'My brother took his own life when he was 29. For years, I've denied it.'

Content warning: This post includes discussion of suicide that may be distressing to some readers. 

My brother had twenty-nine laps around the sun before he decided to end his life. I will never know or make peace with why. No one will.

But what I do know is that the moment his world stopped spinning, mine started. Precisely at 3.30 in the morning when the police came to my family's residence to let us know. 

Over the years, when certain people have asked me how he died, I have told them it was in an accident. That's just... untrue. 

I understand why my reflex response to questions surrounding my brother's passing is deferring to an unintentional cause of death.

First and foremost, some people don't really need to know the intricate details of my personal life (before this article). In my mind, this response attempts to convey there was no perpetrator, while keeping his dignity intact. 

The more dominant reason, though, is that deep down I feel guilt-ridden about losing him. As well as shame - being a brother whose love was not enough to encourage him to want to continue living.

I also don’t want the silence that comes with the admission. While there's nothing you can say... it feels like murder if everyone's silent.

When someone you know (blood-related or not) takes their own life, it is truly one of the most difficult and painfully numbing things you can experience. You're left with a lifetime of ruminating about the loss itself, and their intentional choice to leave. To second guess all the times you believed in their smile.  

Image: Supplied.

Talking about it has been no less difficult. That is, striking a delicate balance between not feeling ashamed to use the word 'suicide', while also not glorifying one’s choice to end their life.

Suicide is not a badge of honour; most of us recognise this. The graphic nature of the Latin roots of the word reinforces that: 'sui' and 'caedere' which literally mean to "kill oneself."

Further, I do not want to romanticise this cause of death in the process of trying to de-stigmatise shame surrounding it. Doing this would ultimately deny the truth of many who have performed this final act: feeling stuck or fraught, or overcome by their daily battle with mental health or addiction issues. People just like my brother.

I recognise the selfishness of my words; focusing solely on my experience of losing my brother. Instead of explaining his perspective, how he died or why. 

I don't have all the answers.

Without him here to explain his choices – my version of his events would be as useful as fixating on all the things I could have done, but didn't, to make him want to stay. Or wondering whether he regrets the decision he made. 

I cannot replace his voice.

Knowing him, he'd probably hate all the fuss or the fact there are words floating out there about him (or give me a jab to cork my right shoulder... no, I am not condoning sibling violence.) 

Of course, we will always feel pain; suffocated by the emptiness of space they once filled. This is arguably the hardest part of losing someone you love – regardless of how they left.

Nevertheless, I'd like to work towards leaving behind the shame. To not automatically blush like a vine-ripened tomato every time his name is mentioned around me; break out in a sweat when I'm asked about how he died; or feel like an idiot after I've invented some fanciful cause of death in the name of 'dignity'.

While I haven't voiced this since my eulogy at his funeral, today, I'm typing my reality. Perhaps, making it abundantly clear (in a very public domain) that I haven’t accepted him leaving me.

Still, this is my pledge to move towards releasing the weight of how he died. Because I don't want the over 10,000-day legacy of my brother's life on Earth to be overshadowed by an act that was over in one minute or less. It's the only way I can ensure the very real memories of growing with him, protecting me, will remain intact.

I might never be ok with his choice to leave... but there's enough pain in realising he won't be coming back.

Adam Abbasi-Sacca is an Iranian-Italian Australian writer and commentator; his work can be found in a range of print and digital publications. Adam is passionate about sharing stories on current affairs, culture and identity. Contact on Instagram via @adamabbasi_ or Twitter @adamabbasisacca.

If you think you may be experiencing depression or another mental health problem, please contact your general practitioner. If you're based in Australia, 24-hour support is available through Lifeline on 13 11 14 or beyondblue on 1300 22 4636.

Feature Image: Supplied.