God has left the Room

My grandfather owned a modest house in a Spanish ghetto.  A neighborhood where bodegas were stationed on every corner and each house usually had its own private mango tree. After a long day of blue-collared work, my grandfather would pick me up from school. I remember spending my summers, weekends, and school nights at his house. He would tell me stories about himself and listen to my child-like rambling for what I’m sure, to him, seemed like hours. On sunny days, my grandfather would spend hours with me outside, building forts out of whatever scraps he could find. This was our bonding time. On stormy days, we would gather all of the clothing hanging on drying lines, and make teepees holding a “Cuban American’s” version of an “English” tea party. These are the things I remember about my grandfather. A man of character and strength. A man who when faced with a country, ravished by dictatorship and starvation, made the courageous decision, to pile his young sons into a make-shift boat, and float towards freedom, in the United States. A man who left everything he knew in Cuba, and rebuilt a respectable life. But to me, personally, my grandfather will always be, a man who loved to build forts in the backyard with his granddaughter. 

So today, years later, I still do not understand why he chose to take his own life. I think back to that day, and there I was, a kid left with a million questions. There was never a note or goodbye to provide any closure. What about us? What about my young siblings and cousins? What about my grandmother and his wife of 50 years? Why?

Looking back on that day, I often ask myself, was he the man I thought knew? I now realize that there where many things I missed. I never thought anything of the beer he would drink at breakfast, lunch or dinner. I never really took note of the kitchen wall being lined with wine bottles and beer. It was simply his norm. I never made the connection between my loving grandfather and alcoholism. He was not a religious man, but the cross hanging from his cars rear view mirror, had me convinced that he was a believer. I surely was a believer, so naturally, the next question for me was: well, why didn’t God step in and stop him? If not for him, then why didn’t he stop him, for me? I questioned everything that I had been taught. My only answer, was that…in that vital moment …– God, apparently had left the room.

Television shows today are produced to glorify suicide. These shows glaze over the havoc suicide leaves behind. They fail to accurately show the dark reality. Suicide does not permit for retakes and leaves families behind shattered. Do producers not understand that young audiences, some suffering from mental illness, may be captivated by the thought of ending their lives to get the attention of loved ones? I know now that society is far from ready to openly discuss the issues of mental illness and depression. However, living in a society, which often romanticizes suicide, forces me to question the medias understanding of the complexities surrounding depression.

The truth is that my grandfather’s suicide prepared me for some of the hardships I know, life will throw at me. I now know that openly communicating with others, is one of life’s greatest tools, and the critical piece required in starting any conversation about suicide. 

The journey of grief and acceptance that came in the years that followed my Grandfathers choice, taught me some valuable lessons. I promised myself I would be better in my own life. I realized that life, not only required people to be compassionate, but to stop, look around, and feel people’s sadness. Today, rather than reflecting on my grandfathers passing in a solely negative light, I remember him as the strong man of character he was. One who’s ill attempted message, was delivered poorly, but arrived with incredible valuable. A message that today, I hear loud and clear -  human life is delicate and we must all communicate with intention, HEARING what the people we love say, even, when they say nothing at all.