Suicidal thought discussions are increasingly prevalent in my practice. These thoughts are as alarming as they are routine, yet they hold immense significance in the landscape of mental health. Recently, one of my clients found themselves safely in a psychiatric ward, and as I drove home from work, I spoke to a concerned family member over the phone. Their words were laden with worry.
“I feel so helpless and see this as a huge setback,” they confided.
“Is it?” I gently challenged, “Feeling helpless is a natural response.” I reassured and validated them but also lightly probed, “They’re safe. They knew what they needed for support.”
“Thank you. I’m glad I have another perspective.”
Assessing how concerned I am with a person’s thoughts of suicide involves understanding their relationship with these thoughts. Are these thoughts a normal part of their life? Do they use these thoughts as a coping mechanism? Do they feel safe within themselves?
In one of my biannual suicide intervention continuing education courses, I learned that a third of people have thoughts of self-harm in this way. Surprisingly, this statistic was more common than I had previously thought.
I can’t claim to be an expert in this area. What I do understand is that some individuals teeter on the fragile balance between life and death. I sit with people, sometimes feeling fear alongside them, guiding them to a metaphorical patch of grass and an overhang to shield them from the storm.
I am grateful to walk this path with people, knowing that they don’t have to endure their most excruciating agonies alone.
Reflecting on my own pain and the isolation and misunderstanding I once felt, I recall the coping strategies I resorted to – drinking, drugs, and reckless behavior – and how they only perpetuated my suffering.
Why do we persist in pain, even when it jeopardizes our well-being and sometimes our lives?
One might think it’s because pain is familiar. It’s what we know. I didn’t know any different. I also believed that struggle was normal and that it held some profound meaning. But perhaps now, as I stand far removed from that pain and suffering, I can find meaning in it. Maybe my past pain has equipped me to be present and available, serving as a lifeline to help others on their arduous journey from unhealthy to healthy.
Perhaps our pain, your pain, and mine, and our ability to navigate it towards meaning, is our purpose. I can’t say for certain, but I’m here to find out.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 