There Should Have Been More Tuesdays

September is Suicide Prevention Month. Which means, if you work in behavioral health, September comes with a lot of purple and teal graphics, awareness ribbons, statistics, social media posts, trainings, events, and reminders to “start the conversation.” All of those things matter. But for some of us, suicide prevention isn’t something that fits neatly into a month. It has a name. It has a face. It has a before and an after.

For me, it is also tied to someone I loved when I was young, someone I thought I was going to build a life with. We had plans. And when you’re young and in love, plans are wonderfully ridiculous things. You think you have all the time in the world. You imagine where you’ll live, what your life will look like, the things you’ll do together. You picture a future with the confidence of someone who hasn’t yet learned that life occasionally looks at your carefully constructed plans, laughs, and says, “That’s adorable.” We never got to find out what our life would have looked like. He died by suicide before we could really get started. And my life changed.

Losing someone to suicide brings a particular kind of grief. There is sadness, of course, but there can also be anger, guilt, confusion and approximately 47 million questions that have no satisfying answers. What did I miss? Could I have said something? Could I have done something? Why didn’t I know? Why didn’t he tell me?

And the big one: What if? What if he had stayed? That question can build an entire imaginary lifetime if you let it.

But grief eventually taught me something important: I could spend the rest of my life trying to rewrite the ending, or I could let what happened change what I did with the chapters I still had.

So I chose the chapters. I grew up. I built a life. And eventually, I found myself doing work centered around mental health, suicide prevention, crisis response and helping communities understand that asking for help is not something to be ashamed of. I wish that work had never become personal to me in the way that it did. But since it did, I intend to make it count.

We talk about physical health pretty easily. “My knee is killing me.” “My blood pressure is high.” “I threw my back out putting on a sock.” Nobody panics. Nobody slowly backs out of the room. But say, “I’m not doing well mentally,” and suddenly people become very interested in their shoes.

We have to get better at this. Suicide prevention does not require having the perfect words. It requires being willing to notice, ask and stay. If someone seems different, withdrawn, hopeless, overwhelmed, unusually angry, or simply not like themselves, check in.

Not the drive-by version: “How are you?” “Fine.” “Great!”

Actually ask. “You don’t seem like yourself lately. How are you really doing?”

And if you are worried someone may be thinking about suicide, ask directly: “Are you thinking about suicide?”

You will not put the idea in someone's head by asking. What you may do is give them permission to finally say out loud what they have been carrying alone. Then listen. You do not have to fix everything. You do not need a counseling degree, a laminated crisis-response flowchart or inspirational wisdom worthy of a coffee mug. You need to be present.

During Suicide Prevention Month, I want you to do more than share a post. Do something.

• Learn QPR. Question. Persuade. Refer. QPR is designed to help everyday people recognize warning signs, ask the right questions and connect someone to help. Think of it as CPR for a mental health crisis: you aren't expected to provide all the treatment. You are learning how to recognize an emergency and help someone reach the people who can.

• Check on your people (yes, the strong ones, too). Especially the strong ones, actually. The person who takes care of everyone else can become very good at answering “I’m fine” while running on fumes and caffeine. Ask twice. If your gut tells you “fine” isn't fine, trust it.

• Make help easy to reach. Save 988 in your phone. Tell your kids about it. Tell your parents. Tell your coworkers. Tell the friend who insists they “don't need that kind of thing.”

Because 988 is not only for the person experiencing a crisis. You can call, text or chat 988 if you are worried about someone else and don't know what to do next.

That matters. You do not have to decide whether a situation is “bad enough.” You do not have to diagnose your friend. You do not have to figure out the perfect next step by yourself. Reach out.

Maybe you started reading this because it is Suicide Prevention Month. Maybe you kept reading because something in it felt familiar. If life has become heavy enough that disappearing feels easier than staying, please give someone the opportunity to stand in that moment with you.

Call or text 988. You don't need the right words. “I don't know what to do” is enough. “I'm scared” is enough. “I need help” is enough.

And if you're worried about someone you love, you can contact 988 too. Ask what to do. Get guidance. Make the call you wish you didn't need to make.

I learned very young that sometimes there isn't another conversation. There isn't another Tuesday. There isn't another chance to ask the question. There isn't another opportunity to build the life you thought you had plenty of time to build.

I can't change that part of my story. But I can talk about it. I can teach. I can ask uncomfortable questions. I can remind people that help exists.

And I can keep saying this until we no longer need a Suicide Prevention Month to remind us:

Stay.

Stay for the plans that haven't happened yet. Stay for the people you haven't met. Stay for the ordinary Tuesday that may someday become one of the best days of your life.

And when staying feels impossible, don't try to figure out forever. Just get through right now. Call or text 988. For yourself. For someone you love. For the life that hasn't gotten started yet.

Take care of yourself and others-today, tomorrow, and every ordinary Tuesday.

Jamie