Today is the day my dad is gone as long as he was here with us

How the 45th year anniversary of my father’s suicide helped me recycle my pain into purpose

By Lisa Sugarman

Warning: This post contains talk of suicide and may be triggering for some readers.

It’s exactly 45 years to the day since I last saw my dad, Jim. Since our last hug. Since the last time he tucked me in to bed or we went berry picking or he taught me how to throw a boomerang. Forty-five very long years. A lifetime, really. I mean, just seeing that number in black and white seems to somehow make an already big number feel even bigger. In fact, it wasn’t until the early hours of this morning, when I started replaying my memory of the day my dad died, that it dawned on me that today is the day he’s been gone exactly as long as he was alive. And that one hit me. Hard. Because the longer he’s gone, the more compelled I am to work to keep his memory alive in the world, with my own children, in my own heart, and in my own mind. The way I see it, as his only child, that’s my responsibility. That’s my inheritance. That’s my duty as his legacy. And I don’t think I’m the only one who feels this way.

See, my father died suddenly and inexplicably exactly two weeks after my tenth birthday. And for the next 35 years of my life, I believed he’d died of a heart attack, even though that wasn’t the real truth. It was just the story I was told at the time that my mother believed would be the easiest narrative for me to accept. Because, with that story, there was no one to blame and nothing to question. It was just the simplest and safest answer for why my dad was taken so suddenly and so young. Because, when your only child comes home from a day at camp to learn that her dad—her person in this world—is gone forever, the last thing you’re going to do is amplify that pain with the truth that he died by suicide. That’s why, on August 1st of 1978, when my mom and her co-worker found my dad unresponsive on the pull-out sofa bed in our downstairs family room, she made the split-second decision to label his cause of death a heart attack, even though she’d found the note that proved otherwise.

That’s why my dad dying of a heart attack was the narrative I carried with me for the next three-plus decades of my life.

So here I am, recently hitting my mid-50s, sharing random bits about my dad with you, in the hopes that you’ll glean a little insight into why he means so much to me. And I’m hopeful that just by virtue of you reading about him, it’ll add a little buoyancy to his memory, if only for today. Kind of like how a Facebook post disappears into obscurity and falls miles and miles down into the abyss of our feeds until someone comments on it, bringing it back to the surface.

Now, in hindsight, and as the mom of two grown daughters now, I’ve only ever been grateful to my mother for shielding me from that extra-thick layer of pain that would’ve most definitely brought me to my knees when I was a little girl. Honestly, I don’t know if I would’ve survived knowing my dad had ended his own life. Truthfully, I can’t imagine living with that knowledge at such a vulnerable age. And I’m nothing but appreciative that I didn’t know at the time. But I know now. And I feel almost a strange sense of gratitude that I know this important piece of my history, of my dad’s history. And, as a result, I feel obligated as a survivor to share that “knowing” with others around me who may be struggling with their own truths or demons or shame. Because that’s the defining difference between then and now: People kept their depression or anxiety or fears hidden. And they did it because they feared the stigma and the backlash.

Today, though, while some degree of stigma still exists, far more people are talking about their mental health or unwellness than ever before, and that’s the change agent. The more we talk about the things that have been stigmatized and kept in the shadows, the more we bring them into the light which dilutes their power to hurt us. It also makes it safer for others to do the same. That’s why I plan to keep talking about my dad, his suicide, his mental illness, what it’s like to be a survivor, and how it feels to live with loss to anyone who wants to listen. Because I do that as a way of amplifying my father’s voice and the voices of the millions of the people around us who still suffer in silence with mental illness.

It’s on milestones like today, that feel so momentous, when I have an insatiable urge to sprinkle thoughts and memories and feelings of my dad into the universe so I can replenish his legacy, even a little bit, and help preserve the essence of him just a little longer. So, I share the story of his life, and his suicide, side by side with how kind and easy and loving he was, and all the other traits that made him such a uniquely beautiful human. And I encourage you to do the same with your people, as often and as loud as you can. Because it’s through our stories and memories that we strengthen their memory. It’s also how we send out a beacon to find our community. Because a community of people who understand us and what we’ve gone through is something we all need to find as a part of our personal survival. So, whether you or your person lives with mental illness or you lost someone to it, sharing our struggles and theirs is what binds us. Sharing our stories and experiences are like sending flares into the sky so our community knows where to find us.

I wish I could’ve saved my dad. It’s been my greatest wish since the day, ten years ago, when I learned he’d taken his life. I wish I could’ve been there during that summer of 1978, as my now 55-year-old self, with all of today’s resources and knowledge that might have changed the outcome of his depression. But I can’t go back, no matter how desperately I wish I could. None of us who have ever experienced this kind of loss can. There is only forward.

For me, the most powerful lesson I’ve learned is that repurposing our own experience with pain and loss can make the most profound impact on those who come after us and those who are struggling right now. Which is exactly what inspired me to become a crisis counselor with The Trevor Project, the largest crisis lifeline for at-risk LGBTQ+ youth in the world. It’s that same inspiration that moves me to hold space for those who need to purge themselves of their pain. And it’s what motivates me to keep talking and writing and sharing my dad’s story as far and as wide as I can. For as long as I can. Because if my experience has the capacity to help even one person shed the stigma of mental illness and keep moving forward, then it’s all been worth it.

I hope you’ll let my story encourage you to share yours.

If you or someone you know is in crisis, please dial 988 and a trained crisis counselor will be there to help. And if you’re between the ages of 13-24 and you’re a member of the LGBTQ+ community, you can also contact The Trevor Project at 866-488-7386.