2006

Running blindly, heart pounding, legs propelling me forward. My husband Glenn, a startled look on his face, jumps up and grabs me as I run past him. He pulls me in close and wraps his arms around me, holding me tight. He’s saying something, but I can’t hear him. Why can’t I hear him? Some noise. There’s some horrible, awful noise that’s drowning him out. What The Hell Is That Noise? 

A whisper that seems to come from within, “It’s you dear, you’re keening.”

Keening. My brain frantically searches for the meaning…an image surfaces of old ladies squatting by the side of a road, wailing. Someone had died. Someone had died? 

No. No! Everything came rushing back.

It was an unusually warm September day, and I was glad the workday was over so I could enjoy some of the beautiful weather. As I pulled into the driveway, I noticed my daughter, Angey, had put a couple of chairs and a small table out in the sun. She looked happy and excited. 

“Hey, Mom, I’m glad you’re home. Do you want to get a drink and come out here and chat? It’s so nice out, and I have some news to share.”

I quickly dropped my bag in the house, grabbed a cold drink, and headed back outside. I had barely settled into my chair when Angey’s phone rang. She glanced at the number and frowned.

 “It’s a Grande Prairie number,” she murmured. “I don’t recognize it.” 

Grande Prairie. Our hometown. Where most of our family and friends lived. Where my elderly mother still lived. If anything happened to Mom, they would call me, wouldn’t they?

Angey went into her room to take the call, and after waiting for a few minutes, I went in too. Noticing her bedroom door was open, I headed down the hall to her room, wondering how long she’d be. 

She was sitting on the edge of her bed, phone to her ear. As I approached, she looked up at me, a stricken look on her ashen face. Instantly, my heart began to race.

“Who is it? What’s wrong?” 

“It’s Lester," she said—my sister’s roommate and former partner. “It’s Auntie Lee."

My sister. My mouth went dry. “What, what’s wrong?”

“She’s dead.”  

“What?” No, she couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t be. We just talked a few days ago. And there were so many things we planned to do together someday when we had time. We’re going to be crazy old ladies together, like our mom and aunts. We’ve talked about it for years. It can’t be true. It can’t.

 “What happened?” 

A shaky breath. “Suicide. She hung herself.”

I must have gone into shock. It was like my brain stopped working. Pressure was building inside, and it just burst out of me as a wail of pure anguish. I turned and started running blindly, hot tears streaming down my face, just needing to escape, desperate for it not to be true.                                      

Losing someone you love is hard; it can be one of the most painful experiences you’ll ever have to endure. Losing someone you love to suicide adds an entirely different level of pain and anguish that can be completely overwhelming. Not only are you dealing with the grief of losing someone you loved, but there are often questions about why they did it and conflicting emotions like shame, guilt, and anger as well as the grief. There’s a stigma around suicide that makes it difficult to talk about.

And we Need to talk about it.

Suicides have risen significantly over the last few years around the world and are at an all-time high, according to the most recent research at the time of this writing. According to the World Health Organization, suicide is the third leading cause of death among 15-29-year-olds.

Another person dies from suicide every forty seconds. Those are just the successful ones. Many more people attempt suicide and don’t succeed. A lot of those attempts are unreported. Some people haven’t attempted it yet; they just have suicidal thoughts. For them, sometimes all it takes is a really low moment to give in to that thought. 

It’s so unnecessary. It doesn’t have to be this way. Suicide is a completely preventable death! 

For me, when I learned of Lee’s death, there were terrible feelings of guilt mixed with shame. Because I should have seen. I should have known. I should have been able to save her. 

I had walked through that same darkness myself and found a way back. But because of the stigma, the shame, I kept my story buried. I silenced my heart when it wanted to speak—so few knew the truth. Maybe if I had shared, if I had honored those quiet inner whispers, she would have felt less alone. Maybe she’d still be here today.

 

1999

The jarring sound of cupboard doors banging in the next room seemed to vibrate right through me as I lay shivering on the bed. The sound of ice cubes rattling in a glass, a drink being poured, the fridge door slamming shut. Snippets of sounds on the TV as he surfed channels. I prayed he would find something to watch and just pass out on the couch, scared of what he might do if he came back into the bedroom. 

