Every day, around nine Australians end their lives; three-quarters of them are men. That is a shocking statistic. But nothing can prepare you for the shock when that statistic includes someone you love.
One day in mid-2013, my dad became one of the nine. After doing a heroic job bringing up five kids and helping raise a growing collection of grandkids, he killed himself in the garage of his rented Kirrawee home. It broke me in ways I am still dealing with.
Some people don’t see their parents or siblings much after moving out of the family home, but it was never like that with my family. Even after starting our careers, getting married and having kids, we stayed super close. I’d drop into Mum and Dad’s place, or Dad would come to mine, every few days. It was the same with my brothers. There were also the hectic Christmas and birthday bashes. For many years, we were a tight and loving family.
If you had any work that needed doing, you could be sure Dad would pop by to help. He helped my wife, Lauren, and me renovate the units we bought, and he did the same for my brothers when they bought properties. He was always pitching in with the surf school I ran, too, patching up boards and constructing sheds.
‘I always considered Dad to be one of my closest mates’ … Blake Johnston. Photograph: Bec Lorrimer/The Guardian
None of us spent time with Dad because we felt we had to; we hung around with him because we loved the guy. He was like a best mate, not just to me but to all five of us. He was the calmest, cruisiest guy I knew – when he was off the clock, at least. Everybody found him a calming presence. I was extra grateful that I could always go and have a chat when life felt too hectic. I felt calm in his presence.
I’ve been lucky enough to have had plenty of good friends from a young age, but I always considered Dad to be one of my closest mates.
I never met my dad’s dad. But from the little I heard about him, he was a disciplinarian who was hard on his children. His generation lived through rough times and took a strict approach to parenting. Dad never complained about his upbringing – he never complained about anything – but I don’t remember hearing any fond memories from that time either, other than stories attached to surfing.
‘I could hear my sister-in-law Ash saying, “Blake, Blakey, he’s gone,” before the line dropped out.’ Photograph: Bec Lorrimer/The Guardian
Dad was a gentle, humble and loving soul; he didn’t throw his weight around. He was a big, beefy bloke who spent his life on male-dominated building sites but you couldn’t judge the book by its cover. He doted on all his grandkids, and was chuffed when we gave Bobby the middle name Wayne, after him.
Dad had an obsessive streak, and gave everything he had to his family and work. He was friendly to everybody, but didn’t have any close mates. He never went to the pub, preferring to drink beer at home and have a yarn with whoever had dropped by the house.
For decades, he had no outside interests after giving up surfing when us kids were young. He eventually got back on his motorbike, after we all put in money to reignite his old passion, but he rarely took it out on the road. He said he felt guilty doing that when he could be working or helping one of his sons, daughters-in-law or grandkids with something.
Dad was extraordinarily selfless, disciplined and stoic. Until it all got too much.
In June 2013, I’d run a surf camp down the coast at Lake Tabourie, just south of Ulladulla, and was driving back up to Sydney with Lauren, our baby Bobby, and a couple of attenders I was dropping home. The phone rang, and despite the reception being terrible, I could hear my sister-in-law Ash saying, “Blake, Blakey, he’s gone,” before the line dropped out.
I knew from her tone that something terrible had happened, but for a few agonising minutes I didn’t know what. Then she rang back and said, “I’m so sorry, Blake, your dad isn’t here any more.”
The alarm that was already going off in my head grew deafening. All my senses were heightened, even as I felt a heavy numbness descending on me. I don’t remember much about the rest of that car trip. But it was horrible, the not knowing, that sense of disbelief. I entered a dreamlike state, imagining every possible scenario. We were still an hour’s drive from Sydney, and that hour felt like a lifetime.
We dropped my students off, then drove straight to Mum and Dad’s place. It was dark when we arrived and even before I could see their house, I saw the flashing lights from the police and ambulance.
‘By the time I arrived, his body had been cut down.’ Photograph: Bec Lorrimer/The Guardian
We arrived to complete chaos. My brothers and their partners were on the front lawn, trying to take it all in and trying to console Mum. She was soon taken to the hospital and sedated. I had been numb for the whole drive but, when we finally got there, I jolted out of my state of speechless shock and was suddenly filled with rage. “What the fuck happened?” I screamed.
