Below is a copy of a speech that I gave during Our First Cocktail Reception, the fundraiser at which I introduced Living Proof Productions. Please stay tuned for news of our next fundraiser in 2008, where we'll be premiering a glimpse of our documentary currently in production.
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May 25, 2006
Suicide presents a profound challenge to those left in its wake—and in one sense, that's all of us, the Living. It uproots the foundation of common sense, and in so doing it tends to paralyze our curiosity, our will to reason. Is it any wonder, then, that we do so little to confront suicide? We act as though we're afraid of the subject altogether—as if it's simply too dark for reflection.
But if we take a closer look, the news is not so bleak. As most of you know, I lost my own sister to suicide in 1999, when she was just 27 years old. She was the most vivacious person I have ever known. Her death was an absolute shock, and I really couldn't wrap my head around it.
Soon after she died, I started to collect books on suicide. I didn't read them at first, but as soon as I began to, I was just continually astonished by what I learned... astonished by how much information was in these books, and how little I knew... how little those around me knew... and how little, of course, my sister knew. I kept asking myself, "How come I'm learning about this stuff now?" "I went a pretty good high school—what happened?"
I'll share with you some of the things I learned.
90% of those who kill themselves suffer from a diagnosable mental illness. This is not to say that suicide is evidence of illness—these 90% exhibit clear and common signs of mental illness well before their lives end. Mental illness is the cause of suicide.
The medical and mental health communities discovered this years ago—but we, the general public, still have trouble accepting this. On the surface, it doesn't seem like a controversial statement—but we're uncomfortable with this idea.
Let me speak from example: In the last months of my sister's life, she struggled with emotional problems. She was unhappy, and acting a little unusual. She had seen a few psychiatrists—one of them prescribed medication for her emotional distress.
Yet after her death, nobody—including myself—was willing to admit that Nikki, my sister, was mentally ill, and that her illness might be the cause of her suicide. This isn't unusual at all. Often, survivors (if they look for a cause at all) choose to blame other people, or certain life events, for a loved one's suicide. When it comes to blame, mental illness makes for a very unsatisfying target.
Furthermore, we don't like to view our loved ones as being mentally ill. As recently as a few weeks ago, a very close friend of my sister's told me she was worried about my project. "I don't want people to think Nikki was crazy," she said.
And there's the rub. We have a hard time accepting the cause of suicide, because we have a hard time with the cause itself. And so our problem is really twofold: to confront suicide, we must confront mental illness. Of course we fail—overwhelmingly—to do either.
Think about how adolescents learn of suicide: books, movies and TV. In popular culture, suicide is either romanticized—as in Romeo and Juliet or The Royal Tenenbaums—or it's the last resort of a desperate criminal—as in Six Feet Under. In the absence of an honest education about suicide and mental illness, we give our young adults a skewed picture of its place in the world.
This is important to realize: we do more than do nothing. On the one hand, there's this misinformation, based on common myths about suicide. And on the other hand, there's our own stigma and ignorance—our obvious desire to speak about these things, if at all, in hushed tones. Our kids' fears about mental illness don't materialize out of thin air. Fear is what we teach them; it's what we pass on.
Just as my sister's friend didn't want Nikki to seem "crazy," my sister herself was horrified by the notion of her own illness. She didn't want to see a psychiatrist; she didn't want to take medication. For her, the idea of being sick was as difficult to face as her depression itself.
Among those who kill themselves, this experience is practically universal. And as I steeped myself in the literature of suicide, I kept reading the same case study over and over again: a young man or woman, often in college, by all accounts able, caring, well adjusted—early signs of a battle with mental illness—and then, suddenly, suicide.
One of the most dangerous times for the mentally ill—a time that carries with it perhaps the greatest risk of suicide—is the onset of illness. Right at the beginning—the first few months following an initial diagnosis or hospitalization. No one knows the exact reason for this, but who can argue with the conclusion that our silence and shame make this time all the more difficult? And that this not only exacerbates emotional distress—that it's a real obstacle to timely treatment.
This is the price we pay for our silence—for the sufferers of mental illness, an unimaginably difficult time is made worse—too often to the point of tragedy. The onset of mental illness is hard enough. But to ask young adults, at this trying time, to learn about their condition from scratch—and to unpuzzle the hypocrisy of our own stigma—is asking way too much.
We need to give our kids tools—the tools to face mental illness within—the tools to recognize and accept mental illness. If we wait until severe depression strikes before we educate—we might as well be talking to ourselves.
The reality is, mental illness is a huge part of life—and it warrants broad discussion. 1 in 5 families will deal with mental illness. At any given time, depression affects nearly 10% of Americans ages 18 and over. How many of us have never considered suicide? How many of us have never been overwhelmed by despair?
Because that's what we're talking about when we talk about mental illness. Some disorders are more extreme than others—some more persistent. But in the end, we have to remember that "mental illness" is just a way of classifying emotional distress as a medical problem—one that should, and most often can, be treated effectively.
The keyword here is Sympathy. If we can pass on shame to the next generation, there's no reason to think we can't pass on sympathy. No doubt sympathy is wonderful in all sorts of contexts—but when it can really make a difference—when it can save lives—is when those suffering from mental illness can have sympathy for themselves.
Those facing mental illness are a misunderstood minority, in much the same way that we've thought about other minorities in the past. We've got to face our prejudices. This notion of giving sympathy—I know it sounds like a Herculean task—but it begins quite easily, just by talking, like I'm doing tonight, right now.
We just have to start talking about mental illness—viewing it is a normal part of life, taking the fear out of the equation. There are a million way to do this. So what's my plan?
Well, in a nutshell, I'm going to tell a very personal story. We're all here tonight, and I'm raising money, to produce a documentary video that will, I hope, help to prevent suicide. But the last thing I want to make is an educational video.
I could tell you over 30,000 Americans commit suicide each year. Or I could tell you my sister killed herself. We don't relate to information—we relate to experience. The power of facts—their ability to make a difference—comes from sharing, in essence, why they matter. Personally, I don't see any other way to talk about these things than to start with my own experience. My sister's life and death, as it was mine, will be the catalyst for an education.
The movie won't be about my sister per se, but I will use her story—and mine—to paint an intimate portrait of the problems she faced. My project has a simple, if ambitious goal: to illuminate the risk, and too often the great tragedy, of facing mental illness blindly.
Ironically, I don't see a dark picture here. Suicide prevention is about Life. It's about getting kids to choose life when they may be thinking otherwise. I want to convince young adults: don't become a record, a pile of photographs, a memory—be living proof of who you are.
—Douglas Faneuil
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