How Did You Tell Your Kids?

Today a mentee asked me how to tell her kids that their father died by suicide. I'm not a doctor or expert by any means so I offered her my person experience in letting my own kids know. It's probably the hardest thing I've ever had to do. To tell my kids their dad is in heaven and to follow that with the fact that he took his own life. I know this is a biggie. It weighs on every surviving parents shoulders and in our hearts. It's a nagging anxiety ridden question in our minds. It keeps us up at night. How do we explain something we as adults don't even fully understand? 

I read every book, googled, spoke to my therapist, spoke to other survivors and did as much soul searching as I could before I talked to my two youngest children about their dad. I slept on it, prayed on it and really reached deep to find the best way to approach the topic. My youngest two were six and eight when he died. My eldest was fourteen. He had more life experience and could understand complex concepts like mental illness and suicide. I was able to give him more information earlier than the two littles. It was by no means any easier, telling your children their father is dead is not a cake walk at any age. Fourteen or forty-one the loss of a parent is traumatic. He knew that Mike was sick before. He understood cause and effect. He had experience with mental illness. It was in a way harder for him to accept because of this. He asked why he didn't get treatment? Why he didn't get hospitalized and take medication? He was angry because he knew it didn't have to be that way. It did NOT have to take his life. I relied heavily on my faith as did my son. His next question was would Mike go to hell for suicide? I assured him absolutely not. I had prepared for that, thank God. I explained to him that he had a mental illness and could not think clearly. He would not be damned for his suicide. I asked the priest. (He told me that's an old school of thought and is no longer taught but still some had not caught on so the inaccurate concept lingers.) 

I was able to share and grieve openly with my eldest son because it was age appropriate. It was a special bond between he and myself. I had to ask him not to tell what we spoke about with his younger siblings though because they were not mature enough to understand such adult ideas. I held my breath and hoped he made good choices. I feared the Easter Bunny, Santa and the Tooth Fairy were going to reappear...

When my husband died he had just retired and we had moved back to the town we grew up in. In Missouri. I had no choice but to live in the house he completed his suicide in. I did not have the money to move us. This played a huge part in explaining to my kids. I did not want them to know it happened one room away from where they slept at night. I did not want to break whatever security they had left in their lives. At first I told them daddy was sick in his head and his heart and he went to heaven. It was not a lie. It just wasn't much of an answer. I answered their questions the best way I could for their little minds to understand. Never giving too much information. If they seemed satisfied with my answer I left it there.

It was nearly a year after he died that I told my kids the truth of his death. We had moved  from our hometown in Missouri, out of the house he died in and across the country. We were back in the same town they had spent most of their lives in while Mike was active duty serving at Camp Pendleton. It was "home" to them. We were back in their comfort zone. I had been working with advocacy and the kids were exposed to PTSD and helping military family who also struggled with it. I was in the newspapers, had been on TV and there was media attention surrounding our story.  I wanted to be the one who told them first. I didn't want them to hear it from a school mate. I wanted to prepare them in the event this ever did happen so they would not be ashamed, or embarrassed. I had to build that wall of confidence and empathy around them so they understood.

I stressed very heavily that daddy had PTSD. I told them he was in denial. He didn't think he was sick but I knew he was. I was able to explain some of the odd behaviors he had that they noticed and they were above to connect it. I told them that after a long time of struggling with the illness it became stronger than him. He no longer was able to make very good choices. It was the reason why he screamed at us all the time and never came out of the garage. It was why he smacked them and broke their toys. It was why mommy cried all the time. He just didn't know how sick he was. This can happen when you do go to a doctor. It was nothing we did or said. He wasn't unhappy with us, he didn't hate his life. He was was just very sick.  Kids have a way of feeling blame for everything. I imagined they would feel very similar to how I felt about my parents divorce as a child. "If I had been better behaved did would have stayed..." I wanted to eliminate that as much as I possibly could. I didn't want them to ever doubt his love for them. The things he did toward the end of his life and then ending it...that was not their dad. That was the illness.

My middle son bawled. It hurts my heart to remember that moment. He crumbled. My daughter, the youngest she was just still so young. I don't think she truly understood. She just said "ok, mama." 

I am constantly now even reaffirming that their dad was a good man. He was our hero and he loved us to the moon and back. I share all the stories of him. His photos still hang on the walls. We talk about him daily. His illness and death does not define him. The smiles on their faces in the photos and memories we share defines him. He was proud to be their daddy. He was so happy the day they were born that he cried tears of joy.  Because I had csections he held them before I even had a chance. He protected them, he cherished them. He adored them. That is who their dad was.

Now, I am heavily involved with other survivors and with families at risk so they are exposed to the issue. They know it's real. They know the truth so anything someone says to them is brushed off because they see it everyday. They understand suicide happens when a person is sick. It's not something a healthy person does. No one has a bad day and takes their life.  They know I have PTSD but that doesn't mean I will die. They know the difference is I accept I have it and I see the doctor and work hard to keep myself in tip top health. It's something I had an awareness from day one on. I did NOT want them to fear the illness. It did not want them to associate PTSD with suicide. They know now it CAN happen but it's not a death sentence. I had to teach them the difference is in getting help. Daddy couldn't accept it. Mama did as soon as the doctor told her. Because I got help early on and I work on it, I'm ok. 

Even now two years later they are finally connecting his odd behaviors and particular situations to his illness. "Ooooh, THAT'S why daddy did that!" It's good for them. I see the wheels turning in their heads. We are very open and no topic is off limits. I want to tell them everything they want to know in a way they can personally connect to and understand. I'm not ashamed of his death so they aren't either. It's not a secret, it's not something that's only referred to in whispers. We help other family in preventing suicide and we mentor families who are grieving their own loss. It's how we live our life. It is very important for them, in my opinion, to continue to stay involved in the survivor community for peer support and to reaffirm what I've taught them. 

I want them to succeed in life. I know the statistics. I know the odds. I want this experience to help them become empathetic people. I refuse to let this break their spirits or doom them as adults. This is the best way I know how to help them. 

Like I said, I'm not a doctor or an expert but the way I'm handling it feels right to me. The kids are doing amazing. That's my gauge on it. They are resilient and strong and funny and loving. They are really my biggest accomplishment in life. The best gift their dad ever gave me.