July 27, 2019, began as a typical summer day, filled with mundane yet comforting routines. It was a day dedicated to family, to visiting my mother, tackling household chores, walking her dogs, and engaging in lighthearted conversations. We even spent time shopping for my youngest son’s college dorm, a joyful task anticipating new beginnings. The late afternoon brought a dinner filled with laughter with my sons. My mother, ever the comedian, provided endless entertainment, commenting on the restaurant’s “atmosphere”—code for the waitresses she thought my eldest son, Ben, should be dating. We were all in stitches as she playfully offered to get their numbers for him.
That very evening, after heartfelt hugs, “love yous,” and plans for sushi the next day, Ben died by suicide.
That night transformed into a blur of pain and disbelief. I found myself rooted in the funeral home parking lot, unable to move until I could see my son, needing to confirm the impossible truth with my own eyes. It was a night of desperate pleas – to the funeral director, the officer at the scene, the medical examiner’s office – begging to see Ben, to make it real, to reconcile the vibrant young man I had just shared dinner with, planning future meals, with the unimaginable reality of his death.
In my raw agony, I was undeniably unkind, even bullying, to a woman on the phone, a stranger simply doing her job. Through icy tears, I demanded she ask her superior, “how she would feel if she wasn’t allowed to see her dead son whom she’d just had dinner with a few hours ago?” I declared, with fierce maternal resolve, that I would not leave that “fucking parking lot” until I saw my son, consequences be damned.
July 27th is now eternally marked in my memory as The Night Ben Died. It’s a date synonymous with unimaginable loss: The Night My Children Lost a Brother, The Night My Heart Shattered, The Night I Lost My Son to Suicide and Spoke the Truth in His Obituary (Facing Judgment for It), The Night My Son Died by Suicide and the Unrelenting Questions Began.
The questions. They were relentless, pouring in from friends, family, and even casual acquaintances, some well-meaning, others intrusive, many laced with thinly veiled curiosity. Some carried an undercurrent of judgment, directed at Ben or at us for openly stating the cause of death. “Were there any signs?” “Was he depressed?” “I would have never guessed.” “Were you aware he was struggling?” “He seemed so happy.” “We’re in shock. It must have been such a shock for you.”
These questions and expressions of surprise all converged on one central, unspoken question. Tolstoy may have said every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way, but every family grappling with suicide loss is united by this agonizing question. It’s the question we desperately seek to answer, even knowing the answer may bring further pain: “Why?” Why did Ben’s life end this way? Didn’t he know the immensity of our love and the forever of our loss? Why didn’t he reach out? Didn’t he understand how deeply he was loved? Why didn’t he ask for help? Why?
Replace Ben’s name with any name lost to suicide, and the question echoes with the same haunting resonance. It’s a unique torment, exclusive to those who have endured suicide loss. Accidents, illness, drugs, cancer, murder – while we question why these tragedies occur, suicide carries a different weight. It’s burdened with blame, shrouded in shame, forcing us to navigate these toxic emotions, to find where to direct or deflect them. Life’s fundamental drive is to live, and suicide is often perceived as a conscious choice made by the deceased.
In a way, this is true. Ben made a decision that night; he completed suicide. There was no accident, no prolonged illness, no external perpetrator to blame. It was my son, my cherished Ben, shifting from battling anxiety and depression to succumbing to hopelessness, culminating in a devastating, impulsive, irreversible, and utterly tragic choice to end his life.
And we, his family, loved ones, and friends, are left with the agonizing “Why?” What sequence of events led him to this point? For someone as vibrant, intelligent, successful, beautiful, funny, adventurous, and kind as Ben to die this way, there must be a cause. How could he have reached such despair? And if Ben, seemingly so full of life, could be this lost, couldn’t anyone? Suicide becomes a terrifying enigma, a lurking monster in the shadows.
In the months since Ben’s death, I’ve relentlessly explored potential causes. Experts emphasize that suicide is rarely caused by a single factor. Instead, it’s a convergence of elements that coalesce and overwhelm an individual’s capacity to cope, to persevere, to live. In hindsight, the indicators were there for Ben.
Stress and anxiety were significant factors. Ben was increasingly burdened by anxieties about his future. A promising job prospect dissolved, leaving him deeply worried about his living situation, unemployment, and financial instability.
Impulsivity is also recognized as a contributing factor in suicide. Research suggests individuals who die by suicide may have a higher predisposition to impulsivity. Ben’s impulsive nature manifested in his readiness to drop everything for friends or embark on spontaneous adventures. Survivors of suicide attempts often describe their decision as driven by an impulsive moment within a spiral of despair, a feeling of being trapped with no escape, where ending the pain becomes the only perceived option. While Ben may have considered suicide and planned methods, the final act was likely driven by impulse in a moment of intense anguish.
