I’m angry. With you, with myself, with God.


Most of us who knew you, have lost a piece of ourselves. Those pieces were buried with you. We have questions. Why did you do this? Were we not enough to keep you here? Was our love not enough for you? How long did you think about doing this? How many times did you hold the gun to your head? Did you try to tell me and I missed it? What are we supposed to do now that you are gone and we have a crater in our hearts that feels like we won’t ever heal?


Your mother wonders what she did wrong. She cries when she sees something beautiful, because she can’t share it with you and she knows you won’t ever experience these things again. She hashes and re-hashes conversations and moments when she might have seen what was going on. She must have missed something. She is your mother. If anyone could have known how close to the edge you were it should have been her.


Your father has similar thoughts…was I not supportive enough? When did I ruin you? When I missed your games or when I traveled for business? Was I too far away for too long? How did this happen?


Your sister wonders how to tell her children about you. How will she hold it together long enough to tell that sweet face that they will never know you. How will she comfort them when they understand that they missed out on your love, your hugs, your laugh, your life? You won’t see them graduate or get married or have babies of their own. Deep down your sister is angry with you because she feels you didn’t find her daughter important enough to stick around for when she needs you. And she will need you.


I need you.


Your brother is angry with you because he feels you didn’t try. Because you gave up. But mostly he is mad at himself because he didn’t tell you he loved you enough. Because he didn’t do enough to keep this from happening. He thinks of you the most when he looks at his own children and in a blink of an eye he is back in his own childhood. It’s a reminder of how life used to be when you were around. And instead of experiencing the joy he should be feeling at watching his children, he feels pain. Loss. It takes away from moments that he should be present with his kids because he’d do anything to share one more moment with you. To tell you everything he should have said. You’ve taken more than his brother. You’ve taken pieces of us all.


As someone who has personally lost someone to suicide. I plead with you: Tell someone what you are feeling.. We love you. Don’t do this.


Candace Lopez is a mother to her daughter Everly. She lives in Arizona with her husband.


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Dr. Heather Thompson Day is an Associate Professor of Communication, and Editor of Envision Magazine at Andrews University. She is the author of 6 Christian books including Confessions of a Christian Wife, available January 2019. You can follow Heather on Twitter or IG at HeatherThompsonDay.

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6 Responses

  1. Yeah, no. Blaming the “church” for assisting suicide is disingenious, for their lack of …
    People commit suicide b/c of a lie. Plain and simple.
    The lie is from whom do we get our value as a person. If it’s not from our Creator, then it’s a lie.
    Everyone else is an opinion. That’s borderline useless.

  2. DNBD

    I am 25 years old, and since I was 13, suicide was my goal in life.f For months I would think about it multiple times a day, everyday. I would stand on a stool, ready to tip it over while I hung and waited for life to finally give me peace. In moments of intense desperation, I would take whatever pills I’d have around and just hope they would finally do the trick. But here is the thing, I ended up with a red “rash” around my neck, but I never had the courage to really kick the stool over. I ended up in the hospital a couple times wondering why I was there and why I hadn’t taken more pills. Studying in a boarding school, I ended up in the nurses office enough for her to hate the soght of me. Despite everything (and this I learned later), most of the times I did not want to die, I wanted desperately to live, but I couldn’t take the pain of living.
    Now, just to remind you, I stared with my suicidal thoughts at age 13. I got help at age 19. I started cutting at age 12, I got help at age 19. Not that I never mentioned I wanted to die, or not that my wearing a sweater at 35 degree Celsius never seemed odd. The fact is that people are to busy to help, parents are to worried with what their family may look like f anyone finds out. Often, our suicidal brothers and sister are silently begging is for help, but all we can do is scold them for cutting themselves. We miss it. We just do. Not intentionally, but we miss it.
    Now, it took forever, but eventually, after almost not sleeping for weeks, and dosing off while sitting on a chair in my dorm room, I got the help I needed. After 5 years of therapy, and much medication, I know that death isn’t the way to freedom. Sometimes I still feel it is, but I can rationalize and tell myself it is not. Apparently, after 6 years of planning my departure from life, it is not so easy to adjust to the idea of living. But I am learning.
    Why am I saying all this? Because being the one who begged God to take me in my sleep, and waking up just to burst into tears for being alive, I can say I know how much it hurts to want to die. I know how much it hurts to live. And I know how much it hirts to feel alone and lost in such a big world and so little people who care. I’ve been there, and I know that all I wanted was help.
    Today, I can say I feel free. I study psychology, and I have taken upon myself the responsibility of being aware of the people around me. Possibility, the one standing on the corner with the sweater in the summer heat just needs someone to guide them to a therapist. We can’t close our eyes and let that one go.

  3. DNBD

    Candace, I’m Really Sorry for your loss. please keep encouraging people to ask for help, and other to offer help. We all just need to be aware.

    1. Candace

      Thank you for being a voice from the other side of this story. Unfortunately, a lot of people just don’t know what to say, or how to help. It’s not an excuse and certainly needs to change. I think we we have conversations like this and people can read about both sides, it helps to open up a difficult topic in people’s minds. I’m sorry so few people were able to hear you, see you, understand you. Please keep fighting. For me, for you, for your friends and loved ones that would never heal if you were no longer with us. (Hugs)

      1. DNBD

        My comment might have been a bit dark, so here is the rest of the story. I got help, and for anyone else reading this, I want you to know THERE IS HELP. Trust me. I was one of those cases where the psychologist refused to initiate treatment until the patient is medicated because the suicidal risk was way too high, and not medicated it would be like talking to a zombie. I thought there was no other way but death. But guess what? I got therapy. I didn’t believe in it at first, but here I am! alive and wanting to live. I haven’t considered suicide for months (and this is HUGE). Yes, I am still on one medication, but for somebody who at one point had to take four different antidepressants per day, I believe it’s improvement. I’m in my seventh semester of Psychology, and that’s because I believe there is help for those who so desperately need it. So I will keep on fighting, because I know there will be days when my “old self” will want to kick in. But there is hope. There is life beyond being suicidal and depressive. There is LIFE.

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