Lindsay Cox lost both her parents to suicide when she was 12. But she doesn’t want how they died to define them:
If my parents died of nearly any other cause within months of each other before I hit puberty, most people would see it as a complete and utter tragedy; they’d readily accept their deaths as worthy of mourning. Instead, I’m often discouraged from talking about my parents and their passing. A lot of my family members — including my maternal grandparents — pretend like neither of my parents ever existed in the first place. There aren’t any photos of my mom or dad in their homes; they never say their names or bring them up in conversations. Their way of grappling with the depressing reality of their deaths is by not acknowledging them at all.
But I don’t want to forget them;
I don’t want to pretend like my parents never existed because they died a death that isn’t as socially acceptable as others. They did exist, and their existence was important because they created me. They were responsible for my being, and I love them because unconditional love doesn’t always mean loving and caring about someone in picture-perfect circumstances. Life is messy, human beings are flawed, but we can love them anyway. We do love them anyway. I do not want my parents to be remembered for the illnesses that eventually took their lives. I want them to be remembered for the creative, loving, and special people they were, the same creativity, love, and specialness that still runs through my veins.
The Dish’s deep thread on suicide is here.
The Dish 