Breaking the silence: living with the impact of suicide - Carmen Claydon Lived Experience

Every year, thousands of Canadians die by suicide. And in the blink of an eye, our family became one of those statistics.

June 22, 2020. It was the day after Father’s Day, and just a week after celebrating our twins' birthday. We were tired but happy, navigating the challenges of parenthood, with one more baby on the way. That was the day Trevor, my husband, left us.

“You should’ve known,” some said. And while I understand the sentiment, I didn’t.

Others said, “He should’ve sought help for his depression.” The truth is, he did.

Trevor was an 18-year veteran of the Edmonton Police Service. He had seen the worst of humanity, and the trauma he experienced throughout his life had a lasting impact. Like many of us, he made decisions he regretted. He hit rock bottom more than once, but by the time we married, Trevor was on a journey of healing. He was working hard to rebuild his life, slowly but surely. His routines were healthier, and he had a strong support system that included me, his wife; his therapist; our priest; and a small group of loyal friends.

Yes, I knew he was struggling, but I also knew he was fighting fiercely to get better. That last year, however, had been incredibly challenging for both of us. Our twins had just arrived, and their presence, though a blessing, upended every routine we had. It was hard, really hard, but love wasn’t lacking.

Then, I began to see a side of Trevor I hadn’t seen before - anger, irritability, even egotism. Things I attributed to the stress of our new life with twins. But I was wrong. These weren’t just signs of stress or fatigue; they were signs that his depression was worsening.

He had started a new course of antidepressants, but it had only been two weeks when he took his life. In those two weeks, I thought he was starting to improve. He said he was feeling better. But inside, he was likely battling demons none of us could see.

The sad truth is that seeking help doesn’t always provide immediate relief. Mental health is complex, and healing takes time, sometimes longer than we expect. Trevor did everything he could to heal, but there are times when that just isn’t enough. I wish I knew why, but all I can do now is make sure the kids and I continue to heal and are fully equipped with the tools to navigate life’s ups and downs.

Sometimes, I want to blame myself for missing the signs, for not doing more. But deep inside, I know I couldn’t have done anything differently. Trevor fought hard, and yet, the darkness took hold. Mental illness is just that, an illness. It doesn’t always respond to what we expect, and it doesn’t always look the way we think it will.

It is now my job, and the job of our children, to continue fighting the battle Trevor couldn’t win. His death has left a gaping hole in our lives, one that no amount of love or time can fully fill. Every day, we have to find the strength to keep moving forward without him. Our children, now growing up without their father, will carry the weight of his absence for the rest of their lives. But I will continue to honor him, not by pretending the pain isn’t there, but by showing our children what it looks like to keep fighting, even when the battle seems impossible.

We’ve learned the hard way that mental illness doesn’t just affect the person struggling, it impacts everyone who loves them. But we also know that by talking about our struggles, by acknowledging our grief, we can begin to heal together.

It’s been almost five years. I would like to say I’ve done a great deal of healing, though sometimes it feels like I’ve taken a thousand steps backward. I’ve been afraid, brokenhearted, and guilty for feeling happy. I’ve climbed mountains, travelled, and done things that made me feel alive. But in all of those things, there’s always been something missing. You. I wish you knew how deeply you are loved and missed.