“I am a victim of suicide, too”

A phrase that will forever stick with me

A few years back I was trying to wrap up a college degree, something my Grandpa insisted I have. As he would say “no one can ever take that piece of paper away from you once you have it.” One of the last classes I needed to earn my Associates degree was Speech. I think I’m not alone in saying speech was something I dreaded taking. Who in their right mind would want to get up in front of a group of people and talk about random topics?

As the class went on and we learned the various types of talks you can give, much akin to writing different papers in English class, we eventually got to a speech that required us to tell a story. It was a life story, something we truly experienced, but instead of telling the story as a simple narrative, we needed to make our audience feel as if they were there with us when the story originally took place.

We were instructed to use metaphors and similes as much as possible. We were told to bring something as simple as a knock on a door to life through our words. “Easy enough” I thought.

As I began brainstorming what story I would bring to life, I had it on my heart to tell the story of the day I found out my father had taken his own life. I have no idea why this was the only idea in my mind for over a week. I have no idea why I felt compelled to tell a story I hadn’t even told my wife to a group of complete strangers. But.. I did.

And so I took the course of a day to bring a day I’d soon rather forget back to life. I met all of the requirements, and was sure I could deliver the speech without showing an ounce of emotion. I have always been one to hide emotions, especially in regards to the passing of my father; I had it down.

The day arrives, I’m ready and I signed up to go first that day. I wanted to get it over with and have the rest of the class to just sit and watch others be nervous before their turn.

I delivered the speech with confidence, but I did get choked up as the words my mother told me that day came out of my own lips “your dad killed himself this morning.” And again as I talked about turning to my grandma on that day, seeing her completely broken down (something that never happened), hearing her say “I’m really sorry boys. I know exactly what you feel, my mom took her own life as well.”

Wow. It’s still miserable to think about.

I finished my speech, I sat back down and felt relief. Not in the fact that I was done with the class, but because I was able to tell a story I hadn’t really told before.

A few days later I received my critique sheet which included helpful tips and pointers on improving my public speaking skill set, along with a grade. I don’t remember my grade, I don’t remember one critique listed on that piece of paper. The only thing I remember seeing was “I am a victim of suicide, too. I’m sorry for your loss.”

A victim of suicide? Huh. I’m not the victim, my dad was… wait. I am a victim. I have to deal with the emotional scars created by my dad’s decision for the rest of my life.

Those words and the change in perspective they brought regarding my father’s suicide have changed my entire outlook on life. As silly as that sounds. Before you go thinking that I view myself as nothing but a victim, playing the “poor me” card any chance I get — you’re wrong.

Those words simply reinforced to me that what I had felt, and will continue to feel about the loss of my father is OK. Not only is it OK, but it’s expected. Accepted, even.

I guess, really, it gave me a title. It gave my emotions, my pain, my hurt, my anger, my sadness, my years of depression growing up.. it gave it all a title. You know how people that are chronically sick without a diagnosis feel relief when a doctor is finally able to identify the diseases attacking their body? I can only guess I felt the same way.

I’m Jason Cipriani. I’m a husband. I’m a father. I’m a son. I’m a brother. I’m a friend. I’m a writer. I’m a victim of suicide.