I'm Glad You're Here

And I hope you'll stay for a long, long time.

Hi fam,

It feels fitting to get the ball rolling again here by showing up to write about Suicide Prevention Awareness Month since that was the first issue I ever spoke about on any social media platform.

If you’ve ever lost anyone you love to suicide, or come close to the edge yourself, you know that this is a topic that is difficult for many folks to talk about. It’s often stigmatized and frequently misunderstood, and once you cross paths with it in any way, the very fabric of who you are is changed forever.

To start the month, I’d like to revisit a piece I wrote two years ago and share it with you here. When a best-selling author, wellness creator, and writer of The Messy Middle, Rachel Havekost, M.Sc., opened her blog for guest submissions around the topic of Suicide Prevention and Awareness in 2022 I knew I had a story to share. Although I was nervous as could be, and had NO idea if she’d even see my submission, I submitted and mine ended up as one of the pieces she selected! (Fun fact: Later she consulted with me to get my Substack going. I highly recommend her if you’re looking for support as a writer and storyteller.) While you can view the post in its original form on Rachel’s blog, I’ve included it below so that it’s easier to read in this post.

TW: I discuss suicide ideation, attempts, suicide loss, and a brief mention of my eating disorder. Ava and Daniel’s names are changed for privacy. 

I met Daniel through church when we were young teens and we clicked almost instantly.

He had a crush on me, and regrettably, I was too oblivious to realize it. I was astonished that someone so cool wanted to be friends with me. He was smart and sarcastic. I looked up to him, literally and figuratively, which was a big deal because I was already 5’9” at 13 years old. After a time, he moved away, and we lost touch. I don’t think I had a cell phone yet, and if I did, I certainly wasn’t allowed to use it to talk to boys. The next year, after the sudden loss of his mom, he spent some time back in town and visited the church again while he was there. It was then that we reconnected. After he left, he found me on MySpace and we kept in touch off and on for a while. Eventually, we exchanged numbers and began rebuilding our friendship. He was, first and foremost, my dear friend. A real one. A good one. One of the best, in fact. The kind of friend that wouldn’t compromise your growth in order to spare your comfort zone. Growing up as a neurodivergent person and the eldest daughter in an evangelical Christian family, I’ve been masking since I came out of the womb. I didn’t have to mask with Daniel. Our friendship had enough room for the most authentic version of myself without any of the repercussions I was used to. Finally, it was safe to be seen. 

As time passed, love grew. He was in college down south and I was at least 16 hours away. Our phone conversations were my favorite. No topic was off-limits. Some were funny, some were serious, others wordless. We’d answer and set our phones down somewhere nearby and just listen to each other go about our day. He told me about his studies and his plans for the future. I remember the first time he said, “I’m going to make you my wife.” My heart flooded with emotion that day as I suddenly considered the possibility of a future even more beautiful than the one I’d imagined on my own. 

He came to visit me one winter. I will treasure that visit for the rest of my life. We laid in bed for hours listening to music, discussing the state of our world, and thinking of all the ways we wanted to contribute to improving it. We walked across the city in the freezing cold to play darts and drink beer. We ate delicious, local food. We got into an argument that was so silly, I don’t even remember what started it.  We caught up on years of time apart in just a few days and I’ll forever be grateful for that. I took him to the airport when he left, and I remember him poking fun at me for running back for a second hug before he finally disappeared amongst the other travelers. As he faded from view, I told myself I’d see him soon. We’d talked about maybe meeting up in the summer at the beach and that was comforting. We didn’t make specific plans, and we never got the chance to. By the time summer arrived, Daniel was gone.

He ended his life less than 6 months after that last hug. He didn’t call before it happened. I didn’t know he needed help. He didn’t seem different when we texted or from what I saw on the internet. The last conversation we had was three weeks and six days before he died. He had just put an offer in on a house. He told me how proud he was of me and my accomplishments. That was all he said. That was the last thing he said to me. That was the end of our story. 

After dropping my phone in a pedicure bowl, I had a new phone with no contacts so I decided to jump onto Facebook to message my friends for their numbers. I typed Daniel’s name into the search bar, so blissfully unaware that my heart was about to fracture as I stumbled onto a page full of endless condolences. When I got the news my world stopped. There is no easy way to learn that someone you love is gone. But I can guarantee you that finding out on Facebook is on my list as one of the worst.  I remember going outside. Everything was surreal. Why was the sun shining? Why were little kids laughing? DIDN’T THEY KNOW? Couldn’t they feel the shockwaves? Or were they only ripping through MY body? In the coming weeks, I spiraled. I sunk deep into a depression, and I began self-injuring for the first time. I was a shell. Yet somehow, most of the people in my life thought I was doing just fine. Even our loudest pain can be elusive. 

This was not the first time I’d encountered suicide, and sadly, I don’t think it will be the last.

I was 14 when I first learned what suicide was. My home phone rang, and my best friend Ava was on the other line. I assumed she was calling to tell me she’d be visiting soon or just to catch up. I was ready to giggle about boys or complain about school. Instead, she spoke so quietly. She sounded tired and tearful. She said, “I’m sorry, I’m calling to say goodbye.” It took me a moment to wrap my head around her words--goodbye? Where was she going? Then, it hit me like a freight train. “NO!” My mind screamed. She told me she’d harmed herself but I didn’t know how badly. It was impossible for me to fully assess the situation as I was six hours away. I didn’t know how much time I had, but it felt like we were riding a train that couldn’t be stopped. I yelled for my mom, but no sound came out. When I finally found my voice and filled her in, she sprang into action by calling 911. She was connected to first responders in my friend’s area and reported that help was on the way. I knew Ava might be angry at me for interfering, but I was okay with it. I thought even if she doesn’t want to be friends after this, at least she’ll still be here. After the longest few minutes of my life, first responders arrived in time to provide the help that she needed. She made it. I couldn’t have known then, but that moment changed us forever.

