I’ve lost family members while in prison, and the what-ifs continue to haunt me | Opinion

Note: This piece contains discussion of suicide.

As soon as my mother picked up the call, I could tell something wasn’t right. Instead of her normal, easy-going self, she sounded awkward, like there was something she needed to share.

“I’m sorry to tell you this,” she said, “but Christopher took his life last night.”

Tears instantly welled up in my eyes. Christopher was my cousin Teresa’s son — her first child. Teresa had always been more like a sister to me. She’d named him after me.

“Why?” I asked, almost reflexively, knowing my mom wouldn’t have an answer. Often, there is no single “why” after a suicide. As I began to process the news, my heart ached at the thought of Teresa having to grieve such a tragedy. I had to call her. If she ever needed her big cousin, it was now.

When I got hold of Teresa, she sounded broken, her words barely audible through uncontrollable sobbing. I wanted to console her, but what is there to say to someone who’s lost a child to suicide? What worried me most was that she was in recovery from addiction. I feared this would throw her into a tailspin.

Being incarcerated makes it uniquely difficult to process loss or offer support to your loved ones during difficult times. In prison, there is no space to grieve. We’re surrounded by people who reject and exploit signs of weakness. Reluctant to burden our loved ones, we often cope by compartmentalizing our emotions. There is a feeling of powerlessness, too, knowing that we couldn’t be there and can offer little more than a phone call and some words of consolation.

As I spoke to Teresa, I fought the instinct — developed through years in prison — to build a wall around the pain I was feeling. It would be the easiest way to prevent a sense of helplessness and despair. But I knew I needed to do whatever I could to support my family.

After talking for a bit, Teresa confessed that she had relapsed. She seemed ashamed to admit it to me, but I resisted the lecture that rested on the tip of my tongue. We’d been down this road many times over the years, and I knew it would only push her further away just as she needed me most.

Teresa said she was scared to be using. She knew she was risking her life and that Christopher wouldn’t have approved. I asked how I could help. She told me she needed to be surrounded by family and loved ones — to be removed from her current environment, which was only compounding her suffering. She said she needed me. But I was in prison.

I fought back tears. I tried to keep my voice steady, but it trembled as I suggested we move her in with my mom in Washington State. I wanted her to believe I was strong, that I could be there for her, even if not in person.

Over the next week, our family cobbled together the money to pay Teresa’s court fines so she could leave home without risking more trouble. We bought her a plane ticket and she was off.

Barely a week after Teresa arrived, my mom found her high. She promised to give recovery another shot, but addiction refused to release her. Not long after that first incident, Teresa walked out of the house and started down a remote country road. When my mom chased after her, Teresa said she couldn’t do it. My mom pleaded with her to come back. What about her clothes, all of Christopher’s belongings, and her four kids who needed her, my mom asked. But Teresa kept walking.

Somehow, Teresa made her way back home, and quickly fell back into the lifestyle she’d sought to escape. I tried to keep in touch, but she was too ashamed to stay connected.

As the one-year anniversary of Christopher’s death approached, a family member messaged me, asking if I’d spoken to my mom that day. I rushed to call my mom, fearing this would be the news I had thought constantly about but hoped never to receive.

“I hate to add this to your plate right now,” she said, “but Teresa just overdosed on fentanyl, and she is gone.”

I let go of my emotions and cried. I felt guilty for not doing more. I felt angry with myself for being in prison and infuriated that I didn’t somehow fight harder for her. I kept thinking that if only I was home, I could have given her the support she needed.

During my 21 years in prison, several of my close friends and family members have died by suicide. Others have died from overdose. Anyone who has lost a loved one like this knows the sinking, desperate feeling of wondering what you could have done to prevent it. The answer may be nothing, but having to ask yourself that question from prison is particularly painful because you will always wonder how things might have been different if you were there.

I will sit with the guilt I know I shouldn’t hold, but can’t seem to shake. Today, I wish I could hug my little cousin and her son just one more time. To let them know their value, and that I love them with my whole heart.

If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts, help is available. The 988 Lifeline provides 24/7, free and confidential support for people in distress, prevention and crisis resources for you or your loved ones, and best practices for professionals in the United States.