Stories of lived experience can be used to fight the stigma of mental illness and suicide and to help people get involved in the movement. These journeys humanize the suicide prevention movement and help other people seek help. This series on lived experience is a great chance to highlight a loss survivor's story and the search for meaning after loss.
Every member of the Carson J Spencer Foundation has a reason why they do the work that they do. Our COO, Mike Guthrie, lost his brother to suicide in 2007. His journey to find meaning from his loss hasn't been quick or easy, but that is to be expected.
This is his story:
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| Steve Guthrie in the back bowls of Vail, CO |
On March 20, 2007, I lost my brother Steve to suicide. He had just had his 50th birthday. We're a family of five children; I was second born, Steve third. We were almost four years apart in age, but as we grew up he and I were the closest of siblings. As adults, we were very close, vacationing together with our families, sharing the things closest to us. Steve was in love with nature--rivers, mountains, plants, animals, sky, everything. Being in the natural world with Steve was an exciting adventure. He was willing to try anything, and brought a sense of life and positive energy to everything he did. One of my recurring thoughts is that I've never known anyone who felt so alive and in touch with the energy of the universe.
I spoke for the family at the memorial service. He taught third grade in a small town in northern Idaho for 23 years, and people came from all over to the memorial service. I met former students from California, Michigan, New York, and many other states. There were 750 people at the memorial service,; many children and families. All were shocked and saddened, but when I spoke, I not only had to try to do justice to the wonderful spirit of the brother I loved, but also to acknowledge how, although not why, he died.
I can honestly say there has not been a day that has passed since Steve's death that I don't think of him. When I do any of the things that we loved doing together, he is on my shoulder. Skiing, favorite music, books, constellations, an unusual tree or rock formation makes me want to share with Steve. His three children are very dear to me, and every time I see or speak to one of them, I consciously honor his memoru.
I had worked in the mental health field for over 25 years when Steve died, but I had no idea what to do. No one I knew had talked about how to go through this experience. I was fortunate to work with a number of therapists, and they helped, mostly by just validating my feelings.
Steve's son was a student at a college 200 miles away. When I got the news, the first thing I had to do was drive there to find him, since I didn't want him to hear this from a phone call or random comment. I'll never forget that moment, and it was the beginning of my efforts to support his wife and children. I still don't know what to do or how to feel, but for me, I knew I had a duty to them, and to my family. That's what worked for me--reaching out to others. Everyone felt like the floor had caved in, and everyone needed a shoulder to cry on, or an ear to hear their memories, or someone to fix a meal or run an errand. I worked through my immediate grief by recognizing that I could be of service.
How is it that something so common, death by suicide, can be such a devastating mystery to those of us left behind? While we work to reduce deaths, we also need to share our experiences. We need to talk about this, so that others are not so alone in their suffering.
There are many things I do to honor Steve. Skiing in deep powder, really loud Lou Reed or Rolling Stones ( I still can't do opera, which he loved), touching one of the things he made from wood, smelling fresh rain in a high country forest. None of them, though, provide meaning. To me, his loss is still a mystery, without meaning. And that can't be changed. That's the choice he made, and it's not mine to understand. So I don't, and I won't.
What I choose is to recognize his choice, and to know that it did not have to end that way. I now work for a nonprofit in suicide prevention, and I have learned a great deal, like that there are options. I'm committed to having this conversation, over and over and over. Not to be oppressive or annoying, but to make sure that the community I inhabit recognizes that suicide and mental health are real, present, common, and treatable.
Family is very important, and my love for and connection with Steve's three wonderful children are a lifetime commitment. That's not changed with Steve's death, but has made it more of a constant pressence in my heart and mind. The work I do now does makes his kids proud, mine as well, and that's very meaningful to me. Really, though, what I think is that I strive to be the person he loved and respected. As a father, husband, brother, uncle, employee, citizen, all of that. I want to be alive and well, and to cherish the life, and family that I have. Since Steve was so, so full of life, that matters to me.
However it feels, you are not alone. There are people in your own community, maybe your own family, who have walked this difficult path before you. Don't do it alone. Even if people don't reach out to you, we're out here. If you raise your voice or your hand, we'll be there.The effects of a suicide loss are long-lasting and far-reaching. Many survivors look for ways to make meaning out of their loss and celebrate the life of their loved one. There are many wonderful organizations that provide life-saving suicide prevention programming. The Carson J Spencer Foundation elevates the conversation to make suicide prevention a health and safety priority. Through a variety of prevention programs, Carson J Spencer Foundation is changing the face of suicide loss. Whether you partner with our organization, or another, we encourage you to get involved. Giving a gift, in memory of a loved one lost, can help create the meaning that so many seek. For more information, please visit www.carsonjspencer.org.
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