I have two direct experiences with suicide: me and my brother.

My brother is dead.

Dead by his own hand — technically not by hand but by mouth via the ingestion of a lethal combination of drugs and alcohol. He left a note, his handwriting deteriorating as he penned his last words at the end of the paper…

I am still alive.

There is a stigma attached to suicide: it is unlawful; it is a sin; it is a sign of cowardice. This stigma causes families members to hide, suppress and deny it — I know all too painfully of this.

Lost, among the glowing “anti-depressant” ads (even with their warning labels), the journalistic triviality of suicide reports, the movie portrayals of suicide victims, and the quite neurotic treatment of suicide victims by many, the overwhelming, driving force behind suicide is searing pain.

Those of us who have died did not do so out of cowardice or of lack of empathy, but of a madness that is caused by constant pain.

Those of us who have died simply wanted their pain to cease.