I made myself a deal when I started this blog. I promised myself that I wouldn’t force it and that I would only write when and if I felt inspired to do so. I don’t want to become one of those bloggers that publishes every single day of the week just to tell you what I had for breakfast and how it made me feel when I ate it. So far, I think I have been doing a pretty good job of keeping that promise to myself. Sure, when I do sit down and feel inspired to write, I probably overshare… but that wasn’t exactly the deal I made. I only promised I wouldn’t force it by writing about things that don’t really matter. My point? I was drinking my coffee this morning and relishing in the fact that this is the first weekend in a very long time that we don’t have any obligations. Suddenly, I felt the earth’s gravitation pull to my computer. I so honestly have no idea what I am even going to talk about, but my heart was telling me it was time to write again.

While I was enjoying my coffee my mind was, as always, wandering and thinking about my brother (because that’s where my mind goes whenever it has one single moment of solitude). I was thinking about the last year. This coming Wednesday marks the one-year anniversary of my beautiful brother’s suicide. One year. I have no idea how that is even possible. In one breath it feels like just yesterday that he chose to leave us, and in the very next breath it feels like we have already lived a million lifetimes without him.

As crazy as it sounds, the finality of Jamie’s suicide is somehow just now starting to settle in. Most days, at this point, I honestly can’t believe he is dead. I literally have to say it out loud sometimes just to remind myself that he is truly gone. The painful reality is that I will seriously never hear his voice again. I will never hear his contagious laugh (the BEST laugh to ever bless this earth, mind you). And, I will never feel his arm around my shoulder or feel him kiss my forehead the way he would always do when he hugged me. He took all of that, and so much more, away from me the day he chose to leave us.

The first few months after Jamie’s suicide our conversations as a family always revolved around rehashing every minute of his life and the what-ifs and the how-could-he-haves. I don’t remember exactly when the shift happened, but at some point, our conversations have, in fact, shifted a little bit. We talk a lot more now about our grief and how it is reshaping our lives. I guess you could say our grief is changing. Please note, I didn’t say that our grief is getting easier or less painful because that will never happen, but it is evolving in a lot of ways. Every month I feel somehow different. Even with my love of words, I don’t really know how to explain it to you. I guess to state it quite simply you could just say that I am somehow growing into my grief.

They say we are only born once. I don’t think I necessarily agree with that notion anymore. I feel like I was (unwillingly) born into a new person on the day that my brother died by suicide. I don’t even recognize the girl I was the day before he left us. That girl, in a sense, died and left with Jamie on that dreadful day. I have literally been going through the motions of my life feeling completely lost for most of the last 12 months. I am just now starting to reconcile with this new version of myself and I am just now finding the strength to follow the path that God is trying to lead my new self on.

I do know that almost immediately (with some help from a great psychiatrist) I recognized that I had two choices. Option 1: I could coward to this great loss and tragedy in our lives and go down the same dark path of depression and self-destruction that Jamie traveled. (And, believe me friends. On many days that has been a very real option for me. More days than not, I have been a real freaking shit show behind closed doors. My husband and my children have, unfortunately, suffered greatly in the last year as a result). Option 2: I could own his story for him and try to make something exceptionally good come from his life and from his suicide. I am trying very hard and very intentionally to opt for the latter.

I often ask myself if I really, truly think that my willingness to expose our family’s deepest, darkest, most painful truths about Jamie’s suicide can really make a difference in this world. The truth is, that yes, I do. Am I delusional enough to think that I can save all 48,000 lives that are likely to die by suicide in this country in the next year? No. But I can hope to save one. I can hope that one single person with suicidal thoughts will stumble onto our story and I can hope that reading about our grief will be enough for them to think about the devastation they would leave behind for their family and friends. I can hope that it will be enough for them to believe in that moment how incredibly loved they are and that their life is worth fighting for.

I can hope that our story falls into the hands of another grief-stricken family that is also walking through the flames of hell we call suicide loss. And if it does, I want you to know this. All those feelings of guilt, shame, anger, and betrayal that you are feeling towards your loved one are normal. I want you to know that in those first few months you will feel like you are never going to be ok… but I promise you… I freaking promise you that you will survive this. You are stronger than you think you are. You, too, will grow into your grief in ways that right now I know you can’t envision. I want you to know that you have a choice. You do not have to let the actions of your loved one ruin the rest of your life. It is possible to survive suicide loss with grace and dignity. It is possible to channel your loss and your grief into compassion for others that are also suffering. It is even possible that the suicide of your loved one might just be catalyst to help change the lives of others. I promise. Be patient with yourself. Give yourself the grace to grieve in your own time. And, please, please know that you are not alone in your grief. My heart knows your heart.

XOXO – Jennifer

National Hotline for Suicide Prevention: 1-800-273-TALK (8255) or TEXT 741741