June 2025

“The Club”
by Alan Johnson

I am part of a club I did not choose to be part of.
This club is for those of us who have experienced the death by suicide of a family member, loved one, or
a close friend. For me, the entrance to this club was through my brother who was 3 years younger than I
and died in 2003 at age 57. It appeared that he was depressed, and his wife took him to the hospital. He
was there for three days and was released. That week he ended his life. We never saw his diagnosis,
though throughout his adult life, he had spoken of his ”demons” that would come, and he would have to
seclude himself until they left. His wife reported that he had been searching on his computer about
schizophrenia and was afraid he might have that mental illness. The family only knew about once in his
life that he had sunk into a very deep depression, and he said he was pulled out of it by it by our mother.
That was decades ago.

Our relationship as brothers was not close. We had been on different tracks growing up though we had
no animosity between us. We rarely stayed in touch. He married a solid, creative and caring woman
when he was in his 40’s. His work was on the national level of a service organization.

When I received a call from my youngest sister at 4 am the morning that my brother had died, I could
not make sense of it. All I knew was that his marriage was strong and supportive, his work very engaging
and productive, and his love for his garden was, for him, like being a part of heaven on earth. That day I
flew to Chicago where both my sister and my parents lived. My sister and I would together let our
parents know that Curt had died. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done. Standing at the door
of our parents’ bedroom, in the home where we had all grown up, I had no words to share. All I could do
was to be there as my sister told them that Curt was dead and had taken his own life.

As the first days unfolded, I remember a particular moment of being around a table with our parents,
my two sisters and my wife. We were discussing what to say to people about what happened. “Maybe
we don’t have to say suicide.” “Maybe no one needs to know.” “We could share this only with the
closest of our family and friends, but no one else.” Then our dad said, “We say that Curt had depression,
and his pain was too much for the medicine he was given. He ended his life.” We knew that people
would not know what to say next after hearing that. If it were a stroke, a heart attack, an accident, or
something else, people would accept it. They would then know what happened and what precipitated
the death. With suicide we don’t know what was going on in the person’s mind. I have come to realize
people who do end their life believe in that moment that it is the only way to escape their pain, their
confusion, and/or their hopelessness.

There is no way for me to attest to any “good” that has come from my brother’s suicide. I only see the
losses. The only thing I could do was to face my own pain and try to see it as an opportunity to explore
my own interiority, to grow, and increase my compassion through the suffering. An unwelcome
invitation, to be sure, but like any horrific life experience, suicide can open the door to inner spiritual
work. There are no answers for me, but rather a deeper embrace of my own humanity and the humanity of others. We don’t always have adequate reasons for why something happens. The ultimate reason for my brother’s death, I do not know.

The usual reactions of guilt and regret are true for me. What could I have done which might have spared
his pain and the profound grief we all felt? And there is the shame and anger. How could someone who
loved his close family so much do such a thing to them? To this day I do not know what was going on in
his mind as he so deliberatively planned his death.

Being clergy myself, I have had to dig deep in my faith to accept what has happened. I believe that God,
who is both a Mystery to me and a Divine Love for me, desires that all of us be well. It means having
resources available when a mental crisis happens. There is 988 and much more. Given all the resources, I
have come to know that I neither completely understand, nor have control of, another person’s life. I
have faith, which means I trust that God, a higher power, is the refuge, the comfort, and the unfolding
strength of love. I have been spiritually grounded and lifted by reading Psalms. In them is joy, anger,
argument, and lament. My lament continues as the death of my brother has been etched in my soul. In
Psalm 30 we read, “Weeping tarries for the night, but joy comes in the morning.” There has been and
will continue to be weeping, and there has been and will continue to be joy. I am not a person who
grieves without hope. The club that I belong to has many members, sadly. We can, however, offer each
other hope as we grieve, and for that I give thanks.

Alan Johnson is a mental health advocate. He is a co-founder of the Interfaith Network on Mental Illness (www.inmi.us) He is a retired United Church of Christ clergy who was a chaplain at The Children’s Hospital, Denver.