Suicide is a dirty word. Try using it in mixed company. Try using “suicide” at a dinner party. You wouldn’t. Because suicide is not something people talk about. 

In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve already quit reading this. I know I have.

Still, I grew up as a child of suicide. This word is at the forefront of my vocabulary. There were moments in life when people would ask the ever imposing question, “How’d your dad die?”

The air usually goes quiet for a beat. 

You look around because you know you’re about to kill everyone’s buzz.

At this juncture, you have a few ways of handling this question. There’s the direct approach. “He died by suicide.” Or you could use more passive language. “He took his own life.” Or you could get very florid: “He passed away of his own choosing.” 

Either way, the person who asked the question gets it. Which is why they are now edging away from you because they suddenly remembered an important dental appointment. 

Because nobody wants to talk about suicide. We can talk about diabetes, heart disease, cancer, or any other cause of death. But suicide?

Filthy word. Conjures up too much mental imagery. Godawful things. And people just don’t want to talk about it.

So nobody does. Nobody talks. And as a result, suicide remains possibly the most undiscussed mental problem in the world. 

And yet each year upwards of 725,000 people die by suicide, worldwide. Every 40 seconds someone thinks about attempting suicide.

Or let’s put it like this: In America, someone takes their life every 11 minutes. Perhaps even people reading this right now are contemplating the act.   

I’m sorry to bring all this up. As I say, I know this isn’t a fun issue. But a few days ago, a friend of mine died this way. 

Ever since her death, people in her family have all been saying the same sorts of things you hear from nearly all suicide families. 

“We had no idea.” 

And that’s just the thing. Nobody had any idea because she never talked about it. Because we just don’t do that. 

My dad never talked about it. Preachers never talk about it. You never see commercials about it. Family members avoid it. And even AFTER MY FATHER DIED, nobody in my family talked about it. Especially not me. We just pretended like it wasn’t there. 

It wasn’t until I was in my 30s that I started talking about my father’s suicide with a therapist. I’m still talking about it. I’ll be talking about it for a long time. And God willing, I will never stop talking. And neither should you.

Because you never know who’s listening.