Long-time Suicide Loss Survivor Story

A message of HOPE from a long-time suicide loss survivor.

 

It was April 19, 2006, and I was driving when I got the call. I barely understood what was happening, but I remember I had the wherewithal to pull over after my grandpa handed the phone over to the Sheriff Deputy. He told me my dad had been injured. I remember I had to ask, “Is he alive?”  The painful pause from the Deputy – I knew the answer, but things were spinning faster than my mind could keep up with – then I heard the Deputy say, “Your dad has passed.”

 

I finished the call with my grandpa and briefly spoke to my grandma who was sobbing, trying to talk to me. I was in shock as my emotional response was completely absent and I decided to continue to meet my friend for a walk. I told her that my dad just died by suicide. She knew going on our typical 4-mile walk was not what I should be doing, but she also knew I needed time to let my body and mind and heart get realigned. We started our walk. She walked with me in silence and let me process. She gave me such a beautiful and safe place to figure out what needed to happen next as I found comfort in the predictability of our route. It took me about a mile to turn to her and say, “I need to go.”  She gave me the biggest loving hug, and I left to learn how to do adult things that you just cannot be ready for and then begin to pick up the pieces of a broken family.

 

My dad, Richard Jones, had so many things. He was intelligent, industrious, a skilled hunter, playful, hardworking, and he loved us. He was also a victim of childhood trauma which resulted in mental health conditions to which he turned to substance abuse to ease the pain of. Things escalated when I was in high school where our family lived in fear after several suicide attempt rehearsals. Hugging my dad after each suicide attempt always hit me hard – the thankfulness and relief mixed with fear of what could one day be a reality. We made it through three suicide attempts – with each one it continued to weigh on me, the hope, the fear, and the scariness of the uncertainty.

So, as I drove 10 hours south to my grandparents’ house, I was stoic, focused on the mission, brave, and I was alone. When I arrived, the family was looking at me – turns out when your parents get divorced and you are the oldest – that meant I was next of kin. I had a to-do list and decisions to make. First thing was to collect my father’s personal effects. I was at the Sheriff’s Office right when they opened the next day because I knew that there would be a letter that would explain this. I needed it to make sense. I picked up the items and went back to the house, and I passed out the letters. One for me, one for my brother, my grandma, and my aunt. I retreated to read mine in private and that is when I saw the handwriting, the “I love you” and my heart broke in what felt like waves crashing over and over as my eyes became too full, I could not see the text. I held the letter, laid down, and let my body finally submit to the uncontrollable sobbing. In the days that followed I tried to find solace outdoors.

 

My dad spent as much time as he could in the wilderness and he taught me to love the outdoors – that is where I find him today – a look from a deer, the quiet of moss-covered old growth, and a narrow hiking trail. It has been 20 years – grief is unmeasurable and unpredictable. 

 

Shortly after I became what is called a “suicide loss survivor” and I heard an ad on the radio for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention’s Out of the Darkness Overnight Walk. I was compelled to go. For two reasons, first, walking helps me process and therefore, heal. And more importantly, I know in my heart that my dad died after sunset – in the dark. He needed someone to help him out of the darkness, literally and figuratively – and this walk gave meaning to what I knew in my heart.

I credit much of my healing to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention; their education, advocacy, and research is incredible. To me the biggest gift is the community of people where we do not have to exchange words, we just know. We know it is heavy.

We gather. We remember. We heal – collectively.

Suicide loss grief is unpredictable, laced with complex feelings, which cannot be put on a timeline.

To work through my grief and gain understanding, I kept going to events (annual community walks and FUNdraisers), then I started doing volunteer work. Several years ago, I got to the point that I could talk about my dad without tearing up, so I became a Talk Saves Lives presenter, helped plan a fundraiser, advocated at the WA State Capitol for key mental health legislation, and then I was invited to represent the WA Chapter of AFSP at our Nation’s capital.  Just this past year, I joined as a Board Member of our WA State Chapter.

 

I keep my dad’s memory alive by sharing my story – his story. My dad was a private person, but I think he would be proud of how I am standing up to be heard and to make a difference.

Together, let us build a future where we all can find support and a path out of the darkness.

 

Nicole Jones-Vogel, WA Chapter

Board Member and Long-time Volunteer