In November, it will be 35 years since my father died by suicide. He is still with me as much as he ever was, and paradoxically, he is also more absent than ever. My emotional relationship with him has changed and evolved more during the time since he died than it did when he was alive, and I daresay that I understand him better than I understand any other human being I have ever known. And at long last -- actually, beginning about 15 years ago -- my understanding has given me peace. It almost makes me weep to say that, for during the first decade after he died, I had no peace at all over his death, and during the second decade, although I gained ground consistently, I had no idea where I was headed.

Grief after a suicide has a great deal in common with grief after any death, regardless of how the person dies, but suicide bereavement is also unique. Suicide is a singular way to die precisely because of the deceased's volition (the idea that the death was a choice, was willful); and while it is valid to debate the nature of the choice involved in a suicidal person's self-destructive actions, it is inarguably clear that every person who dies by suicide takes decisive action himself or herself that negates the innate human will to live. It is, therefore, the deceased's volition in causing that fatal action which accounts for what is unique about the survivor of suicide loss's experience of grief.

Survivors almost universally ask themselves their own personal version of the question -- Why did the person I love take his (or her) own life? -- and although they are certainly seeking a practical explanation for what happened, many are also asking a metaphysical question: How could the "parent who raised me," the "sibling I grew up with," the "spouse I love," the "child I gave birth to" commit a self-directed act of such murderous proportions? It is the need to grasp -- not only cognitively but also viscerally or soulfully -- the volition of this act that sets suicide grief apart.

It is common for survivors of suicide loss to find the deceased's volition so puzzling -- indeed, so impossible -- that (at least at first and in some cases forever) it is literally unimaginable to them that their loved one died by his or her own hand. The process of coming to terms with this reality requires the bereaved to integrate an absolute degree of self-destructive impetus into their view of the deceased's psyche. I would argue that this is the "task of grief" unique to suicide bereavement.

I was talking to a fellow survivor of suicide loss the other day about the intense anger we both felt after our loved ones died (her husband killed himself many years ago), and I was reminded of how raw my rage was -- at my father, at his doctors, at the hospital staff where he died, sometimes at everyone and everything. My anger was connected to feelings of being betrayed, neglected, and abandoned; and it stayed alive in me for months and even for years, chipping away at my psyche and at my identity. Ultimately, it contributed to personal and interpersonal damage in my life that I couldn't seem to put a stop to (let alone repair) for a dozen years or more after he died. Beyond the conversation I was having about anger with my friend, I didn't give much thought to how it was for me way back then, for as one might imagine -- since my father's suicide was in 1978 -- I had let go of that anger and turmoil long ago.

But as I was taking a long walk yesterday evening, on Father's Day, I exchanged texts with another fellow survivor (whose husband died by suicide almost a decade ago), and her kindness for some reason reminded me of the feeling, not of anger but of being "a fatherless child ... a long way from home" (as I texted her, altering the wording of the traditional song). And that prompted me to think not of the anger but of the occasions I remember experiences of letting go of it (which was, of course, an incremental process, as all healing is).

I ... didn't know how to say how deeply thankful I am in just a few words, so I thought I would try to explain what my intention has been in all this time -- for however imperfect I've been at accomplishing it, this is what I've tried to do:

I've tried to make my words and actions on behalf of survivors and on behalf of suicide prevention ... represent my gratitude for the great healing that has come to me over this almost 35 years now since my father killed himself. I've literally tried to carry in my mind and in my heart the entire web of relationships that make up my experience over those many decades ... and that awareness of the web of relationships that we are in has ... shown me how we are truly all connected. I've come to know that whatever happens to one of us, affects us all. So what I have ... tried to do is just to be compassionate toward the person who is in front of me in the moment -- because that's really all I can do. But I've found that that makes all of the difference in the world sometimes, not just to the person in front of me, but sometimes it makes all the world of difference for me -- and truly it is what I believe might change our world.

I also want to thank the fellowship of the American Association of Suicidology -- for all of you collectively and many of you individually have ... contributed to the meaning that I have found from my father's death and made me able to apply it in my own life. In one way or another, I ... do love each and every one of you, and that comes from many, many places, many sources -- but basically I simply believe that we're all in this together ... We are all in this together, and I am so, so grateful for the work we share. The goal that we are striving toward is to alleviate the pain and suffering ... that causes people to die by suicide and that we suffer in the aftermath of suicide -- and what a noble cause.

What was the worst imaginable nightmare -- truly an event that broke not only my heart but my spirit -- from that event has come a fantastically powerful positive force that I cannot explain, but that I am infinitely grateful for.

So I would just like to thank you one and all for this great honor. I will ... cherish this moment for the rest of my life. Thank you so much.

*(To learn more about the award and see a list of past recipients, go here, and to read my short bio, go here.)

"FJC's Journal" is an occasional feature on the Grief after Suicide blog, in which editor and publisher Franklin Cook shares observations about suicide bereavement from his personal experience as a survivor of suicide loss.

I was consumed by excruciating feelings of guilt for a long, long time over my father's suicide (he died many years ago, in 1978). My guilt came from the fact that I thought I was helping him, but I did not understand the nature of his illness, so some of the things I did were actually harmful to him (like trying to talk him out of his delusions and trying to persuade him with emotional arguments that he ought to go on living). In addition, I assumed things about the situation that were entirely inaccurate (for instance, that he had the capacity to take corrective action and to solve his problems; that he would never actually kill himself no matter what; and that if I just kept attacking the problem intelligently, I'd figure it out and be able to help him elude whatever danger he might be in). Most importantly, I failed to recognize that he was in a life-or-death situation. To this day, it still seems unquestionably accurate for me to say that my father needed me, I engaged purposefully with him in order to help him, and my failure to help him clearly contributed to his death.

Over the years, my telling of that part of my story has changed (even though the facts have not changed, and they never will) in a way that has transformed my feelings of guilt into what I would call feelings of compassion. This blog post is about that changed story, which has been a vital part of my healing.