Survivors of Suicide loss day

Some days create a sense of "a before" and an "after". They split your life into everything that came before that moment, and everything that came after. For me, the day I lost my mother to suicide was one of those days.

This is just one story, my story, the story of a survivor of suicide loss.

The phone rang late, my grandmothers soft voice, telling me that they had found her.

That moment, so many feelings. Disbelief, because our worst fears were realized. Sadness because she was dead. Sudden numb realization, because I became acutely aware that I would never hear her voice again.

A few weeks before my mother died, she had fallen and as a result she had had to stitch a wound on her head. I remember thinking of that wound then, how it would never heal. How those stitches would never be removed.

To say that that moment changed my life is an understatement. That day sharpened my focus in life, it fueled my mission to become a psychologist, it turned me into who I am today.

So much arose because of that day. And so much, if not everything I have done since has been all about trying to correct, or make up for that moment.

"Defeat, my Defeat, my self-knowledge and my defiance" Kahlil Gibran wrote, and my soul knows the meaning of those words. Losing my mother to suicide felt like a defeat. Grieving made me know myself. Grieving made me defiant.

Today, as acting CEO of RECILIO - a company devoted to creating thriving workplaces - I talk about mental health daily. Every waking hour is put into that same mission.

In my current position - I sometimes get asked the question "Why RECILIO". Outwardly, I share a story about how I have always cared about mental health. Inwardly, I shudder, and all I see is a black plastic bag.

The day after my mothers passing, we gathered at the clinic where she had spent her last few months in life. We met with the doctors, who were asked what had gone wrong, we wanted an explanation of why she was dead. The meeting was a catastrophe. The doctors were stressed, hostile even.

After the meeting, a care taker dressed in white took me to my mothers old room to gather her belongings. The room was like my mother had left it a few days earlier. Some of my mothers clothes lay on her bed, her hairbrush still held some of her hair.

In my state of shock and grief, I had not brought a bag large enough to fit all of her belongings.

"Wait", the care taker said, "I will bring you something". She returned with a large black trash bag into which she started to toss down my mothers belongings.

I stood shocked in silence.

I was 20 years old.

I did not know what to say as she finally handed me the trash bag and guided me to the exit.

7 years later, another death bed, another beloved parent. This time my father.

Only, difference - he died from cancer, a more socially accepted disease.

Inside the room where he lay there were lit candles. A window had been opened.

The hospital staff showed us real empathy. A pat on the arm, a heartfelt "I'm sorry for your loss", a warm hug. They left us with the words that we could take our time saying good bye. There was no rush.

Afterwards, after we emerged from my fathers wake, we were met with sandwiches that had been made for us and were told to eat them before we left for home.

Finally, instead of a trash bag, a nurse handed us our fathers belongings. They had been neatly folded, stacked and put into his overnight bag.

Tomorrow is Survivors of Suicide loss day. It is a day that is important to many but is perhaps known by few.

The year in which I lost my mother, 1200 people committed suicide. That means, that I shared my fate with an estimated 50 000 other survivors in Sweden.

I think that all of us have felt the stigma that is attached to loosing someone in this way.

Because as survivors, we know, to the core of our being, that suicide in most cases is connected to mental ill health - a condition that means that you are treated worse in society, in health care, in life, yes even in death. As a result, even our loss is treated differently than others.

A black plastic bag vs. candles and a sandwich. For me, stigma could not be any more clear.

As a result of this stigma, today, I am careful with sharing my past. Because whatever stigma that is attached to losing someone in this way, some of that stigma is put on us survivors as well.

Some of you will read this text and think that you now know me. Because we believe that knowing someones trauma makes us know them.

But this wound is not me. It was life changing, but it does not define me. Just as in the same way, my mother's death does not define her.

So, tomorrow, on what some call "Survivor's day" - I choose to honor that day by remembering her for her life. I remember her kindness. Her courage. Her fight for social justice. I see her smile, and when I am sad, I still feel a faint feeling of her touching my cheek, and telling me how everything will be all right.

Nothing comforts me more. Nothing can ever bring me more strength to go on.

Today, we as survivors come together to share these stories - of our loss, our grief, and our beloved ones.

We share them - ever united in our hope for a better day to come.