Mental illness is a well-documented risk factor. Depression, anxiety, and bipolar disorder all increase suicide risk. Ben and I had discussed the possibility of him having bipolar disorder. It’s a condition I am personally familiar with. Ben knew from my experience that these conditions are manageable but require consistent effort and time. With my encouragement, he sought professional help but faced waitlists for evaluation and counseling. His demanding college coursework took over, and he stopped pursuing it, claiming he was too busy for counseling even if it became available.
Last summer, Ben was likely experiencing the aftermath of an intensely demanding senior year. He achieved a 4.0 GPA with 24 credits in one semester and a 3.9 with 23 credits in the next. He graduated cum laude, seemingly at the peak of success. However, the pressure to maintain such high achievement likely induced a manic state, followed by a devastating crash into bipolar depression. This was exacerbated by uncertainty about his future, no job prospects, student loan worries, and the disappointment of moving back home to regroup.
Signs of his distress were present throughout the year. He called me sobbing from stress and anxiety multiple times. He mentioned his lack of sleep and time to eat, prompting me to send him protein bars and healthy snacks. I brought him food during visits and sent money for deliveries. I responded with love and support to his stress-filled texts, encouraging him to seek help from his department head or pursue counseling. He consistently reassured me that things were improving. I worried constantly during periods of silence, hoping he was eating, sleeping, and practicing self-care.
July 27, 2019, is the day I lost my son. It also marks the beginning of my understanding that some questions, no matter how desperately we seek answers, will remain unanswered, because no answer can ever truly satisfy.
All my theories and understandings are, at best, educated guesses. None fully explains the darkness that led Ben to suicide, nor can they fully heal the profound loss we feel.
We must recognize that Ben’s story is not unique. The experiences of individuals struggling with mental illness and depression are often obscured by societal narratives surrounding suicide. It’s crucial to bring these lived experiences to light to understand the journey from suicidal thoughts to action.
Carrie Thompson, Author of My Son Died by Suicide, and I Don't Know Why
There was a battle, a grueling, exhausting battle against a mental enemy, a relentless monster lurking in his mind, waiting for moments of vulnerability and isolation to strike with devastating accuracy. On that tragic night, my son lost his footing in this battle and fell into its trap.
This monster is aided by the pervasive stigma surrounding mental illness, which prevents individuals from seeking help when they are losing ground.
My son was at a life stage where society dictates young people should be thriving, embarking on exciting new chapters. His depression was fueled by the fear of judgment, the fear of being perceived as inadequate if he admitted his deep sense of being lost and depressed. What would the response be if he confessed to feeling unsafe?
Two fundamental truths emerge from this tragedy.
Firstly, my son’s death was not inevitable. For reasons we may never fully grasp, he didn’t feel safe confiding in us about his struggles and his losing battle. This is the ultimate tragedy, and we must strive to change this reality. We must actively learn to discuss mental illness and suicide appropriately, safely, and with empathy, to identify and support those teetering on the brink. We need to make seeking help straightforward and accessible for anyone feeling unsafe. Help was available to Ben, but for some reason, he didn’t ask.
My Ben was deeply loved and valued by many. He often expressed his appreciation for my love and support. I know he knew he was loved. His suicide was not due to a lack of love or support. Any of his friends and loved ones would have rushed to his aid. We would have offered comfort, guided him to help, stayed by his side until he felt safe and grounded, until he could see a path forward, that he was not trapped, that resources were available. There would have been no judgment, no stigma, only unconditional love. But Ben clearly believed otherwise, a belief not fostered by his family and friends.
Secondly, healing and moving forward for me means accepting and finding peace with the unanswerable question of why Ben died by suicide. I will never fully comprehend it. And more importantly, no explanation, no matter how logical or well-researched, will ever truly satisfy.
The only truly satisfactory answer would be to have my son back – alive, healthy, and whole – an impossible wish. Therefore, I must embrace “There was no single reason, no simple explanation. I will never fully know why, and I am finding peace with that” as the only answer that matters. Crucially, Ben’s suicide must not define his memory. His life was so much richer and more meaningful than his death, and we cannot reduce his existence to this single act.
Our societal battle against suicide hinges on dismantling the stigma surrounding mental illness. We must become comfortable discussing it as openly as we discuss cancer, divorce, sexual orientation, addiction – topics once whispered about in hushed tones. We need to create a culture where anyone can say, “I am so depressed I’m considering harming myself” without fear of judgment. When we achieve this, perhaps we will ask “why” less often, because we will be better equipped to provide the help needed, empowering individuals to choose life.
No matter what you’re facing, hope always exists. We will hold onto hope until you can grasp it yourself. If you are contemplating suicide, please use TWLOHA’s FIND HELP Tool to find professional support and read more stories here. For resources outside the US, please explore our growing International Resources database. You can also text TWLOHA to 741741 to connect with a trained Crisis Text Line counselor for free, 24/7.
