Surviving the death of someone we love is among the most terrible events we face. When that someone is your child, the pain, devastation, and sense of failure are overwhelming and uncontrollable.
Survivors. That's what we call the parents, children, siblings, and partners of those who chose to end their existence in a traumatic and violent way. Suddenly thrust into an unimaginable reality, they cannot even grasp how to get through the day, stand upright, eat, speak, survive—in fact—after what has happened.
Psychache is the word that describes the extreme, unbearable pain from which the suicide victim flees. Yes, because taking one's life is not a search for death but, paradoxically, an attempt to preserve life by ending a suffering that can no longer be endured. But what happens to those left behind? What becomes of the parents, children, siblings, spouses—those severed from their loved one by that most extreme choice? Parents lose the chance to help their child, stripped suddenly and forever of their role. Overwhelmed by multiple, conflicting emotions that offer no relief, they often think of following their child, of ending an existence they no longer see the point of living. Those who remain feel untethered, confused, as if in a dream. Awareness of what happened comes only gradually, in pieces.
The fear is extreme and paralyzing: "How will I go on? How will I face the eyes of others? Will this happen again—to me, to my other children, to those I love?" Guilt grips like a vise: "If he suffered, it's my fault. If only I had said something, done something different, behaved differently toward her, this would not have happened." And shame pervades everything—a profound sense of unworthiness and impossibility to remain part of the human community. As if everyone could see the horror for which we feel responsible. And rage—hidden, suffocated, denied—a rage we don't feel we have the right to feel, directed at that very person who, in taking their life, altered the destiny of all of us, destroying whatever future we imagined. Often, believing it improper and unseemly, we bury it, cutting off an authentic inner dialogue with the person who is gone.
What to say to others? What to tell them about what happened? Often these events become secrets, truths to hide—sometimes even from ourselves ("My child lost their balance and fell"). How and what to tell our other children, our siblings, our nieces and nephews, the young ones in our lives? We sometimes lie, hoping that delay will soften the blow. But the truth emerges through glances, words, behavior. Or it arrives distorted, beyond our control, from others' mouths, complicating an already traumatic grief. Secrets work in the shadows, binding everyone to a pact of silence that leaves each of us isolated and suffering, locked within our own pain.
A pervasive belief often accompanies survivors: that they will never live fully again, never experience joy or happiness, convinced they deserve nothing more. If my loved one is dead—in this way, as if making a public accusation against me—then I must die with him. Even those around them expect survivors to suffer now and forever. They carry the weight of judgment, a heavy burden that casts them as guilty with no appeal, adding further emotional and psychological strain: "You must have done something wrong. Something went wrong in your family." They must make themselves small, invisible, sad, withdrawn—as befits someone stained with such guilt. This is a major obstacle to returning to any semblance of normalcy, because even brief distraction from the oppression of memory can trigger powerful feelings of guilt. There also frequently occurs a tendency to search for an external culprit—an irresistible need to find an answer to "Why did he do it?" Identifying one seems somehow to ease the suffering but can become an all-consuming, alienating activity ("It was his boss's fault, or the teacher who said this or that, or the classmates who bullied him"). Treating these as the sole causes prevents understanding and blocks the grief process. The possible reasons, sadly, are often very distant and complex.
It is essential that parents and family members who have survived a suicide be helped to process their grief with competence and gentleness, so that the catastrophic event that struck them does not become the final word on their lives. They need support and comfort from those around them, to help them move forward in the early days and manage the daily reality that can, at times, feel insurmountable. It is important that survivors be supported in recognizing, legitimizing, and expressing their emotions—including their rage—toward the family member they have lost, ideally in community with others (as happens in the Nain support group at Romena under the guidance of don Luigi Verdi).
A full and happy life is still possible, but it requires choosing to live despite a pain that can and must become bearable.
Chiara Gatti is a psychotherapist specializing in EMDR (emdr.it)