The one I leasted expected

Trigger Warning. This post covers the subject of suicide.

This is taken from a piece written by Renee Johansen and posted on the stuff.co.nz website here.

Renee Johansen shares the painful story of losing a loved one to suicide, and encourages New Zealanders to start talking about it.

It was the Sunday of Queen's Birthday Weekend, June 5, 2011. I answered the phone and my sister said: "I've got some bad news..." followed by five words I never, ever expected to hear: He killed himself last night.

My heart literally ached, and I fell to my knees in the car park where I had gone to escape the noise of the bar in my favourite beach town. "No!" I cried, over, and over, and over again. People were staring. I didn't care.

There are lots of things people say, and one of them is: "It's always the ones you least expect". I had often disagreed with that. All the suicide victims I had known had suffered from years of mental illness, had been overwhelmed by a series of unfortunate circumstances, or were just not 'right'.

He was the one I least expected. He had so much to live for. He was smart, very smart. He had a good job and a great career. He had an amazing family, and wonderful friends. He had enviable sporting prowess and a more extensive wardrobe than his two sisters combined.

He made friends wherever he went, and unlike many of us, he kept all those friends. He brought them together whenever he could, combining them in to one big melting pot of friends. He was always happy, always positive, always there to listen, to offer advice and pick you up if you fell.

People say that suicide is selfish, that it's the easy way out, that perpetrators don't think of the mess they leave behind for others to clean up. He wasn't selfish though, he was generous, thoughtful and caring. He never judged and he gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. He didn't have a three strike policy, he was all about fourth, fifth, even seventeenth chances. He thought life was too short to be angry, to be bitter or to hold grudges.

He made a decision, and it's one that we all have to respect, even if we don't agree with it. His life of unselfish gestures was compensation enough for that one thoughtless decision.

At the time, he didn't think about which of his friends would find him. He didn't think about who would go through every single one of his possessions, deciding what would go with him back to New Zealand. He didn't think about the hundreds and hundreds of people that would attend one or both of his trans-Tasman services, all of them numb with grief and lost for words.

He forgot that he'd already had his suit fitted for his best man gig at his friend's wedding. He forgot that he had promised his sister he would walk her down the aisle in place of their dad who had passed 13 months earlier. He forgot about his mum, and how much she valued his opinion when making decisions about the family orchard.

He didn't realise that Six60's album would become the sound track to his life, or that while we would eventually smile when we heard their songs, for a long, long time we would cry to them. We would cry a lot: in the car, in the supermarket, in the office, on the beach. He couldn't have known that people would cross the street to avoid his mum because what do you say to someone who has lost their son to suicide? Or that she would have to endure the unabashed pity in the eyes of those who did stop to offer their condolences.

He had no idea that there would be people who would continue to ask his sisters "you've got a brother don't you?". He mustn't have realised the size of the gaping hole he would leave in the hearts of all those who loved him. He didn't anticipate the unanswered questions that would echo in minds for months and months. He definitely didn't appreciate how important he was to so many people. He couldn't have estimated the number of people who simply wouldn't understand.

The easiest way to describe depression is heaviness. It's like you're wearing a full body suit made of lead, and you don't remember when it got this heavy. In fact, you can no longer recall a time when you weren't wearing this suit, weren't feeling this heaviness.

You are totally overwhelmed by feelings of worthlessness, like you add no value to the community, and offer nothing to your social circle. You can't quite put your finger on it, but you feel like you've done something to let your family down, let your boss down, or maybe it's the whole universe that you've disappointed somehow.

You feel like somewhere along the way you lost something, and although you'd love to go looking for it, you can't pin point exactly what it is you've lost. You feel like you're a burden, like you're causing more trouble than you're worth, and above all, you feel tired. Tired of waking up and feeling like life is pointless, tired of spending the whole day pretending that there's nothing wrong, tired of lying in bed at night unable to sleep, and so, so tired of feeling like a failure.

You find it so hard to communicate this feeling, and so hard to know who to talk to that might understand this feeling, that you say nothing, you carry on, in your heavy, heavy suit, and you find you would do absolutely anything to take the suit off and be free.

The tragedy of suicide is not confined to any gender, socio economic bracket, or ethnicity. Suicide has reached almost epidemic levels in New Zealand and around the world, and it's time we started talking about it. It's time we started saving lives.

We need to communicate that there is no shame in asking someone to help you with your heavy suit. People need to know that although it seems hopeless right now, it will get better. We need to work on being the open minded outlet to whom a friend, family member or colleague can release their thoughts of self loathing, anxiety or loss, and know that they won't be judged or dismissed.

It's too late for us, and it's too late for him. But we carry him with us always, we see the signs and we feel his presence. We know he's sorry and that he would take it back if he could, but he can't. We remember the good times, the happy times, we think of the lessons he taught us, the advice he would give if he were here, and above all we always remember the love.

"So Johnny was a good man

Armed with the power of his homeland

With his boots laced tight and a ticket in his hand

Never to return home again...

Don't forget your roots, my friend

Don't forget your family, yeah

Don't forget your roots, my friend

The ones who made you

The ones who brought you here."

WHERE TO GET HELP IF YOU ARE DEPRESSED:

Links to support services for Depression can be found here

If you're in immediate distress, please do not hesitate to look up the appropriate suicide link here and be in contact. Don't delay.