible daughter, a shitty older sibling, a failed entrepreneur, an exhausting and needy friend, and in no way prepared to be anyone's partner. I stopped creating, stopped socializing, and stopped believing that I had anything of value to offer.
Most weekends I went to Knoxville for the weekend to have alone time. I’d often stay overnight, and while I was gone, my Dad cared for Kai. One day my Dad mentioned that when I was gone and he took Kai out into the yard to hang out, Kai would always sit or lay with my parking spot in view. Every time he heard a car, his ears would perk up and he’d look at my spot in anticipation. My heart melted and I thought it was sweet, but didn’t think much past that conversation until a few weeks later. ED recovery was going harder than ever. My trauma therapist had ghosted me. Yes, ghosted. I still have no explanation. I was tired, lonely, homesick for a home that didn’t exist anymore, and desperately searching for the light at the end that was no longer there.
The drive from London to Knoxville is gorgeous. There are mountains, trees, secluded winding roads, and dramatic drop cliffs. To a landscape enthusiast, it’s a view to celebrate. To someone experiencing suicidal ideations, it’s something else entirely. I feared them, but they called to me. “It would be so easy, so fast.” I thought. “Just one turn of the wheel and it would all be over. No one would even know it was on purpose.” I’ve had suicidal ideation for over a decade. I’ve also seen more intimately than most how much devastation suicide and suicide attempts leave in their wake. I’ve never made a plan because the pain I was in never exceeded the pain that I knew I would leave behind. This time was different. That’s how depression and suicidal thoughts work. They replace the things you’re sure of with lies and uncertainty. They steal reasoning and reality. They sharpen the harmful feelings and dull the helpful ones. Despite everything I knew after advocating and educating for suicide prevention for half of my life, I still crossed the threshold from ideation to planning. Despite all those times sitting in the dark with others while they fought for their life. Despite having experienced my own life-altering loss to suicide, I still thought that I’d reached the best conclusion.
One night, as I was driving those roads and getting closer than ever to the edge, I suddenly had a mental picture of Kai. He was just sitting there, tail wagging in the driveway, waiting for me to pull into my parking spot. I realized that he would never be able to fully understand if I didn’t come home. How long would he wait? How sad would he be? I’d asked my brother to take care of him if anything happened to me but no one in my family would let him sleep in their bed. Who would snuggle him? Would he be lonely? These were the questions that brought me home.
Whenever I share these stories, there is active resistance. I don’t want them to be true, I don’t want to remember them. I grieve for my 14-year-old self and the way her world shattered as she bore witness to pain that she’d only heard adults whisper about. I grieve for those I sat with who felt pain so tremendous that ending their life seemed like relief. I grieve the days, weeks, and months that I don’t remember from the trauma of those experiences. I miss Daniel every day and I will continue to do so for the rest of my life. I wonder if I’ll ever connect with a partner again without becoming engulfed in an irrational fear of losing them. And yet, I know that the stories and their aftermath must be shared. Vulnerability creates connections, and connections create reasons to stay. I honor my pain and the pain of my loved ones by transmuting it into stories enveloped in prayers--ones that might prevent the pain of others in the future.
Daniel once said to me when I was struggling, “I need you around, ya know?” So, I leave you with the same. Please keep fighting. I need you around, ya know?
* * *
Piece written by Candace Nichole. You can find more of her writing at www.hellocandacenichole.com or on instagram @hellocandacenichole
Candace is a 33 year old copywriter and digital marketing expert. An east coast girl through and through, she was born just outside of Virginia Beach, VA and grew up in Baltimore, MD. When she's not writing for her clients in the beauty and wellness industry you'll find her visiting coffee shops, cooking, traveling, and telling dad jokes -- the sillier the better. She has driven cross country twice with her adoring Saint Bernard mix, Kai and they've adventured everywhere from the beach to the desert to some of the coolest state and national parks. She hopes to visit every national park with him one day. She believes in the power of storytelling and shares her own stories in hopes to remove stigma, create connection, and encourage others to embark on their own journey through healing.
If you or someone you know is struggling with suicide, please reach out.
It is so, unbelievable brave to ask for help. I know its hard as hell, and trust me in the moment, I understand how viscerally painful it is to say “I need help.” I also know hotlines don’t offer the same tenderness we long for in those darkest moments, and, from one staying soul to another, it is atleast a tether. Something to hold onto as we find our way out.
Here are some hotlines below:
National Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-8255
Crisis Textline: text “HOME” to 741741
Online Crisis Chat: https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/chat/
I love you. You matter. Stay;
Interested in submitting a piece to my blog?
Each month I accept written pieces to be considered for community posts.
Guidelines:
1,000-2,000 words
Personal story/narrative (not seeking a how-to)
Aimed to destigmatize and make people feel less alone in their experiences
Pieces should be well written and in a finalized state. While I will provide ample feedback and help you edit the piece, please know I receive dozens of submissions and appreciate you submitting work that has been reviewed and edited.
Poems are accepted—please submit a collection to be considered.
If I choose your piece, I will offer you feedback/edits, and then your piece will be posted as a blog post on my website. Blog posts on my site get sent to my mailing list (10k people) and will live on my site permanently. You can include any links to your socials/website/services in the blog post.
Submissions are due on the 15th of each month, and I will post the chosen piece on the last week of the month.
You may remain anonymous or use a pen name if you wish.
If you would like to submit a piece, you can e-mail me a draft to rachel.havekost@gmail.com.
*I will give priority to students who have taken my Wounds to Wisdom Writing Masterclass.
If you have taken the class, please make note of this in your submission.
If you have not taken the class, tou can still access the materials!
If you would like to improve your writing, learn skills for creating work rooted in helping others, and have access to personal support from me on your writing journey, learn more about the class below.
