⚠️ Trigger Warning: Suicidal Ideation. This piece highlights a journey through grief, suicidal ideation, and healing. If you're experiencing grief or suicidal thoughts, Uwam provides a directory of professionals you can speak to, including emergency helplines.
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My world came crashing into a million tiny pieces when I heard my stepbrother's crying voice over the phone. It could only mean one thing: my dad was dead. The impossible had become possible.
Before his death, I did think about my dad dying, but I considered it a hypothetical concept, like the end of the world or AI wiping out humans, where you know it could happen but don't think it would actually happen; at least not in your lifetime. I mean, my dad had always been there. I've known him all my life. Death wasn't something that could reach him.
Until it did.
And I wanted it to reach me too.
You see, I loved my dad deeply, and he loved me just as much, and maybe a bit more. He never missed a visiting day while I was in secondary school, and those happened every month. When he genuinely couldn't make it, he'd come before or after the appointed date.
In JSS1, when I was in a school with just one visiting day per term, my dad parked at the school gate and said he'd burn the school to the ground if he wasn’t allowed to see his daughter promptly. Man was so dramatic, all to deliver a bag of sachet water to me that seniors would take away anyway.
One time, when he scolded me over something he realised later wasn't my fault, he bought me a tub of ice cream and drove out to help me find the keys to my bedroom, which I had lost during the debacle. He didn't say sorry, but his eyes were meek as he handed me the keys and ice cream.
Throughout my childhood, my dad wrote letters to me. In primary school, I was in a different state from him, and in secondary school I was confined to the premises for around 3 months at a time, so we were still apart. I had a phone in primary school (which he gifted me, by the way; I was the first child in the family to have a phone despite being the last child), which meant he could call me at any time or call my mum, but he wrote me letters regardless.
In secondary school, he began every letter with "Dodoo Darling" and ended with "Love you!" Yeah, I had a dad who told me he loved me and showed it too. And as you can imagine, this is where the name I use today came from; it was an opener from my dad's letters to me.
So you can imagine my devastation at the fact that this man was gone for good. This man whom I loved dearly; this man whom I was yet to make proud.
I could not imagine living life without him. I did not understand how that was even possible. What was I to stick around and do with him gone?
He taught me nearly everything I know...and struggled to know. He taught me French, he taught me Math, he taught me that a glass was still dirty if water stuck to it, and he taught me that the ground was meant for walking, not dumping trash on. I still had so much to learn; I needed him.
And so slowly, the thought began to form. I could kill myself and go be with him. He'd teach me everything he knew and hold me in his lap like that picture from when I was 2 years old, and he'd say, "Ka wan uwam u masetyo je ne" This is my last child, with that same smile that beamed with pride whenever he said those words. The smile seemed to say, "Yeah, look what I made. A brilliant and beautiful young woman!"
How would I kill myself, though?
Six months before my dad's death, my childhood friend had died by his own hand. The story is complicated and unclear, but the doctors found Sniper in his system. He did not survive 24 hours in the ICU. He struggled greatly and was in a lot of pain before resting forever.
My threshold for pain is just too low to do that. I could not leave by sniper. I've always desired (and still do) to exit with as little pain and suffering as possible. I needed softer approaches to leaving the earth.
So I began to research it.
I was raised in a Christian home and taught that death by your own hand would send you to hell. I did not want to go to hell, but considering my life felt like hell already, I didn't think it could get any worse.
This happened in 2020, when I was locked in with family and did not have the opportunity to execute my plan. When interstate travel resumed, I went to stay with a friend in Abuja. There were three of us girls living together, and once again, the opportunity could not be found.
I can't say why I decided to get help, but I did. I sent a dm to Mentally Aware Nigeria Initiative in the middle of a particularly difficult night.
It's because of them (and undoubtedly my own effort) that I'm still here.
It's feeding on your silence
Going back to read the message I sent to MANI, I feel really sad for that girl; that version of me that was ashamed of her suffering. Who didn’t want people to see her as sick or in need of help.
And so this is the first thing I'd say to anyone who is struggling mentally or having suicidal thoughts: do not hold shame for a suffering that isn't yours to hold. The pain, the sadness, the suicidal ideation; those are not your doing; do not be ashamed of them.
We may have grown up with negative perceptions of people receiving mental health care and maybe even propagated some at one point or another, but this mindset does no one any good.
One of the greatest contributors to the first publication of the Oxford English Dictionary was Dr William Chester Minor, a mentally ill man who was locked in an asylum. Some of the geniuses we know and celebrate today in the arts and sciences experienced mental illness too. This means a person's identity, worth, and even potential cannot and should not be tied to the mental struggles they face. It's no reason for them to be treated as less than human.
So don't hold it in. Don't hide from the people who love you. By opening up about your struggles, you take away the bulk of its power, which is dependent on you being silent; on you isolating yourself and building shame. A lot of women experiencing depression do not get the care they need, and that emboldens the struggle. It's banking on the fact that you will be quiet about it.
Oh, but we're not quiet women. We're loud, and we're proud, and we're fierce. We're not the type to let suicide have the last laugh. We fight with everything we've got, and sometimes that looks like talking to a friend or a mental health professional. When we speak up, we strip it of its power and toss it in the trash along with the shame it thought we'd carry.
And if you decide you want to speak to someone, here are three numbers you can call
💚 MANI (Mentally Aware): 08091116264
💚 SURPIN: 09080217555
💚 She Writes Woman (toll-free): 08008002000
If you want to find a psychotherapist, you can look at several options on Uwam's Directory for Mental Health Facilities in Nigeria.
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