Take more than a few key strokes to let someone know they matter

In 2012, the suicide of former Chargers linebacker Junior Seau rocked the San Diego sports world. Immensely charismatic, he’d had a great football career, and opened a popular restaurant after retiring. On the surface, he seemed to have everything to live for.

In 2014, Robin Williams’ suicide shook generations of fans who had grown up with his manic comic genius.  It was nearly impossible to believe that someone some engaging, so funny, so talented, and so successful would find life no longer worth living.

In May of this year, musician Chris Cornell hung himself in his hotel room.  Despite a flourishing music career spanning more than three decades and critical acclaim both as a soloist and a member of Audioslave and Soundgarden, he gave in to the depression that had plagued him for years. Fans who had followed him since the inception of the grunge movement were stunned and heartbroken.

In July, musician Chester Bennington of Linkin Park committed suicide, also by hanging. Prior to his death, he was open about his battles with depression, addiction, and overcoming childhood sexual abuse. Still, he was considered by many to be a success, a man living a life that young musicians dream of.

The suicides of famous people shake us profoundly. How do stars who have the fame and fortune many crave give up on living? With all their money, couldn’t they have gotten help? We posit theories, call them selfish or cowardly, or wish they had known how much they mattered to their legions of fans.

We react. We share telephone numbers for suicide crisis lines on the timelines of our social media pages. Generic “I am here if you ever need to talk” statements pop up among the vacation photos, political outrage, and cute kitten anecdotes that pepper social media feeds.

While these are nice gestures, they are not nearly enough.

So far in 2017, nearly 25,000 people in the US have committed suicide, most of them relatively unknown except to family and friends.  Survivors lament and wonder what could have been done to prevent these tragedies.

“We never saw it coming.”

“I wish he could have known how much we cared.”

We, the loved ones left behind, are wracked by grief and guilt.

We must do more than post crisis hotline numbers. We must pay attention to one another and reach out to catch our falling brothers and sisters.

Sometime who is suicidal isn’t surfing Facebook for crisis line phone numbers; they’re looking for evidence that their existence matters.

Depression, the “dark night of the soul,” leads you to darker places than you knew existed. You are too embarrassed, too exhausted, or feel too unworthy to pick up the phone and dial a crisis number.  The thought of explaining to a person you’ve never met how life spiraled to a point where suicide seems like a better option than living is a daunting prospect. It’s too much work. There’s too much back story.  The words are stopped by the lump in your throat.

When getting dressed, eating, or combing your hair are overwhelming tasks, picking up the phone is nearly impossible.

Instead of putting the onus on people who are already on the ledge, why not take the initiative? In the time it takes to post a suicide hotline number on your social media timeline, you can instead reach out to a struggling friend or relative.  Someone in the throes of depression may not have the energy to answer a phone call, but texts or private messages can be saved and read over and over in dark moments.

Say hello.

Say “You matter.”

Say “I love you.”

Say “Your presence makes the world better.”

Ask questions.  “You’ve been quiet lately; is everything okay?” and “Can we talk about what’s going on?”  Put aside your natural tendency to respect privacy and your assumption that people will reach out if they want to talk.

Posting a suicide crisis line number on social media takes seconds. Often, saving a life is a commitment that requires reaching out again and again.  It’s exhausting.  It’s disheartening.  It’s maddening.  It’s difficult to understand how completing ordinary tasks feels like swimming through molasses.  It’s easier to wonder why a depressed person doesn’t just snap out of it, get some exercise, call a friend. It’s hard to remember that depression roars, a constant growl that blocks out the whispers of praise and encouragement and hope.

A suicidal person may need more help than you can give.  But the few seconds that it takes to say hello, to say, “Stay with us” or “I won’t let you fall” might make just enough difference.  Perhaps if we look out for each other, and reach out to each other, we will need those suicide crisis lines a little bit less.