Janette’s Story

Content Note: If you struggle with suicidal thoughts, the following story may contain sensitive content. You can contact the Crisis Text Line by texting HOME to 741-741 from anywhere in the U.S. or visit our Resources page for further support.

This year, International Survivors of Suicide Loss will be on November 23rd. The date changes every year, but it always lands on the Saturday right before Thanksgiving. It is a day when those who have lost someone to suicide share their stories about their loved one and for strangers to come together to support one another. It is also a day where we can talk about how to help those around us with suicidal ideation. 

And this year, November 23rd will also mark the day I tried to end my life three years ago. So I wanted to take this moment to share a few words to those who, heartbreakingly, have lost someone.

I am sorry. I wish I could take your pain, and I wish I could have taken the pain of your loved one. I am so sorry. And I know that every single person’s journey is unique but I hope that whoever you are, you know that none of this was your fault. 

Now, I can only speak from my own journey with my loved ones who dealt with my attempt, but I hope what I share helps you in some way on this day...

“It wasn’t until after a few months that I would begin to know what everyone else had gone through in those 72 hours. ”

On November 23rd, 2016, I was at a point in my life when dying seemed to be the only way out, but I didn’t call what I was about to do suicide. I saw it only as going to sleep after being tired for a very long time. I wanted the numbing pain to stop. I wasn’t thinking of anyone else at that moment in my life, and I didn’t feel selfish for it. I left no note. I just wanted everything to stop. So I did what I did; and when I woke up three days later, I was angry. I was angry that I had to continue though the pain. I was angry because it felt like it was just me dealing with all of this emptiness. It wasn’t until after a few months that I would begin to know what everyone else had gone through in those 72 hours. 

When my mother found me sprawled across my younger sister’s bed, she rushed to wake me up. I must have been semi-conscious because she tried to feed me, change my clothes, and hide me from my siblings. She was angry. She was worried. She didn’t know what to do, except to keep checking in on me. I was breathing, and so maybe this just needed to pass. And before you judge this decision, let me clarify why I was not taken to the hospital. As a Mexican-American, mental illness and suicide did not come up in conversation ever in our household. Not even after the first time I was admitted to a psychiatric facility. It was a “white people” thing, and we were not allowed to feel such things. She had guests in the other rooms. It was Thanksgiving weekend. Not the time for scandals. 

While mother thought she had hid me well, my sister had in fact caught a glimpse of me and to this day, the image haunts her. My brothers, on the other hand, never saw me, but they heard whispers of what was going on, and would worry whenever I didn’t answer their knocks on my bedroom door in the months to come. 

“In the moment, I was just there with myself and I didn’t want to be with myself.”

I share this because at the time of my attempt, I never thought of them, which means I never blamed them. Never thought they could save me. Never thought ‘if they loved me more.’ Never wanted them to feel the way I was feeling. I didn’t think about them at all and I don’t believe I was being selfish (a common thing folks with suicidal ideation get told they are). In the moment, I was just there with myself and I didn’t want to be with myself. 

All of this to say, that as you remember your loved one, please know I am sorry if you have ever felt it was your fault. I am sorry if you believed you could have saved your loved one if you had loved them harder. I am sorry if at any point you carried the burden of thinking nonstop of the what if’s. Instead, let me tell you what I eventually told my mother outside the psych hospital when she came to pick me up and asked me why.

“This was not about you. This was not about anyone, but me. This was about the pain inside of me. This was me trying to find peace. This was no reflection of how much you loved me. This was not your fault. I just— I don’t know. I just needed everything to stop for one minute.”

Nowadays, my family is very vocal about mental illness and suicide. We reach out when we see a change in behavior in each other and we remind each other that we are not alone. That is all any of us can do now. We can be there for each other, and love each other. You may never get your why, but I can tell you that this was not your fault. It never was. Just like it wasn’t my family’s.

You are beams of hope and love. You are keeping your loved one alive though your memories and willingness to talk about this. Please talk about it, especially during the holidays. And hey, if you don’t because it makes you sad, that’s okay too. There is no right or wrong way to grieve, to remember, to love. I only ask that you do not blame yourself on this day or ever.

“There is no right or wrong way to grieve, to remember, to love.”