When my brother killed himself, I learned that when someone takes their life, survivors are left not only to cope with the grief and sadness of the death but also to wrestle with the stigma and blame surrounding suicide.
My brother, Jay, was diagnosed with schizophrenia not long after his 19th birthday. Despite multiple hospitalizations, he refused to take medication for his very serious mental illness, which bloomed inside his mind until he was in an acute psychotic state. By age 20, Jay left home and was living on the streets, hitchhiking from town to town, shouting at strangers that the world was coming to an end. At age 21, he ended his life.
Suicide is on the rise in the United States. According to the Center for Disease Control, approximately 45,000 Americans took their lives in 2016, a 60% increase since 1980. People typically do not wake up one day and decide to kill themselves; years of pain and anguish usually precede the decision.
I actually spoke to my brother the day he ended his life. He had been keeping a blog to warn people about the end of days and had just written a particularly worrisome post. He was in Oregon at that time. I called him from my office in New York City as soon as I thought he would be awake. As usual, I asked, “How’s my favorite brother?” and he replied, “I’m your only brother,” but it was evident by his frantic and disorganized speech that he was in panic mode.
I begged him for what felt like the millionth time to please see a doctor. Like always, he refused, spewed some particularly choice words at me, then hung up. I felt helpless and went on about my day.
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