An Uncomfortable Conversation About Suicide

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• January 29, 2025

“When people commit suicide, no one ever understands. You know what I mean? People commit suicide and people go ‘I don’t understand why.’ and I go, ‘You don’t?’
What, do you live in a cotton-candy house or something? What the fuck? You don’t know about life? How it only disappoints and gets worse and worse until it ends in a catastrophe?
The fuck?”

— Norm MacDonald

Well, I guess there are few comfortable conversations about suicide. And I’ll be quick to diffuse any alarms for concerned readers. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again, generally, when one who is prone to mental illness is talking about it, or in my case writing about it, that’s usually a good sign— a sign of healing or growth. Too often when people kill themselves, those around them will say, “but they seemed okay, distant maybe, but okay,” and I think, “yeah, that makes sense.”

It takes one to know one applies to various traits, and the melancholy know. Though these days I’m much better at asking for help, it is common for the suicidal person to hide their intention from loved ones, and many are good actors.

Suicide awareness month is September, but September is really one of the better months of the year. January and February are complete shit. Dark, grey, cold. For fucks sake, it definitely wasn’t a suicidal person who decided on the month of suicidal awareness. I remember the first therapist I saw asked me if I thought about suicide, and my response was, “hasn’t everyone?” But shrinks will tell you it’s not that serious unless you have thought about how you’re going to do it. If you planned it out. Is it bad I planned out multiple ways to off myself? And that’s a question you that will make your therapist uncomfortable.

On August 11th, 2014, Robin Williams killed himself. The lovable comedian felt like an on screen dad to many— fun, kindhearted, warm. And those who knew him confirmed this. People were shocked. I remember that being a disturbing day, and not because of his actions, because of others reactions. Williams had been diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia, which is a horrible slow death. I’ve seen it first hand what it does to a person, and while I am glad the one I loved didn’t kill himself, I can see how a more troubled mind would opt out.

While I would not encourage nor applaud anyone for killing themselves when faced with an illness, I do not shame them. In fact, I both empathize and understand them. In my college years, I paid for school by working in a nursing home and I witnessed every bad way a human dies. Slowly. Painfully. There are things, I concluded, far worse than death. The things I saw in those years didn’t make me fear death. Not at all. Dying doesn’t frighten me. Suffering, however, does. And I see no nobility in it. I don’t subscribe to the Catholic propaganda I grew up with that suffering could bring you closer to Jesus. I think that’s a sick message. A wrongful interpretation of a messiah. I don’t like to see humans, animals, or even insects suffering. And I hate insects and enjoy killing them! If someone is in pain, be it physical or emotional and wants to end it, I stand with libertarian conviction that it is your freedom to end your own existence, if you will it. This being said, that doesn’t mean I don’t think it tragic. And I hope anyone distressed with such mental illness has the wherewithal, logic, and love of someone or something to will a way to carry on.

It is mental illness to be suicidal. It’s dark and it’s lonely. It’s a haunted place. Animals do not commit suicide. In fact, it goes against the fabric of nature to want to kill yourself. So yes, if you’ve ever been suicidal, you have a mental illness. There is something wrong with your brain. Your brain shouldn’t be imploding, saying, “this is enough, I am not enough, end it.” But it does for some people. It has for me. It will again. I dread those days. They will come, as sure as IRS comes for taxes. Once you have it, it’s always there. Accepting that it is an illness beyond your control is a huge step in getting better and finding the help, be it therapy and/or meds to make you a somewhat normal person, even though you know at this point you are not normal.

This is what disturbed me on August 11th. The amount of people who called Williams a coward, selfish, ungrateful, and certainly going to Hell. If you cannot fathom why anyone would want to end their own life, have pause. Consider this. You are lucky. I wish I were you. I wish I didn’t understand. If you cannot understand the darkness of suicidal ideations, then you are blessed. I am genuinely happy for you. I wish this for my loved ones. Especially my little loves, my nephews and niece. I pray they are not afflicted with this mental illness of existential dread when they are older. Have compassion for those who have died by their own hand, if not for them, for the ones they have left.

Because that’s the worst part. And perhaps what even saved me in my darkest hours, was the thought of abandoning my loved ones, knowing they’d harbor guilt or blame, when they damn well shouldn’t. When you’re that low, it’s usually only temporary, but it doesn’t feel that way. The darkness has tricks to make you think it will never go away and that you’re a burden to your loved ones. I don’t like it when families hide when one of their own kills themselves. I understand why. The shame. The guilt. The agonizing on how it could have been prevented. But a way to prevent it from further happening to others is to not cover it up. Do not cover up a suicide. Call it as it is. Mourn it. But do not lie about it. And do not pass the blame. Suicide is a final act of freedom. Freedom from demons or suffering. While I hope that you, yes you, reader, don’t understand suicide, I do hope you have a sense of humanity, so you should be able to understand that.

One of my favorite comedians, Maria Bamford, wrote a book called “Sure, I’ll Join Your Cult.” It’s mostly hilarious. I love all things Bamford. If you’re not familiar with her stand-up, you should look her up. She also had a great show on Netflix, “Lady Dynamite.” Bamford is very open about being bi-polar and even being institutionalized. In one of the final chapters of her book, she writes about how she empathizes with people who kill themselves, stating that everyone says “it gets better” but it doesn’t always for all. She does not encourage it, in fact, she offers a plethora of ways to get help if you’re suicidal, but also so sweetly offers forgiveness.

That literally made me cry. Because even when you’re out of the fog, you still know how close you were to being your own grim reaper. That’s a perpetual weight you carry. It’s hard to forgive yourself completely. And then there’s Maria Bamford, like a little demented angel, who feels you and forgives you, relieving you of this carried burden (even if it’s temporary relief, we’ll take it!).

The worst thing you can tell a suicidal person is how good they have it. Because on some level they know, but logic is out the window. They don’t feel. Telling a suicidal person to be grateful is throwing gasoline on a raging fire. They already feel guilty that they are not grateful for their life. This is literally the worst thing you can do right after handing them a gun to shoot their brains out.

It’s hard to watch someone you love bottom out in a depression. Like they’re not even there. Being a witness is brutal. In many ways, I pity the person watching their loved one disappear into the doldrums of their illness more than the mentally afflicted person themselves. The best you can do is just be there. And do things. Depression is allergic to sunshine and the ocean. Just being company helps without perpetually “trying” to cheer them up. Having cups of tea. Watching movies (even depressing ones, or sometimes especially depressing ones!). Music and coloring. Or being around little kids who have such an abundance of lust for life that it’s contagious.

It’s not a comfortable thing to talk about suicide. But uncomfortable conversations are better than bottling it in, and killing yourself avoiding such discussions.

As for me, I cannot promise I won’t ever kill myself. Fear not, my years have made the razor edge of depression rusty. But if I’m ever diagnosed with a slow but certain death, I won’t rule out making exit and skipping the part where I wither. I don’t see shame in this. And I don’t think you should judge someone doing something to their own body, when you have not lived in their skin or heard their thoughts. Compassion is a virtuous character trait.

For now, I’m not so discontent with life. There are places I’d like to go, waves to be surfed, lips to be kissed, arms to be held by, laughter to be heard, food to be savored, films to be watched, stories to be written.

If you are stuck in shadows, my heart bleeds for you. Please forgive yourself first, then reach out for help. There is light all around you, I promise.