UNSENT LETTERS
To the Father of the Man I Didn’t Save
When I was 19, I ended a relationship with a man who was suicidal. My ethical compass was strong even at that age, and I spent a long time deliberating the decision. As heart-breaking as it was to see someone I cared about suffering, I also knew that ultimately, I wasn’t responsible for his happiness. 15 years later, and now a parent of two boys, I’ve revisited the choice I made and found it harder to see any decision as the right one.
[Trigger warning for suicide. Names have been changed for privacy.]
I know it’s odd to contact you now, such a long time after we last spoke — but I’ve been thinking about you. I’ve got two kids of my own now. And I’m better able to see how we were two witnesses to the same slow-motion disaster, just from different vantage points. I’ve been thinking about how I could have intervened. How you could have intervened. Could we have saved your son? Should we have?
My first impressions of Joe was of a physically strong man with a marshmallow heart. His broad shoulders contrasted with a vulnerability that he tried inexpertly to hide. We met at a nightclub — a place I was usually fairly suspicious — but the seal-like darkness of his eyes made me give him my number.
I was enjoying the freedom and possibilities of life at 19 and was only a couple of months away from university holidays and a month travelling in Europe. I’d been looking forward to pitting myself against the world alone, and despite Joe’s suggestions, I said he wasn’t allowed to join me. But as he dropped me at the airport with raw emotion in his voice and a bear hug that clearly didn’t want to let go, I acquiesced. He quit his job and met me in Paris a few weeks later.
It became a different trip than the one I’d planned, but that seemed a reasonable sacrifice to make for his happiness. When we returned home, we moved in together and I went back to work and uni. He sat at home all day with too much time to think. That’s when things started to get weird.
I understand why you didn’t tell me he had bi-polar. You didn’t want to scare me off — ruin this opportunity for happiness, normalcy and a loving relationship for your son. I’m not sure if knowing his diagnosis earlier would have better equipped me to help. If I’d have been more dismissive, less emotionally involved, or more forgiving.
When I was out I felt ‘normal’, but when I was with Joe, nothing made sense. He was jealous and possessive but couldn’t explain why — I’d given him no reason to be. When it got to an ultimatum between visiting my family and staying with him, I abandoned the house when he went out for a packet of smokes. After collecting the possessions he’d thrown on the front yard, I moved back to my parents’ house.
Later, he called and beg me to come back, saying he loved me and couldn’t live without me. I wanted to be there for him, but I couldn’t deal with his erratic behaviour. It’s hard to function when someone seems hell-bent on having an argument with you all the time. He complained he had no money for food, so I dropped a bag of food at his door — things I knew were his favourites. When he found it, he came to my house and smashed an apple pie into the floor. I gave him a hug and he burst into tears. He returned later demanding I hand over my phone which had been a present from him. I had enough sense to remove my SIM card first, but when he realised and refused to leave without it, I had to call the police.
How many times did you have to talk to the police about your son? Was he an unruly teenager that was always getting into trouble? Or was it only later, when his physical size increased, and his symptoms intensified that you had to call on a greater authority and strength than you own?
I remember the moment the phone operator asked me if I needed help. I looked Joe in the eye and paused before saying ‘yes’. I knew the relationship was no longer something I could handle alone. A tiny part of me gave up on him in that moment. He had me emotionally and physically trapped and I couldn’t help him anymore. The only option was to give responsibility to the authorities and hope they had his best interests at heart.
That night I fell asleep crying. I woke in the morning to tears still falling behind my unopened eyes. I was mourning the loss of the man he’d been when we met, and my inability to help. I was on my way to the courthouse the next day to file for a restraining order when Joe’s father called me. He had the benefit of knowing bipolar disorder — so when Joe had aggressively turned up at his parents’ door, they had kept it closed and called the police.
I could see how you were protecting him and yourself. Keeping the door closed to your son lessened the pain he could cause — and there’d be no relief to his emotional anguish in your living room anyway. Did you know the police would take him to the mental health ward at the hospital? Or do the police sometimes have a less compassionate attitude towards people with mental illness? When you called, I felt relief that I didn’t need to go through with the restraining order, and that someone was looking after him. Did you feel relief, or did you fear a downward spiral?
While he was manic, Joe had said and done hurtful things. But he was mentally ill, so how much responsibility could he take for his actions? Surely, he needed my help and support to get better. I visited him at the hospital and saw the raw pain in his face. I decided to stay in the relationship, but to continue living separately to protect my own health and wellbeing. After 6 weeks in hospital with medication, he was released home. He didn’t remember much of that period but was devastated by the hurt he’d cause me.