Over the years I would find myself in a similar place many times again. I wish I could describe it softly, in a way that is easier to digest. But there’s nothing soft about it. At least seven more times in my life, I have sat with friends, friends of friends, and even total strangers who wanted to die. Those moments were dark and yet, I’d relive them over and over again in comparison to the darkness that engulfed me when Daniel died. Losing him to suicide after seeing so many others fight the same battle and ultimately choose to live broke something in me: why were some saved and not him? 

***

In late 2020, I spent several months in a small town in Kentucky. As the pandemic was starting I was in Maryland helping my parents sell and pack their home. When they moved, lockdowns were in full effect and I didn’t like the idea of them moving so far on their own, nor was I confident that it was the right time for me to move across the country as originally planned while things were still so uncertain. So my dog Kai and I followed them to Kentucky. I hated it there more than I’ve hated any place in my life. We were obvious outsiders and honestly, people were not welcoming. On top of that, I had been laid off. I was feeling lost and scared as my savings dwindled. I was at odds with my parents after years of unearthing childhood trauma and realizing how unseen and unknown I’d felt in my family for my entire life. I was hoping my time with them would repair our relationship and it seemed to be going in the opposite direction. I had just been diagnosed with an eating disorder (ED) and the changes my body and mind experienced as I began recovery were incredibly painful. Recovery meant abandoning my coping mechanisms. The actual world felt like it was falling apart alongside my personal world, and for the first time in my entire life, the light at the end of the tunnel burned out. I had no control over anything and the pain was insufferable. I felt like a horrible daughter, a shitty older sibling, a failed entrepreneur, an exhausting and needy friend, and in no way prepared to be anyone's partner. I stopped creating, stopped socializing, and stopped believing that I had anything of value to offer. 

Most weekends I went to Knoxville for the weekend to have alone time. I’d often stay overnight, and while I was gone, my Dad cared for Kai. One day my Dad mentioned that when I was gone and he took Kai out into the yard to hang out, Kai would always sit or lay with my parking spot in view. Every time he heard a car, his ears would perk up and he’d look at my spot in anticipation. My heart melted and I thought it was sweet, but didn’t think much past that conversation until a few weeks later. ED recovery was going harder than ever. My trauma therapist had ghosted me. Yes, ghosted. I still have no explanation. I was tired, lonely, homesick for a home that didn’t exist anymore, and desperately searching for the light at the end that was no longer there. 

The drive from London to Knoxville is gorgeous. There are mountains, trees, secluded winding roads, and dramatic drop cliffs. To a landscape enthusiast, it’s a view to celebrate. To someone experiencing suicidal ideations, it’s something else entirely. I feared them, but they called to me. “It would be so easy, so fast.” I thought. “Just one turn of the wheel and it would all be over. No one would even know it was on purpose.” I’ve had suicidal ideation for over a decade. I’ve also seen more intimately than most how much devastation suicide and suicide attempts leave in their wake. I’ve never made a plan because the pain I was in never exceeded the pain that I knew I would leave behind. This time was different. That’s how depression and suicidal thoughts work. They replace the things you’re sure of with lies and uncertainty. They steal reasoning and reality. They sharpen the harmful feelings and dull the helpful ones. Despite everything I knew after advocating and educating for suicide prevention for half of my life, I still crossed the threshold from ideation to planning. Despite all those times sitting in the dark with others while they fought for their life. Despite having experienced my own life-altering loss to suicide, I still thought that I’d reached the best conclusion. 

One night, as I was driving those roads and getting closer than ever to the edge, I suddenly had a mental picture of Kai. He was just sitting there, tail wagging in the driveway, waiting for me to pull into my parking spot. I realized that he would never be able to fully understand if I didn’t come home. How long would he wait? How sad would he be? I’d asked my brother to take care of him if anything happened to me but no one in my family would let him sleep in their bed. Who would snuggle him? Would he be lonely? These were the questions that brought me home. 

Whenever I share these stories, there is active resistance. I don’t want them to be true, I don’t want to remember them. I grieve for my 14-year-old self and the way her world shattered as she bore witness to pain that she’d only heard adults whisper about. I grieve for those I sat with who felt pain so tremendous that ending their life seemed like relief. I grieve the days, weeks, and months that I don’t remember from the trauma of those experiences. I miss Daniel every day and I will continue to do so for the rest of my life. I wonder if I’ll ever connect with a partner again without becoming engulfed in an irrational fear of losing them. And yet, I know that the stories and their aftermath must be shared. Vulnerability creates connections, and connections create reasons to stay. I honor my pain and the pain of my loved ones by transmuting it into stories enveloped in prayers--ones that might prevent the pain of others in the future. 

Daniel once said to me when I was struggling, “I need you around, ya know?” So, I leave you with the same…

Please keep fighting. I need you around, ya know?

Reading the piece over again, it’s incredible to see how full circle I’ve come in my feelings of living in Kentucky, and the new perspective I hold of the life I lead. A place that once represented one of the darkest and most difficult times of my adult life has now played an even greater part in my restoration, healing, and growth.

I’m now 4 years into recovery from my eating disorder, I’ve been working exclusively as a writer (the career I pivoted into after being laid off during the pandemic) since 2022, and I’ve found the most beautiful friendships and community that take my breath away daily. Candace in 2020 had absolutely no clue how good it could get and yet she’s the one who gets all the credit for digging her heels in and surviving, even if it was out of pure spite sometimes.

I reflect on this piece and feel both grief and gratitude. A beautiful reminder that life often holds space for many things at once and that hope is often just around the corner. I hope this finds someone who needs to read it today.

I love you,

Candace