Suicide - The Aftermath

A Reality Check

Mar 13, 2025

Photography: Airam Dato-on

When a celebrity commits or attempts suicide, the number for the Suicide Hotline is on every TV. Signs like the one pictured are plastered across public spaces. There are hashtags and articles on every social media outlet— experts on every podcast. People are encouraged to ask for help. Loved ones are urged to reach out to those they think might be at risk. There’s a sense of innocent confusion: “They seemed so happy” and unconditional forgiveness, “I wish I had known they were suffering so badly.” Well, not for us. There is no outpouring of love and support for the average suicide survivor.

It’s rage.

RAGE.

What people don’t talk about is the avalanche of anger that comes after a suicide (completed or attempted). We can’t just talk about pre-emptive action; we also have to address the aftermath. There is a different reality for survivors who aren’t famous. It’s rage. Why didn’t you reach out? Why didn’t you tell someone? Why didn’t you go to a doctor? How could YOU do this to US? Every ounce of blame is placed squarely on the shoulders of someone who already hates themselves so much they just tried to end their own life.

If someone who is suicidal reaches out, tells someone, and sees a doctor, they’re often ignored and/or mocked. It follows that no one cares, and from that follows no one would miss them, and from that follows that everybody would be better off without them so why should they continue living in Hell? Suicide is clearly the best option for everyone’s sake. You make the decision. You take action. Then you end up either in the hospital or the morgue.

When you get out of the hospital, the only thing that has changed is that everyone hates you now. That’s if you’re un/lucky enough to survive. My fiancé left me and took my dog. My mother refused to speak to me for a month— my brother, three months. The dear friends who did talk to me approached me in the street (or convenience store or dog groomer or restaurant) to tell me what a piece of shit I was and that it would have been better if I had died. One even challenged me to try again, “and mean it this time.” They made it clear whenever I saw them that they wished I were dead, often using those exact words: “I wish you were dead,” just passing me on the sidewalk.

I lost someone recently to a self-inflicted gunshot wound and what was the general reaction of his family and friends? Rage. Not compassion. Not regret. Not pity. Not love. Not a hint of grief. RAGE. I couldn’t give them advice or comfort because they were so consumed by anger. I’m always a little jealous when someone shuffles loose their mortal coil early because they don’t have to see what it does to the people left behind. They don’t have that guilt piled on them; they die believing that their loved ones will either cry or not care. The truth is neither— They’ll hate you for it.

I don’t judge them for that reaction but it’s brutal to experience. Nothing makes someone feel more powerless than the suicide of a loved one. When a celebrity dies by their own hand, suddenly everyone cares for a week or two about the 49,000 Americans who end their lives prematurely every year. This gradually fades over time, as illustrated by the fact that this encouragement to seek help hasn’t been newsworthy lately. Soon another famous person will commit suicide and everyone will react with shock and pity and compassion and it’s FAKE. All this love and support and “If only I had known” is disingenuous so just stop. That’s not real life.

There is a different reality for survivors who haven’t made beautiful music or been part of a beloved film or garnered thousands of followers as an influencer. It’s rage. You’re forced to apologize for your “betrayal” even though you considered it a favor. People constantly remind you of your disgrace; it’s a never ending barrage of guilt and shame. You lie and cry and beg forgiveness, saying “I’m sorry… I’m so unspeakably sorry” even though you don’t mean it. And the whole time, you’re just thinking:

Next time I’ll get a gun.

Let them hate me in my grave.