The only time I have seen my mother cry was upon her learning that my grandfather had killed himself in the 2nd floor room of her childhood home in Taipei.
“Say it was heart failure,” she said in English. “Tell no one,” she said in Chinese.
I was 13 and did not understand much about death, except that my grandfather’s death was a disgrace. I quickly buried the circumstances of his passing, in deference to my mother and our family.
——
I have worked in psychiatry for several years now and understand the realities of mental illness and the importance of seeking help. I know that suicide, especially in Chinese communities, is rather common, yet, like in many of these stories, I kept the secret of my grandfather’s death buried deep.
—–
My silence is complicated. None of my closest friends growing up know about it, and I believe it should stay this way because of my deep sense of filial piety. It is not their business. What purpose would it serve to suddenly share this information with them?
In truth, I do not believe that anyone needs to share their story. My grief and trauma are mine, along with the ways I choose to express them. Yet, I choose to share because it’s all too easy to say that suicide is preventable, but it is.
——
I remember listening to my mom rationalize her father’s death. I have heard her voice various hurtful and harmful thoughts about suicide. I know better than to talk to my mother about my grandfather’s probable mental illness, because it is a truth she will not accept. My grandfather’s death remains a stain that colors my family’s perception of mental health challenges as inner weakness or a moral failing.
—-
I think exhaustively about the extent to which this shame-filled and lonely state of mind may have kept him from seeking help and may have fed into the feelings of isolation and helplessness that led to his loss.
I know there is shame, but there is more. And so I think about all the time I’ve spent thinking about a man who likely thought little about me. I wonder, if my grandfather were still alive, what he would think of me now. I wonder what he could have told me, now that my Mandarin has improved.
—-
I reflect on myself and my own health and mind, remembering moments of hopelessness in which I projected disordered thinking of my own into the emptied spaces of my grandfather’s mind that I can never find. Although I linger on what I can never know about him, I am grateful for all I have learned because of him. In a deeply Chinese sense, there is wisdom in the past. I think about the shame—a regretful bitterness and a bitter regret. I imagine how much more my mother must feel it.
—-
Even so, I believe that while the past cannot change, there remains much hope for change. I think about the help I have received, and I think about the passion he has given me for helping others do the same. More than anything else, I think about how much there is still to do.
我唯一一次看见母亲哭泣是当她得知我外祖父自杀的时候，在台北，母亲童年居住的老房子的二楼。
“就说是心脏病”，她用英文说着，然后换成中文，“别告诉任何人。”
当时我13岁，并不清楚死亡的意义，只知道我外祖父的离去是一种耻辱。出于对母亲和家人的尊重，我很快便不再提起他的过世。
——
在精神科工作多年至今，我十分了解心理疾病的实际情况以及寻求帮助的重要性。我知道自杀，尤其是在华裔社群中，其实并不少见。然而，和很多这样的故事一样，祖父的离世一直是我深藏的秘密。
—-
我的沉默是复杂的。没有任何一个和我一起长大的好朋友知晓这件事。我很孝顺，我觉得就该这样。和他们无关的事情，跟他们说有什么意义呢？
事实上，我不相信任何人需要去分享他们的故事。我的苦痛和创伤属于我自己，我该怎样去表达是我的事。可是，我还是选择分享，因为说自杀是可以预防的太过容易，但其实的确如此。
——
我记得听母亲在为她父亲的死亡寻找合理解释的时候。我听到她发出过有关自杀的一些伤人的有害的看法。不过我也清楚，不能跟她讲外祖父很可能患有心理疾病，因为她根本无法接受。我的家人把心理疾病视作内心懦弱或道德失格，外祖父的死亡给这种看法又添了一笔。
—-
我竭尽全力地思考，那份耻辱与孤独是如何阻挠他去寻求帮助，又是如何让他继续深陷孤寂与无望，最终走向死亡。
我知道这里面有耻辱，但也有其他东西。其实外祖父可能不太会想起我，但我还是会花大把的时间去想他。如果他还活着，他会怎么看我呢？我的中文现在提高了很多，他会和我聊什么呢？
—-
反思我自己的身心健康，我会把自己乱糟糟的想法投射到外祖父身上。在那些不存在的空间里存放着我的无助。我从未有机会了解他，但对我来说他并没有离开，我感激因为他我学到的所有。用非常东方的方式来形容，这是前人的智慧。我眼中的耻辱有带着懊悔的苦涩，也有夹着辛酸的惋惜。可以想像我的母亲一定会感受得更深吧。
—-
即便如此，虽然过去已经无法改变，我依旧相信未来是有希望的。我会想起自己曾收到过的帮助，会想起那些外祖父赋予我去帮助别人的力量。最为重要的是，我们还有很长的一段路要走。
