An Open Letter to the People Who Think Suicide is Selfish

In America, death is something to be afraid of; something to avoid. But my father was not afraid.

In fact, my father spent a lot of his life longing for death. He was sick, and people with mental illness often have this mindset. When he finally died, my head felt like a balloon. Everything was moving fast, and I didn’t feel the same way as my other family members. The funeral was dark but still bubbly. My lightheadedness continued.

“Jon was my best friend.”

“Jon was an angel.”

“It was such a tragedy.”

Their voices still make me grind my teeth. They were so wrong. Just because he was dead, people refuse to take him at face value. This becomes aggravating when they wouldn’t acknowledge his cause of death, or even worse, say that it wasn’t his fault he killed himself. That is what he wanted. He was none of those things and his death was not a tragedy. A tragedy for some of us, but it seemed like his last hope. Thus, he was the one at fault. If someone is so sick, and at a point in their life where they can’t bear to be alive, why can’t it be their decision to leave? Why is death seen as a negative consequence instead of an ending of one's story?

The sky was gray that morning. I was eight years old and I hadn’t seen my grandmother in four years, and I woke up to see her sitting on the edge of my bed talking to my mother. I immediately knew that something was wrong. They were both holding mugs, with two hands, as if it was cold outside. It was only early September. A friend came over to play and I ate sweets for breakfast. When my mother called me upstairs to tell me that my father died,  I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel about it. Even now, I can’t tell you that I knew what the rest of my family was feeling, but I still managed to pretend I felt the same. It wasn’t until a few years later that I came to terms with how I actually felt.

Death should be celebrated as a passing; a completion of someone’s story. While people are busy being selfish over losing someone that never belonged to them, they forget to celebrate the life that person lived and their wisdom. My father was never around when I was little and I was raised solely by my mother. When he was there, he abused my mother and himself. Because my dad was never a father to me, I learned to appreciate those that support me, as well as come to terms with why I was better off without his presence. This gave me insight on my childhood and accepting loss. When he died, I learned more about my family, for better or for worse, and I’m grateful for that.

I understand that a lot of people are suicidal, have mental illness, and self harm. I also understand that there are people that use these things for attention, which cause people who need help to suffer. That is where I find the selfishness, not with the people who actually kill themselves. The people who end up killing themselves often didn’t have access to the help they need. It seems that others that aren’t as high risk take up those opportunities. I understand that a lot of people need help, but I’ve noticed, especially among teenage girls, that many exaggerate mental illness for attention. Take all the help you need, but many should be aware of making space as well.

I am grateful that he took his own life. I would have been more grateful if he had found other options earlier on, but I don’t think that would have changed the impact he had on my life. What other people do doesn't matter to me, as long as they aren’t hurting others or themselves. The pure fact that he was alive was causing him to suffer. He couldn’t afford medication and was at wit’s end. By the time he came to the last straw, I had accepted that I was better off without him in my life anyway. Knowing that his hurt could come to an end was worth more than the pain I would go through as a result of his death. I was willing to take that hit if it meant he could finally be free. Now he is.

Sincerely,

The Daughter of Jon Weir