My ears strained, listening for sounds of movement. Tears of hopelessness, shame, and despair blurred my vision and ran down my face, wetting the pillow beneath me. A slight burning sensation at my wrist, as a slow trickle of blood pooled on the bed beside me. Scared to draw attention to myself, I lay there miserably, wishing the night was over, waiting for morning to come.

I had ignored the jolt of alarm from within when I first agreed to go out with Wayne. My world had been turned upside down when my twenty-year marriage ended. After my first husband walked out, I became lonely, and being unfamiliar with dating, I let Wayne talk me into giving him a chance, ignoring a little whisper within that was urging me to say no. Despite my misgivings, he seemed to be pleasant company. He took me dancing, and I had fun for the first time in quite a while. We continued to see each other and eventually started talking about living together. Why both pay rent? It seemed to make sense. 

Shortly after moving in together, things changed. 

It came out of nowhere, the first time he hit me. Everything had seemed fine, and then, suddenly, it wasn’t. I was shocked and confused. What had happened? 

Why hadn’t I left then? I should have left then, that very first time. But he had apologized so profusely. He bought me flowers and told me he was “so embarrassed and so very sorry. He’d never forgive himself for hurting me. It had only happened because he had been drinking. It would never happen again.” And because things had been good until then, I believed him.

The problem was, it did happen again. And again, and again. I never knew what would trigger the violence. As bad as the physical abuse was, the emotional abuse was worse. Bruises heal, but the mental pain tends to linger. 

Today, he went out of town for work and wasn’t due back for a few days. I was relieved, yet I knew he would be back. I was so tense, I couldn’t relax. Crazy, vile thoughts started racing through my mind, engulfing me in pain. This was not my life. This couldn’t be my life. I was clinically depressed, and my life just kept spiraling down. It seemed like no matter what I did, things went wrong. This morning, looking in the mirror, I didn’t even recognize myself. I’d lost so much weight I was just skin and bones, with dark circles under my eyes, and I was so pale.   

I’d always considered myself fairly intelligent, so how had I ended up in this mess? Why did I stay? But how could I go? He often threatened me, saying, “If you ever leave me, I’ll kill you! But I won’t do it right away when you’re expecting it. No, I’ll wait until you feel nice and safe, until you’ve forgotten all about me.” And he would smile. Just thinking of that sinister smile and the look in his eyes makes me shiver.

A wave of hopelessness washed over me. My stomach twisted into tight knots. I couldn’t get away. I couldn’t escape. There was nothing I could do. Almost like I was in a trance, I slowly opened the drawer and pulled out the biggest, sharpest knife we owned. 

My heart thumping wildly, I went into the bedroom, shut the door behind me, and lay down on the bed, reckless, painful thoughts still racing through my mind. How had life come to this? There was no way out. I had nowhere to go, no money to move, and nobody to help me. Nobody cared. And even if I got away, he’d just find me, and who knows how much pain he’d inflict on me then. 

I had kept hoping that somehow it would go back to like it was in the beginning, before everything turned upside down, but it was hopeless. I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t go on like this. I had completely lost touch with my heart’s desires—the quiet, inner longings that once guided me toward what was right for me, what brought me joy, and what truly mattered. My depression, lasting so long, had made me lose sight of who I was at my core. Taking a shaky breath, I pressed the blade against my wrist and pulled it towards me.

It was as if time slowed down, and everything moved in slow motion. Just as the skin started to split and blood started dripping out of my wrist, the bedroom door flew open, and in two long strides, Wayne was on me, grabbing at my arms, twisting my wrist until the knife dropped away from my hand. 

Grabbing the knife, he spat at me angrily, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? I could kill you myself, but not in our fucking apartment! Stupid Bitch!” 

Looking at me in anger and disgust, he left, slamming the bedroom door behind him. Then he started drinking. How long ago was that? He hadn’t come back in, ignoring me completely. As if I didn’t exist, as if I was nothing. Yet, I was terrified about what he might do if he came back in. How he’d hurt me, make me pay. It didn’t escape me that it seemed a bit crazy. After all, he had just stopped me. For the third time in my life, I had attempted suicide.  

How the hell did I get this low? Where there was so little happiness or joy in life and so much pain. I just wanted to end the damn pain. He was supposed to be out of town. What was he doing home? And then, faintly, I thought I heard a whisper.

