This is a chapter in my upcoming book, For One Piece of Bread - The Story About Mary and Barbara

Suicide

There was a time—not so long ago—when I seriously considered not allowing myself to make new friends. Too many people I loved were dying, and each loss left me heartsick. Every one of them by suicide.

My brother was the first. He was the first person I ever knew to choose death, and his loss changed the way I understood grief forever.

Then came Allie. A dear friend. She shot herself on her own street, just beyond the alley behind my backyard. Her brother was there witnessing it all—the same brother who had mistreated her when she was young. Trauma has a long memory, and sometimes it waits.

After Allie came Carol. One of the wildest, most generous, most loving people I’ve ever known. She lived loudly and gave freely, even as she struggled with bipolar disorder. A group of us took turns being “on watch” while she waited for her medication to stabilize. The day she died, it was my turn.

We drove her Jeep around town, went thrifting, laughed, and argued. At one point on Riverside Drive, paperwork and bills she’d left open in a bag spilled out of the vehicle and scattered into traffic. It was chaos—pure Carol. She stopped the jeep, got out and was terrifyingly, playing chicken with speeding cars. I insisted on driving at that point. I brought her home. We talked briefly. She left. That night my phone rang. Carol had hung herself. 

Then there was Mary. We weren’t close, but she knew I worked for Mental Health America of Franklin County and reached out while she was admitted to the psychiatric unit at OSU. She asked for resources. I put together a binder—carefully, thoughtfully—information, contacts, next steps. I brought it to her room, talked with her briefly, and left believing I had done something useful.

The next day, I learned she had tried to use that binder to prop up a dresser so it could fall on her neck and suffocate her. It didn’t work. She was released three days later.

She went home, retrieved her gun, returned to OSU, drove to the top floor of the parking garage, and shot herself. She died instantly.

With that many suicides in your orbit, you’d think you’d know exactly what to do. How to say the right thing. How to save people.

I still don’t.

When friends mention feeling depressed, anxiety creeps in. My chest tightens. My mind races. But I do know what to ask now.

Are you having thoughts about harming yourself?

I know what information to give.

The 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline—call or text.

What I understand now is this: people contemplating suicide truly believe the world would be better without them. That belief isn’t abstract—it’s physical. It lives in the body as pain. Constant, relentless pain. Pain that, if it doesn’t stop, feels unbearable. 

So, I stay. I listen harder. I ask more directly. I don’t assume. I don’t minimize. From here forward, I will be there—for whomever reaches out. And I will keep trying to do better at recognizing despair when it whispers instead of screams.