By Susan Franklin
I lost my father on June 9, 1982. I was seven, he, only 26. Everyone who knew my father considered him to be a happy, fun guy. He was the guy you invited to your party. The guy you wanted on your softball team. The guy who would always make you laugh. What they didn’t know was that while my father put on the happy face on the outside, on the inside he was dealing with a slew of ugly demons. To say that his death by suicide was a shock is a vast understatement.
No one can deny, that even in 2016, there is a strong negative stigma attached to mental illness and suicide. You can imagine the views people held 34 years ago. I witnessed many negative reactions to my father’s passing. I was told by many elders that my father was “going to hell for his sin.” So then, was he a sinner undeserving of my tears, of my grief? I often heard people tell my mother, in reference to me, “Thank goodness she is so young.” Did that mean that I would more easily “get over” his loss or that I would just forget he even existed? I internalized all of this outside negativity, effectively silencing and suppressing my own grief for seven long years. When peers would hear of my father’s passing I would shrug off their sympathies by saying “That’s ok, I didn’t need a dad anyway.”
When I was fourteen, I finally let down the enormous walls I had built around my pain. All it took was one person who wouldn’t let me get away with my token “I don’t care” response. My grief was suffocating. I felt desperate and alone. My family had moved forward in their grief, and although I knew they were willing, ALWAYS willing, to talk to me about my father, I was hesitant to bring up his name too often for fear of reopening their wounds. I could not bear the thought of them feeling the pain that I was experiencing. I tried may things to help me to erase the pain. I wrote poetry, I wrote letters to my father, I talked, I screamed, I cried. Nothing worked to dull the pain. I felt I was doomed to suffer his loss forever.
When people ask me how I have healed, I cannot say there is one simple answer. I only know that with time, an amazingly supportive family, a degree in psychology, and honestly, my own struggles with depression, I have come to the best level of understanding and compassion for my father. I am grateful for Mental Health America of Fredericksburg for the support and education they offer our community. I am honored that they allow me the opportunity, as Facilitator of their Survivors of Suicide Support Group, to help others who have suffered the same kind of loss as I have. My hope is to help other survivors to move forward in their grief. Talking with others who have a shared experience is such a powerful way to begin to heal. Through helping others, I am paying forward the kindness that has been shown to me over the years. No one should have to feel shamed by their pain because of the way their loved one died. My goal is to help the survivors and the public in general to understand, feel compassion and to hopefully destroy the stigmas that only cause more pain.
From all of us at Mental Health America of Fredericksburg: Thank you, Susan, for sharing your story and for your dedication to helping others in our community who have lost loved ones to suicide.