“It’s not your time yet.”

 What? What was that? Who was that? What? I heard it again, a little whisper that seemed to come from within.

“It’s not your time yet.” What? What the hell? Was I going crazy?

And then a flash of memory hit. It was 1981 and my parents wanted to take my son Chris and my niece Tasha, both two years old, on a fishing trip. I was eight months pregnant and looking forward to a break. When it was time for them to pick Chris up, I heard a voice from within, except it wasn’t a whisper; it was more like a shout, "No! He Can’t Go! Don’t Let Him Go.” A sense of absolute certainty that he must not go came over me. Somewhat shaken, I called my parents, telling them I was sorry, but he couldn’t go. They immediately tried to reason with me, telling me how much fun he was going to have. When that didn’t sway me, they tried guilt. I kept repeating that he couldn’t go, and finally, I just hung up. 

I didn’t expect them to leave it at that. I somewhat desperately told my husband, Arnie, “My parents are probably going to come over, and I’m scared I might give in to them, but Chris Can’t go! I don’t know why, but he cannot go!”

“I’m going to go lie down. Do Not let them take him!” A few minutes later, I heard the doorbell, then my parents at the door talking with Arnie, trying to convince him. To his credit, he stood firm, telling them, “I don’t know what’s wrong with her; she doesn’t want him to go. I don’t want her upset; that’s probably not good for the baby.” 

My father came to the door of the room where I was lying, pretending to be asleep. Why hadn’t I shut the damn door? He stood there for several moments. I could feel his gaze on me. It was very uncomfortable, but I knew I couldn’t give in. Somehow, I knew that this was important. Finally, he turned and left. 

Days later, when they returned from their trip, my mom came over. “It’s a good thing you didn’t let Chris come. As soon as we were set up, we went to the beach. It was such a nice day; we took Tasha into the lake to splash around. We hadn’t been in the water long when a big wave came out of nowhere and snatched Tash away! We barely managed to get her back. There’s no way we could have saved them both!”

That shout from within that day, that voice that had kept my son safe all those years ago, was that the same voice whispering to me now? What was it? Why was it talking to me now? At some point, feeling an odd sense almost of peace, I drifted off to sleep, still pondering that question. 

 

It was a few days later when I heard it again—a little whisper coming from within, “The antidepressants aren’t working.” 

Wait, what? No, no, no, no, I Need antidepressants. I suffer from clinical depression. Just recently, I had asked my doctor to increase the dosage, only to learn I was already on the maximum dosage. 

The whisper came again. “The antidepressants aren’t working; otherwise, why are you still suicidal?” After a pause, it continued, “Don’t you think there might be a better way?”  

Was I going crazy? Hearing voices! But as I thought about it, I did have a voice in my head, one that was often critical and unkind. This whisper wasn’t like that voice in my head; it seemed to want to help me. If it wasn’t coming from my head, could it be coming from my heart? As I thought about it, I realized the whisper was right because….why was I suicidal when I was taking my pills as prescribed? I was taking Ativan too. The medications weren’t working, so why was I taking them? I made an appointment with my doctor and had him wean me off the pills. 

I knew I had to do something, though. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life depressed or suicidal. 

So I started reading, something I’d always enjoyed. I wanted a better understanding of how our brains work, and I quickly became fascinated. Not only do our brains repeat most of the same thoughts day after day, like an endless video loop, but I also learned that our brains can, and do, lie to us regularly! I thought of the mean little voice in my head that would tell me I’m stupid, or not good enough, or I do nothing right. But I didn’t think it was lying to me; it felt more like it was stating a fact. If it was lying to me, what could I do about it?

“Stop listening to it.” There was that whisper again! Stop listening to it? How was I supposed to do that?

Somehow, I got this crazy idea that maybe there was a way to catch it and get rid of it, kind of like how you might catch a mouse and get it out of your house. I decided I would first have to catch it talking to me, and then maybe I could challenge it somehow, like challenging someone to a duel, and hopefully, it would go away in defeat. But how could I do that? 