A year went past. We fell into a pattern of mostly spending time at his (housemate-less) house, but one night I stayed home to work on an assignment. The next day I went to work and was surprised at the end of my shift when there were no messages from him. ‘That’s a bit weird’ I thought, but I knew he’d be expecting me to come over. I got to his house and knocked but didn’t get an answer. Thinking he was in the shower or something, I used my key to let myself in.
It took me 10 minutes to twig that something was wrong. I got up from watching TV on the couch to look for him, and found him on the floor of the bedroom. It was dark and there was a strong smell of acrid smoke in the air. He was on his back moaning and convulsing — that he was wearing a ski mask made it even more surreal. I removed the mask, and seeing his face jolted me to call an ambulance. He’d tried to asphyx himself with carbon monoxide.
Had you been expecting this call one day from paramedics? Did you think you would be you letting yourself in on a scene like this one day? Or were you caught completely by surprise, like I was? I’d thought he was doing so well, but I was probably young and inexperienced. Perhaps you saw his lack of life’s little fulfilments — a job, hobbies, friends — as red flags. I can see now that our relationship had become his purpose in life, and no single person can provide everything another person need for happiness.
Joe was taken to hospital with a collapsed lung and was in a coma in ICU for a week. I felt betrayed that he’d never told me he’d had suicidal thoughts. I was supposed to be helping and supporting him, remember? He must have known I’d be the one to find him — a permanent trauma inflicted on my life. How could he do that to someone he supposedly loved?
My first visit to the ICU is burnt into my memory. I was walking around looking for the right ward and wandered through a doorway with his bed directly opposite it. He was unconscious, with tubes down his throat and beeping machines all around. A wave of nausea overtook me, and I ran from the room to find a place to vomit. Half-way down the hall the feeling subsided, so I sat down with a cup of water to gather myself.
How much responsibility did I have for his life? How much reliance and sacrifice is healthy in an adult relationship? He was vulnerable and needed help, but there was no guarantee that anything I could do would make a difference. And it was having a big impact on my own life.
I know you were struggling too. As a parent it’s natural to sacrifice some of our own happiness for the benefit of our children. They literally wouldn’t exist if not for our choices — so we have a responsibility to keep them happy and healthy, at least until they’re adults. You’d provided a house, an income and as much stability as you could. Was there more you could have done? When I bumped into you at the hospital I could see my own sadness reflected in your face.
I thought about it for a few weeks until I knew what the right decision was. As I dropped off books to Joe’s hospital bedside, I told him I couldn’t be his girlfriend anymore.
We stayed friends and I saw his struggle. He was left with large bald scars on his head and became even more of a recluse. When we’d catch up for coffee he tried to keep up a positive front, but usually near the end, it’d drop. He said he was unhappy and regretted what he’d done. He’d started seeing a girl he’d met in the mental health ward, but he said he wished he could go back to when we were still together.
Then I got that final call from you. Joe had done it again, and this time he was successful. I was glad you’d called the paramedics instead of entering the house yourself. To witness a scene like the one I’d walked into — but for your own child — would be devastating. You told me the funeral would be on Tuesday. You sounded like a broken man.
It was hard to sit in the crowd with the grieving family and watch the slideshow of photos. Here was a man’s life, the potential for so much, cut short. At that age I’d never lost a family member, but I could guess at the hole that would be left in the family. A brother no longer a brother, now an only child. A mother who remembers a birthday every year — the first time she looked into the eyes of her baby — but it’s no longer celebrated. Family photo albums that go from four smiling faces to three. They were a stoic family and I felt bad for my public grieving when theirs was greater. My life would only lose a friend, theirs would be fundamentally changed forever.
Do you think I could have saved him? If I’d been less selfish would he still be alive, or would the outcome have been the same, but with more damage to me? By giving him the possibility of love, had I raised the stakes — more to gain, more to lose — and brought on his decent?
Although I didn’t fully understand it at the time, I knew I didn’t want to be someone’s reason for living. His life was his responsibility, not mine. His death was his choice, not mine. I hope you don’t blame me. I hope you don’t blame yourself.
With the greater wisdom of age, I’ve become more confused about the shades between unhealthy responsibility and admiral compassion. If we’d been together for 10 years — had a couple of kids and a binding history — would I have had the same choice to walk away? If it had been a medical illness (like cancer?) rather than a mental illness, would I have absolved him of the need to deal with it himself.
We all want — perhaps need — unconditional love. We start out getting it from our parents and then hopefully at some point, the baton gets passed to a life partner. But what happens if the baton gets dropped? We can only try to equip our kids to be ready to face the world alone. To fulfil their own needs and find their own happiness, even when the odds are stacked against them. Teach them about art and beauty and help them build resilience against a cruel and lonely world.
We have to love them with all our hearts, and then steel our hearts against their independent life choices.
I’m so sorry for your loss.
With love,
Alice
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