Suicide, Grief, and the Writer’s Mind

Why Mental Health Must Be Part of Your Writing Practice

Photo of Uncle David’s favorite poem

That lightning never strikes the same place twice is a myth many of us accept—at least I did until recently. I’ve also fallen prey to this one: healing yourself and talking about suicide will shield you from future devastating losses.

I’ve long carried the grief of early suicide losses—a friend named Mikey at twelve, a friend named Mike at sixteen, my friend Dave and my brother Joe two months before my twenty-third birthday. I’ve cried, written, and confronted my horror and shame. I’ve wrestled with the niggling question of why, and come to accept that I’ll never know.

I’ve also supported other suicide loss survivors through prevention walks and held space for clients and writers grappling with this kind of grief. I thought I’d healed. That maybe I’d “paid my dues.” But suicide doesn’t work that way.

In December 2024, I got the call: My Uncle David had been found dead of an apparent suicide.

Hearing the news catapulted me back to that day in 2002 when he told us he’d tested positive for the Huntington’s Disease gene, and calmly said, “I’ll end things when it gets bad enough.” Back then, his threat felt empty; the disease that cruelly combines symptoms of Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, and schizophrenia seemed theoretical.

Over the past few years, things had worsened. Jerking in his arms and legs made it difficult for him to work. He became rigid and pushed people away. My attempts to connect him with other relatives failed. Still, I thought he had more time.

In March 2024, I took a break from our weekly calls to care for my father. The last time we spoke, he said, “Later, gator.” I replied, “After a while, crocodile.” That had been our goodbye for over thirty-three years.

The next call I received was from the coroner.

During my recent trip to Louisville for his memorial, I remembered the complicated man I’d known, who was only twelve years older than me. There was David, the traditionalist, who believed every holiday should adhere to the same rituals. Then there was David, the adventurer—the only person who skydived with me back when jumping from airplanes was my greatest love. He and I also flew in World War II fighter jets, braved amusement park rides, and soared over Derby City in a hot air balloon.

There was also David, the giver. After getting LASIK surgery, he paid for me to have it too because, as someone who’d once been legally blind, he understood the miracle of regaining your sight.

David was also a nudist who believed everyone else should be one too. As we gathered at Golden Corral to memorialize him over the all-you-can-eat buffet he loved, we swapped awkward naked David tales.

We loved him, and we were at times exasperated by him. But most of all, we miss him very much.

I can’t think about David’s suicide without also thinking about my brother Joe. This new grief rekindles the old one. I once again wrestle with the why, and reckon with my guilt and shame that maybe I didn’t do enough.

I’m also flummoxed by how, despite increased awareness and support, the number of suicides continues to rise. In 1997, the year Joe died, approximately 34,447 Americans died by suicide. In 2022, that number increased to 49,476. Men over seventy-five have the highest suicide rate—a fact often overshadowed by the tragic teen and young adult suicides that make the news.

People who’ve lost a loved one to suicide are also at heightened risk of completing suicide, which means attending to our mental health is essential, especially during times of stress and unpredictability, like the ones we now face.

Writers also need to protect their mental health.

We feel deeply. Our sensitivity is what makes our work powerful, but in a field filled with rejection, comparison, competition, and isolation, it can also become a liability. In fact, some studies suggest we are at heightened risk for mental health issues.

That’s why I’m launching a three-week series for National Mental Health Awareness Month focused on writer mental health. I’m using it to take stock of my habits and offer you what I couldn’t give to David despite truly wanting to: awareness, resources, and support.

Want to check in with your mental health?

Start with these quick self-assessment tools:

• Psychology Today Mental Health Test

• Kristin Neff’s Self-Compassion Test

• Mental Health America’s List of Mental Health Tests

Over the coming weeks, I’ll be sharing:

• Strategies for building sustainable writing practices

• Tips for managing comparison and creative burnout

• Mental health resources for when you need more support

While most of us hope to sprint toward publication, the writing life is more like running a marathon. There are ups and downs. Sometimes we experience setbacks or hit brick walls. But if we care for ourselves and get the support we need, we can develop practices that sustain us over the long haul.

Until next week, if you’re concerned about someone, say something, and hug those you love. Also, know that I am deeply grateful for your presence here and in this world, and that I am always cheering you on.

Warmly,

Lisa

If you are wrestling with thoughts of suicide or you’re worried about a friend or family member, please reach out to a local peer support group or call or text 988.

Your Turn: Based on your experience, what are the biggest mental health challenges writers face? Share your thoughts in the comments. You never know who you might inspire or who you might help.

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