By BRIDGET SMITH
I sat in a news editorial meeting the other day and there was a discussion about what stories would be covered for the day.
One of those was a suicide awareness press conference. Families who had lost relatives would be there to talk to the press. There would be a quilt with all the suicide victims faces on it. I was relieved I wouldn’t be covering it. I watched how everyone squirmed around the editorial table and the delicate discussion about how to cover it ensued. Suicide. It just makes people uncomfortable.
I wasn’t uncomfortable though. Because it happened to me. It had been six years since my family unravelled like a plot out of a novel. If someone had told me my mum would die of cancer, your brother would go to jail in the US and your other brother would commit suicide within a six month period I would have told them – wrong family, sorry.
This Christmas Eve will mark six years since my brother decided to hang himself at home after a night out. He was only 30 (possibly 31 I was never good with birthdays). We were the best of friends and like any siblings the worst of friends at times. If you think people find it hard to know what to say when you are grieving, try matching it with suicide. It is awkward and silent. And not fun when Christmas carols are playing in the background either. As I say, awkward.
My brother had simply lost his way. Probably smoked too much pot in his late teens, a broken down relationship with his partner, the loss of his mother and brother going to jail and a father who couldn’t cope. It was a far cry from the idyllic childhood in small town Central Queensland. We were a broken family.