I started to experiment and celebrate whenever I heard it. “Woo hoo. Caught you!” Then I would call it out, “You’re lying to me! I know you’re lying to me because……” I actually didn’t know the first time I asked, yet as I paused, answers started coming to me. “Because I got fantastic grades in school! I challenged the C.G.A. to allow me into their certified accounting program with a grade twelve general equivalency diploma! I worked with one other person to update the RCMP’s Lady Beware pamphlet for the entire country at their request. They wouldn’t have someone stupid or not good enough do that! See. You’re lying to me!” I followed that up with what I thought a kind voice would say to me at that moment. 

After all, I’d already realized there were two voices within me: the loud, cruel, relentless voice in my head, and the quiet, loving, kind voice whispering to me from my heart. Was it intuition, higher self or soul? For so long, I’d only heard the critical voice in my head, but now I was finally listening to the whispers from my heart. And using them to defeat the mean voice. Although that mean voice never went away completely, eventually, it calmed down quite a bit. 

As the mean voice started to calm down, I began looking at myself in the mirror and saying, “I love you.”  I don’t know why I started it. Maybe I just missed hearing it. It felt very strange at first, and I was surprised to find I couldn’t look myself in the eyes when I said it. I decided to continue the practice until I could. I still say it occasionally as a way to connect with myself.

Another thing I did was, whenever I got anxious or upset—which was fairly often living with Wayne—I would envision a serene sanctuary in my mind where I could escape to. A beautiful gentle waterfall, gentle enough that I could stand under it and let the water trickle down over me. I could feel the sun shining on me and an occasional gentle breeze cooling my sun-warmed skin. The fragrance of the colorful wildflowers growing along the banks and the trees was invigorating. The beautiful melody of nearby birds blended with the quiet murmur of the water. It was my private paradise. It became an internal escape that’s always there to help calm me down whenever I need it. I still like to close my eyes when I’m in the shower and imagine it even when I’m not upset. It just feels good to be there mentally.

Now that I was off the medication, I was thinking clearer. I was making small but significant progress, and I heard that little whisper of the heart more often. Soon, it started telling me, “You’re not happy.”

How was I supposed to be happy when nothing had really changed? I had managed my stress and anxiety a bit better, but that’s it. Life still sucked. 

After some thought, I decided to ‘fake it until I make it’ and start with something simple. I chose smiling. All I had to do was smile. That’s it. My first attempts at smiling looked more like a grimace, but I persisted, putting notes around the apartment to remind me and setting a timer to go off every hour so I could check in and smile. 

I had actually stumbled across a science-based trick. When we smile, our brains release feel-good hormones, dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin. This chemical reaction tricks our brain into thinking we’re happy, and we start feeling happier. 

I wondered if, by continuing to make these small shifts that really didn't take much effort, and if I made enough of them, maybe there would be a big boost somewhere along the way and I would finally be happy.

That thought inspired me to continue to learn and experiment. 

I created a list of things I enjoyed doing when I was young and started doing some of those things again. I started reaching out to people instead of waiting for them to contact me. I began going for walks and putting on music to dance. 

I appreciated the things that were pulling me out of that dark place and was grateful for every bit of happiness I could grab hold of. 

Slowly, my happiness increased, and as it did, my energy, confidence, determination, and desire for a better life did too.

Then, a day came when my doctor, believing I had cancer, started preparing me for what to expect. I went home in shock, and as I walked in, I heard the whisper again. “You won’t be able to fight for your life if you’re still fighting with that asshole. He has to go.” 

It took a few months to build up the courage before I ended that toxic relationship. The ending was violent, with death threats towards not only me but towards my family and coworkers. The police got involved, and a restraining order was issued, but it meant nothing to him. He started stalking me. 

Scared whenever I had to go out, I stayed in most of the time, feeling safer behind deadbolt-locked doors. 

It was my daughter who first suggested moving—leaving our hometown and starting over somewhere new. The seed had been planted, and the little whisper agreed: “Leave your hometown. Move to a big city where you’ll be harder to find. Where you’ll be safer.” 

Guided by the whisper from my heart, we moved. We wanted to meet new people and make new friends. The last thing I wanted was a romantic relationship. So when our new neighbours took us out to meet people and introduced me to a man named Glenn, I wasn’t expecting to hear the little whisper. “You need to get to know him better.” He wasn’t looking to start a relationship either, for his own reasons, yet we both felt an immediate connection that was impossible to resist. We’re still together, happily married, twenty-one years later. 

