In my last column, I wrote about why I believe Suicide Prevention Month is so important. My plan was to follow up with statistics, but the truth is, we’re awash in data this month. The more critical conversation, I think, lies beneath those numbers — in the difficult, unspoken truths that don’t fit neatly into a news brief. And that’s what I want to talk about this week.
There has been a lot of talk on the news and on social media about two hanging deaths reported Monday in Mississippi. Both victims were men, one Black and one homeless, and both deaths are under investigation. In the case of the former, authorities have told their local media outlets there is no evidence to suggest the decedent was attacked prior to his death.
There is a lot of speculation surrounding both cases, including that of the possibility of suicide, and I’m not going to participate in that, because it doesn’t do anybody any good, least of all the families of the deceased. That said, when I first heard the speculation that the young Black man could have died by suicide, it gave me pause.
As many know, death by hanging is inseparable from our country’s history of lynching, a tool of racial terror used against Black Americans for generations.
The Emmitt Till Antilynching Act was only passed on 2022 — nearly 70 years after Till’s own lynching death. This trauma is not ancient history. It is within living memory.
For a Black man to die by hanging from a tree in the present day, it forces a question I can’t answer: Can an act of self-harm be separated from its social context? It’s historical context?
In my mind, such an act is at odds with what I understand to be a common psychological driver behind suicide: the idea of no longer wanting to be a burden to the people one loves.
On an individual level as well as a community level, I wonder, how do the impacts of history, “othering” and collective pain influence the story of suicide, particularly in rural America?
These are not easy questions, but like I said in my last column, one of the most effective ways I’ve personally experienced to mitigate the pain of suicide, as well as to prevent it, is to talk about the hard things. We’ve gotta have the honest conversations.
I’m having one of those hard, honest conversations with a close friend of mine right now. My dear friend of over 30 years, a vibrant, quirky, driven career woman and mother, is grieving the death of her daughter who died by suicide a year ago. She was 14, and she was every bit her momma’s child.
My friend’s journey of grief is tempestuous. Some days, she’s sad; some days she’s full of love and gratitude; some days, she is filled with purpose… And a lot of times, she’s angry.
Her anger changes often, and right now, in September, it’s an idea: “prevention.”
You see, this momma did everything “right,” and so did her little girl. Every intervention you can imagine — therapy, hospitalization, medication, communication — they did it all, together.
And yet, the story of the moment that changed my friend’s life forever took eight minutes to unfold.
My friend and her daughter were getting ready to go shopping. They were laughing and telling jokes. Her daughter went to change her shirt. A few minutes later, my friend had a strange feeling that something wasn’t right. She went to check on her, and found her sense justified in a way no parent ever should.
And her message is uncomfortable, loud and clear, and it is targeted to other parents grieving children the way she grieves her own: “Sometimes, no matter what you do, you can’t prevent it.”
That isn’t to say we as parents and community members shouldn’t do everything in our power to try to stop suicide. But it’s a message I think parents and loved ones of those lost in this way need to hear, and it’s one that isn’t said out loud enough.
And we’re here to say the hard parts out loud.
When we talk about mental health, we need to frame our conversation in the understanding that easy narratives are rare. As humans, we are complex, and the influences upon us are many.
It means it’s imperative that we take the time to listen without judgment, even to the things that make us uncomfortable, especially to those things. We need to connect. We need to listen to people in grief without offering platitudes.
Oh, I know it’s hard. I find myself getting ready to answer my friend’s expressions of grief with “wisdom” of my own — but I stop myself. What wisdom could I possibly offer? I have never experienced the death of my child by her own hand, I can’t say anything meaningful to her. Actually, that’s not true. There are two things I can and do say often: “I love you,” and “Thank you for letting me into this space with you.”
Meaningful prevention and support means building a community brave enough to have nuanced, hard conversations. It means holding space for grief and anger and sadness without judgment. It means showing up, again, and again. And again.
Speaking of showing up, if this topic resonates with you, I hope to see you at the Howell County Suicide Prevention Network’s event next Friday, A Talk to Remember. It’ll take place from 5:30 to 8 p.m. at the West Plains Civic Center, 110 St. Louis St., and end with a candle lighting and memorial walk. There will be fun stuff for the kids, a food truck and opportunities to network and share stories.
And if you’re struggling, you can use the 24-hour 988 crisis hotline which can be called or texted, or people can go online to 988lifeline.org for a chat option. A videophone option is also available for Deaf and Hard of Hearing people. People in crisis can call anonymously for themselves, or reach out to find out how to help someone else.
Editor's note: This article has been updated to correct the day of A Talk to Remember to Friday, Sept. 26.
