Omissions - remembering a friend who committed suicide - Column

A few months ago, I wrote my first obituary. It was for my friend Jeff, and I omitted how he had died. I could have written anything, but I simply wrote that Jeff was forty four, loved birds and travel, and I claimed that he cared deeply about life. Now I regret what I didn't write.

Before Jeff died, I never bothered reading obituaries. Afterward, I found myself morbidly scanning them, searching for clues about death. Recently, I came across an honest obituary in which someone wrote about a person who had killed himself because of the horrific mental anguish he had been experiencing on a daily basis. I read this over and over, marveling at the courage it took to admit that this man had killed himself and then to publicly acknowledge the reason why he had ended his life.

For at least twenty years, Jeff had thought about killing himself and suffered from a debilitating depression. But I did not recognize the extent of his depression until he was gone. As his friend for the last six years, I witnessed Jeff's gloomy outlook on life, listened to him talk about how worthless he felt. Yet I also saw him plan trips to various countries with great detail and enthusiasm. So when I wrote his obituary, I wasn't really sure whether he cared deeply about life. Still, I added the line to ease my pain. I like to believe he wanted a more peaceful life, a life free from depression.

I feel somewhat like a cheat to have read Jeff's journals, but I believe he would have destroyed them before he killed himself if he hadn't wanted them found. He was methodical with his suicide; the journals were not left behind accidentally. In them I discovered that he had contemplated killing himself while diving in Belize, birding in South America, and walking in the foothills across the street from my house after visiting for dinner. He wrote that the depression he called his "beast" followed him abroad and at home, never leaving him alone.

Since Jeff's death, I have told many people about his suicide. To my surprise, there have been many suicide stories revealed in return--stories I probably never would have heard had I not admitted my anguish. These people revealed that, like me, they still waver between feeling grief-stricken and guilt-infested.

If Jeff's obituary had stated that he had killed himself, some suicide survivors may have felt comfort by knowing they weren't alone. Others contemplating suicide may have decided to seek help, knowing they could actually end up dead. Or at the very least, someone may have read it and wondered why someone so young and apparently healthy would kill himself. A discussion may have surfaced, a discussion about a topic that is usually avoided.

I know obituaries are not written to serve as public service announcements, and I don't think many people read them, but more could have been revealed about Jeff without betraying anyone. Jeff's family lives in another state and never would have seen the obituary, so I wasn't protecting them by the omission. And I wasn't protecting Jeff, since he was already dead. I was trying to protect myself from feeling any more guilt for not rescuing my friend from his depression, for not personally bringing him to the hospital. But my guilt wasn't relieved by ignoring the facts.

Today when I scan obituaries and notice there is an omission about the cause of death and no mention of donations being left to a cancer, AIDS, or heart disease foundation, I assume it means suicide. If suicide were mentioned in obituaries, depression would seem more like a serious illness instead of a personal complaint. If I had treated Jeff's depression like cancer, his obituary may have said he fought a courageous battle. Like cancer patients, Jeff may have sought professional help and taken medication. Like cancer, his depression was a terminal illness. But in his obituary, I had treated his illness like it was something to be ashamed of, not confronted openly.

After reading his journals, I can understand why he didn't go for help. In fact, he had a doctor's appointment scheduled for just four days after his death. But if his hopes were placed in a cure and the beast remained, Jeff probably was left feeling even more hopeless. He spent entire days in bed, so immobilized that he couldn't even read a book. If he did sleep, he would awaken with dreams of mutilation, alternating between being the victim and the predator. Jeff was no longer just sad; he was imprisoned in a powerful madness.

I could have written that Jeff killed himself after suffering from intense depression for many years, and his positive memories of loving birds and travel would not have appeared any less honest. With out glamorixing suicide and misleading others to believe it was courageous, his tribute would have seemed more valiant, showing a side of him so few ever knew--the side of him that went to great lengths to protect his friends from knowing the intensity of his personal suffering. Had I said this, my omission wouldn't seem like such a disservice to both Jeff and the rest of us.

Diane Payne is a two time winner of the Southwest Writers' Award for nonfiction and has been published in a variety of magazines, including the Palo Alto Review and the Potomac Review.

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