A Note to a Suicide Prevention Worker

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by donald Whyte

A couple of nights ago my wife and I were having a discussion about suicide and suicide prevention. A course was to be offered to the public on suicide intervention.

During this conversation my mind wandered to the Artic and the tradegy that is, up there and for that matter, around us at all times. I remembered the death of my partner’s beautiful 18-year-old daughter whom I’d know since birth and had washed dishes with; a 20-year-old student who, on occasion, with his mother’s blessing, I’d drag out of bed in the morning and take to class; a friend I’d gone to school who I’d visit in Edmonton when we were younger; a 45 year old construction colleague, with whom I’d shared different projects and sailed the Mediterranean while on vacation, plus other friends and acquaintances.

In our discussion I leaned toward the futility of it all, as it is treated by society at this point in our evolution.

The human being that relieves the single issue that pushed a person wanting to finally call it quits, has to realize the whole situation is much, much more complicated than stopping a suicide.

You’ve just had a baby, friend. 

The suicide survivor may talk the talk and walk the walk of a “normal” human but it doesn’t mean he/she’s any more content. Of course you can’t make blanket statements, unless it’s about your spouse.

A construction colleague’s nephew, a former friend of my son’s, from the north, only shot off the lower part of his face and was saved (success? failure?). After much serious counseling, a year and a half later he finished the task.

(success? failure? tragic? reality?)

This is not a personal suicide note.

  

It’s just what came from my pen when put to paper after talking with my wife and envisioning what they might have been thinking.

To Rodney, Joey, Carmen, Jobie, Jimmy, Yusapie and Siesie

 Not forgotten.

A note to a suicide prevention worker

Of course it matters.

Any attempt to make contact, matters.

I appreciate your reaching out.

Do you understand?

Do you understand where I am?

Do you know how long I’ve felt like this?

Do you know the darkness, the loneliness, the depth?

Do you have the stain of suicide, on your heart?

Because if you don’t, I will know and

your educated words will be hollow,

like a culvert in a ditch,

empty with some undisturbed silt at the bottom.

Of course you care.

Thanks!

You offer encouragement.

We can win this game.

Things always look darkest before the dawn.

And you’re convinced that things are getting better.

Because I told you that

I am feeling better.

It’s what you want to hear.

It’s what they want to hear.

Then I can get back to what I was doing,

in my abandoned prairie farmhouse

with a cold, north-west wind

whistling through the forgotten window cracks.

Of course I need a reason to live.

That's pretty deep.

Will a course on horticulture do the trick?

Or, perhaps a book.

I can pretend to be joyous and happy,

though it is difficult to do while crying.

Say,  3 weeks ? 6 months ?  more?

Because I’ve been doing this, my entire life.

I can't make it too long though.

My relationship with self is bleak.

The balance is finally at peace,

the pendulum is slowing

and of course, I’d just as soon stop.                                                                                    

dW