One Family’s Recovery from a Suicide Attempt

Chris Morris is a fellow Christian familiar with the realities of mental illness and psychiatric hospitalizations and reached out to me to collaborate. He guest posts today about his experience of returning home from the psych ward after a failed suicide attempt. I’m honored to have him post about this sensitive topic for those wondering what a return from the psych hospital could look like. He reflects on what the patient should communicate with his family to support him upon discharge. Please visit Chris’s blog and check it out. I also guest posted on his site this week as well, discussing God’s Voice vs. Others’ here in this post.

I shuffled out of the psychiatric ward with my belongings in a clear plastic bag, walking with my wife to the car.

So many questions remained unasked and unanswered between us, but the biggest one was this: Why did you attempt to commit suicide?

There are so many things that I regret doing in the aftermath of my suicide attempt. I don’t love how I responded to my family, and if I could do it over again, I would do many things differently.

My wife took this attempt as a personal affront to the life we built together. For me to attempt suicide, I must have been so disillusioned, so dissatisfied, so angry with our life that it was better to end it than to keep trying to improve it. It didn’t make sense to her that I would choke down a pile of pills the day after our youngest son’s birthday unless things seemed beyond hopeless in every way.

Beyond that, she was afraid that any questions or any topic could throw me right back into the hospital, or worse yet another suicide attempt. So, she was trapped between confusion and fear.

For my part, I didn’t have the words to explain what I was feeling, so silence stifled the air in the car on our way home. I knew my wife had questions she wanted to ask me, but I was too tired to pull them out of her. Not that I blamed her for not asking them; it’s not her fault that I tried to die by suicide after all.

Facing the Family

When I got home, one of my kids acknowledged me with a fierce hug. He was glad I didn’t die and told me as much. Somehow, he was able to hold in tension the idea that I’m back and love him, despite the suicide attempt. He seemed almost unfazed by things, in a way that still doesn’t seem right. I almost felt like he was missing something in my story somehow, even though he saw me unconscious on the floor after my attempted overdose. Surely he had questions that he wanted to ask. He swore he didn’t, so I let it go.

I wish I wouldn’t have.

Another one of my kids didn’t give me a free pass though. We had a forty-minute conversation where he was peppering me with question after question:

• Why did you choose pills instead of a knife or a gun?
• Why this time of year (I’ve struggled the same time of year for the past half-decade)?
• What exact thoughts were going through your head when you decided to do this?
• Why did you do this when the family was home, so they would find you?

I did my best to answer his questions, but I knew he wasn’t really satisfied. Mostly because there was rejection and pain beneath the questioning. I was broken by the conversation but felt like I deserved it after everything I put my family through.

I don’t know which was harder. But the silence, the celebration, and the cynical quizzing all took their toll on me, mostly because

I didn’t have real answers for anyone.

Even though I had basically done nothing in the psychiatric ward but sit on chairs and sleep, I was so tired.

I couldn’t uncover the strength to push through the silence, to ask what was behind the hug, or to speak love to the hurt underneath the questions.

 I was barely subsisting.

Trying to process all these well-warranted feelings from my family all at once overwhelmed me.

To be honest, I shut down after I was released. It took me the better part of three weeks to find my rhythm again.

I’ve talked with my family since then, but part of me wishes I could have been more prepared for what I faced when I came home, so I could have answered the spoken and unspoken questions better.

Lessons Learned

If I knew myself as well then as I do now, if I understood how deeply my suicide attempt hurt my family, then I would have handled things differently. I don’t want to dwell too long on such a dark moment, but I can tell you that I wasn’t prepared for what was about to happen when my attempt took place.

I had been struggling with deep depression for the better part of three months when that day came, but I wasn’t aware of how much it was impacting me. Because I wasn’t paying attention to myself, the thoughts that came into my brain about attempting seemed to come from nowhere. I had zero context for what was happening. And I had zero defenses prepared because I hadn’t spent the time necessary to develop them.

I thought I could float through life with a major mood disorder without having plans for what to do when things go awry.

I know better now.

Between Me and My Wife

The very first thing I would tell my wife if I had it to do again, is that it’s not her fault. She didn’t cause my suicide attempt by what she did or didn’t do or say.

I hope this would alleviate her from some of the pressure she feels even to this day about bringing up sensitive topics.

Whether it’s a fight we are having, a difficult conversation about something I’m doing professionally, or a quick decision about mealtime, she feels like she’s walking on eggshells. She doesn’t know what will push me over the edge again.

We’ve had some conversations now about why I ended up attempting suicide, but I took longer than I should have to start them. I was too exhausted from my recovery, trying to put the pieces of my life together, to invest immediately in our marriage. That was a mistake, something I wish I could take back.

We are still rebuilding trust because that’s what my attempt was to her—a breach of trust.

I wish I had started the restoration process sooner, because I love my wife with every fiber of my being. She’s worth investing in, no matter how hard it is.

Between Me and My Children

My two boys processed my suicide attempt very differently, one with affection and the other with a cynicism bordering on anger.

I understand both responses, and I would respond very differently to each of them if I had this to do over again now. I am saddened by the fact that I stayed in answer-man mode with my questioning son. Instead of addressing any of his underlying hurt, I focused very intently on giving him succinct, direct answers to his questions.

If I’m honest with myself, I shut off my emotions and replied out of my intellect.

That was the last thing my son needed from me. He is in his head a lot of the time, but he needed to hear my heart in this moment. He needed to know I made a mistake; one I won’t repeat.

He needed to know that I loved him despite my choice, and that my choice wasn’t about him.

It was about my lack of mental and emotional discipline, and this decision will haunt me for the rest of my life.

With my other son, I would give him space to just be with me and ask questions. Instead of focusing individually on my own shattered soul, I would have invited him to join me in the repairing of my life.

This would have given him opportunity to ask the questions I’m sure he still has in his own spirit. Together, we could have uncovered a fresh expression of friendship as we mourned the loss of things that once were and built toward the future.

Instead, there remains a distance because of conversations never had, and enough time has passed that we may never bridge that gap.

Putting the Pieces Back Together

Suicide attempts always tear at the fabric of families, because the pain and fear of loss is deeply intense. It was and is the same with my family. We are slowly healing, having these important conversations gradually, but it’s despite the decisions I made when I came out of the psychiatric hospital, not because of them.

I certainly don’t want another chance to do this because that implies another attempt, but in retrospect, I wish I would have been more intentional with involving my family in my recovery. We would be that much closer to health now.

If you or a loved one are struggling with thoughts of suicide and need professional help, reach out to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or text 741741. For a list of Christian certified therapists in your area, visit aacc.net, therapyforchristians.com, and for a general listing visit psychologytoday.com/us/therapists. As always, in the case of a life-threatening emergency, dial 9-1-1.

Bio: Chris Morris is a mental health advocate for the church. He has been writing about mental health and faith for the last decade. Chris believes a diagnosis never disqualifies you from the love and calling of God. He is the author of two books—Perfectly Abnormal: Uncovering the Image of God in Chronic Illness and Whispers in the Pews: Voices on Mental Illness in the Church.