The Lying Impostor

that steals our futures

Photo by Satyam Pathak on Unsplash

It was 43 years ago this past summer that my uncle went on the most important hunt of his life. He took his family -- his wife, his daughter, his mother, and his sister -- they all joined in this hunt for his baby boy. They were looking for his 19 year old son, who less than an hour earlier walked out of their house carrying a rifle, got into his truck, and drove away.

They were desperate to find him, to stop a murder.

I should clarify. My cousin Jeff wasn’t a murderer. He was a 19 year old man who had endured set-back after set-back, and humiliation after humiliation, until he couldn’t handle anymore. So he made a decision to make it all go away, and his family was desperate to keep that from happening.

According to Grandma, my uncle was maybe 10 feet away from Jeff when it happened -- not close enough to reach him, but close enough to see Jeff’s final decision play out as if it were happening in slow motion.

I don’t remember if Uncle Jack got there in time to hold his dying son, but I remember the devastation I felt when I learned my cousin was dead.

I remember the confusion I felt for months after. How could this young man -- who I thought was the bravest of the brave, who I thought could handle anything -- reach the conclusion that the absolute best thing he could do for everyone, including himself, was to no longer be here?

I couldn’t go to his funeral, because I was deployed with my National Guard unit. Jeff wasn’t immediate family, so I had to stay in Michigan. I wrote my aunt and uncle a letter, telling them how sorry I was, and how much I loved my favorite cousin. Aunt Shirley wrote back, and I cried again. In her note, she said she couldn’t make sense of it either, but then she said something that I’ve remembered for 43 years: maybe if we had gone to church this wouldn’t have happened. I didn’t have the words then to tell her it wouldn’t have mattered if they went to church or not.

Suicide knows no boundaries. It doesn’t care how old you are. it doesn’t care if you’re alone, or if you have a family; if you have friends, if you have kids, if you have a spouse -- suicide just doesn’t care.

Suicide is a liar that works to convince you the world is better without you in it.

Suicide is an impostor that masquerades as mercy, whispering lies when you’re too weary to argue.

Suicide is a thief that steals not only your own future, but the futures of all who love you.

Suicide is a thug that attacks you when you can’t see clearly enough to realize that you’re making a permanent decision about a temporary situation. Problem is, the situation never feels temporary – it feels like it will never end. That’s how suicide is able to make people believe its lies.

Why am I writing about this today? Because approximately every ten minutes, someone makes a permanent decision about their temporary situation.

Because approximately every ten minutes, someone loses a…

• father,

• son,

• brother,

• mother,

• daughter,

• sister,

• cousin,

• friend,

• spouse,

• coworker,

• partner

…to this lying thug called suicide.

September was Suicide Prevention Awareness Month. There are way more resources available today than there have ever been before. So if you are one of those people being lied to by the thuggish imposter we call suicide, please text or call the Crisis and Suicide Hotline at 988. They listen without judging, and help you remember that you are not alone. If you prefer to use a computer, the link is 988lifeline.org.

Here’s something else people don’t always realize about suicide. It can affect you even when you didn’t really know the person who died. You’ll still find yourself wondering if there was something you could have done, or something you should have seen.

Social media memes remind us: people don’t fake being depressed; they fake being okay. And odds are good that 90% of the people around you are faking being okay. Everybody is struggling with something, so what can you and I do to help?

Start with being kind. Start with being safe for them -- a safe friend, a safe person to talk to and be honest with.

Be someone who actually notices them so they don’t feel invisible.

We can all do that. We can treat the cashier at the retail store like a human being instead of a servant. We can thank the person cleaning the airport bathroom. We can smile at the person delivering our mail-order packages. We can take a minute to look at a person when we ask how they are, to see if their answer matches their countenance.

Above all else, we can be kind. Kindness doesn’t cost anything, and it makes a huge, HUGE difference.

There’s another way you can help. An organization called American Foundation for Suicide Prevention sponsors Out of Darkness walks every year, all over the country.

This year, they’re holding one in my county, and I will be walking 3 miles with them on Sunday the 19^th to honor my cousin Jeff, but also to honor a husband and father I barely knew. His loss still matters, and the world is a sadder place without him in it.

We’ve come a long way since 1982, but we still have a very long way to go. Let’s walk together until we get there.

---

I wrote this poem on July 16, 1982, about a month after I learned about my cousin.

JEFF (in silence)

In silent grief,
I scream your name.
My cries echo emptily,
unheard by you.

In silent rage,
I yell at you.
My harangue falls flat,
leaving you unmoved.

With silent tears,
I grieve for you.
My tears dry on my face,
unseen by you.

In silent thoughts,
I remember you.
My cousin, my friend;
I love you.

Jeffery Duane Young. His flame snuffed by the winds of reality. He died too young.