I’ve come to trust that little whisper from my heart.   

Glenn and I created a life so much better than the past had been. It was much happier, until that tragic September day in 2006, when I learned that suicide doesn’t end pain after all. It magnifies it and sends it out to others. To people that love and care. People who, in those deep, dark moments, you think don’t care at all. When you’re down that low, you aren’t thinking clearly.

It was while grieving Lee’s death that the whisper threw me a complete curveball. 

“You have to help people stop suffering; this has to stop.” 

What? I mean, I agree, the suffering has to stop, but me? Who the hell am I? I wouldn’t even be here if I didn’t suck at suicide so much. How am I supposed to help anyone? I’m not an expert.

Still, the whisper hadn’t steered me wrong before. I had helped myself, and I was upset I hadn’t realized Lee was suicidal because I believed I could have helped her. The last time I saw Lee was at our nephew’s funeral, who was also lost to suicide. How many others were suffering in silence? Maybe the whisper was right. Maybe, just maybe, I could help someone else.

After all, I know how there’s no hope when you’re in that dark place. I know very well what it’s like to feel like nobody cares, to not even want to get out of bed. To lie in bed praying your life will end so the pain will stop. 

And I’m living proof that there is a way out. That there can be a much better, brighter tomorrow, even without medication.

Although I still didn’t really know how I could help, I  started paying more attention to the people around me, offering suggestions and support where I could, trusting that it was helping. 

In 2016, I noticed that Scott, a close friend, seemed a bit off. Concerned, Glenn and I approached him and asked if we could help. After thanking us for our concern, he assured us that suicide was the farthest thing from his mind and that we didn’t need to worry about him.  Not long after that conversation, we had a fantastic, fun-filled day with Scott. He spent the night at our place, and Glenn dropped him off at his home the next morning, never once thinking it would be the last time we would see him alive. Scott shot himself and bled to death. His body wouldn’t be discovered for several days, and when he was discovered, he had left two notes. One to his mom, and one to Glenn and I. Reading that letter, his final thoughts and words to us was devastating. In my anguish, I heard it again “You have to help people stop suffering; this has to stop.”

Frustrated, feeling like I had failed Scott, and accepting what the whisper from my heart was saying, that I needed to help others, I threw the question out to the Universe “How? How am I supposed to help? What am I supposed to do that will actually help people?” 

Once I asked the question, it seemed like everything started lining up. Almost as if I was being guided. I learned of a Strategic Intervention coaching course that I was able to take, even though it was past the registration deadline. Mentors started appearing in my life. Money that wasn’t expected showed up so I could take further courses and trainings I didn’t have the funds for. Someone mentioned I must have taken ASIST, the most recognized suicide prevention course in the world. I hadn’t even heard of it. 

There was the whisper again, “Take it." When I Googled it, I learned there was a course happening in my city in just a few weeks. Of course, I signed up, and now I’m ASIST-qualified too.

It’s been a long journey out from under that dark cloud of depression, back in the days when I was listening to my head and wanting pills to fix me. I don’t know where I’d be, or if I’d even still be alive, if I hadn’t listened to the whispers from my heart. 

I know that if I could do it, if I could listen to the whispers and change my life, anyone can. We’re meant to be the heroes of our stories, not the victims.

One of the simplest things I did in the early days was smile. Recently, I received a group email from a coworker who was extremely upset. In her angst, it sounded like she was attacking me. My initial reaction was to get defensive and upset. Then I thought about how I believe we’re all doing the very best we can with the knowledge we have, because if we knew better, we would do better. And I smiled. 

I’ve seen smiles turn frazzled cashiers into pleasant and talkative people in an instant, and as a result, the next customer’s experience was better too. It started a ripple effect, all because someone smiled at a stressed person. When you gift someone with a smile, it lights up your heart and theirs. You never know who really needs that smile and what a difference it could make.  

The next time you feel overwhelmed or lost, pause for a moment and try smiling, even if it’s only for a few seconds. See if it shifts how you feel and brings you back to a place of hope. 

I challenge you to smile for a full minute and witness your transformation. And trust your heart, that little voice inside guiding you, if you’ll just clear your mind, be still, and listen.

My brain still tries to lie to me sometimes, but my heart, my radiant whispering heart, has never steered me wrong.