I ran towards the door of the house, but the police grabbed me and forcefully held me back, then ushered me back to the lawn. Frustrated at not being able to see him, I punched the brick wall of the house as hard as I could.
After a few minutes of complete hysteria and trying to make sense of it all, one of the policemen took me aside and asked if I wanted to see Dad. I walked slowly through the house, which was quieter than I could ever remember it being. Red and blue lights lit up the walls as we headed towards the back of the garage. I learned that, after waving goodbye to Mum, who’d headed to the local shops for some groceries, Dad had gone and hung himself. By the time I arrived, his body had been cut down.
As I slowly approached the gurney, my heart tightened. My dad’s lifeless body lay beneath a blanket, his face exposed, and I could see the stillness that only death can bring. I sobbed uncontrollably and tears streamed down my cheeks as I leaned in, draped my arm over his shoulder and held him close for the very last time. His body was cold, his face too, but I kissed him softly. He looked so peaceful, as if he was finally getting the rest he deserved.
My legend. My hero. My best mate.
I never wanted to let go.
‘More than a decade later, I still struggle to get my head around Dad’s death.’ Photograph: Bec Lorrimer/The Guardian
I’ll never know how long he’d been thinking about suicide but I do know that, once Dad decided to take his own life, there was no way he wasn’t going to do it. More than a decade later, I still struggle to get my head around Dad’s death. I didn’t see it coming. Mum didn’t see it coming. None of my brothers or their wives saw it coming. I don’t think anybody did.
There are two questions everybody asks after a loved one takes their life. The first is, “Why?” The second is, “Could I have done anything to prevent it?”
Like most people in my situation, I’ve got no good answers to those questions. But in the hope that it might be of some use to others, let me pass on what I’ve come to understand.
Dad was in OK shape – he was rarely injured and was as strong as an ox, especially for someone who’d spent decades doing hard yakka. But he suffered from sleep apnoea in his later years. When they tested him in a sleep lab, they found he stopped breathing 150 times during the night; after spending most of his waking hours working, Dad struggled to get a good night’s sleep. The continuous positive airway pressure machine he invested in helped but it didn’t fix the issue.
I can’t imagine Dad ever complaining about feeling anxious or depressed, but his doctor had prescribed him Aropax, a medication used to treat depression and panic attacks. Dad followed the doctor’s instructions, but Mum told me he didn’t like being on the medication. Not because of any side effects – but because he felt embarrassed that he needed to take medicine to feel better.
So, Dad had a medical condition that was significantly affecting his mental health. That played a part in what happened, but I don’t think it was the cause.
‘The overpowering pain that someone is feeling when they take their own life doesn’t go away when they die. It just gets passed on to the people who love them.’ Photograph: Bec Lorrimer/The Guardian
Despite four decades of hard work, Dad was approaching retirement age without much financial security. He didn’t have money troubles in the form of debts hanging over him; but unlike most blokes his age, he didn’t have a paid-off home and a tonne of super to rely on.
It was obvious from the remarks he’d occasionally make that this was stressing him out. He felt a sense of failure that he hadn’t set himself and Mum up for retirement. That insecurity plagued him.
I can’t imagine Dad could ever have thought he was a burden – he was way too helpful for that. But in his sleep-deprived and spiralling state of mind, he must not have realised how much we all still loved and needed him.
I can’t believe a man as compassionate as Dad would have done what he did if he knew the effect it would have on his family. The overpowering pain that someone is feeling when they take their own life doesn’t go away when they die. It just gets passed on to the people who love them.
I’ll always wonder if things might have turned out differently if he’d had just one understanding mate or a crew where he wasn’t in the role of dad or husband. A best mate might have been able to convince him he wasn’t thinking straight and talk him out of doing anything that couldn’t be undone.
‘I didn’t want to be another statistic’ … Blake Johnston. Photograph: Bec Lorrimer/The Guardian
Dad wasn’t the first person I knew who died by suicide. Sadly, he also wasn’t the last.
Every bloke I know who has died by his own hand felt they weren’t meeting expectations. Whether that was society’s expectations, their own, or both, they all felt unworthy somehow. They were all worthwhile humans who were loved and made a valuable contribution to the world.
Having financial issues, or any sort of issue, doesn’t mean you’ve forever failed at life. But, tragically, these guys just couldn’t see the next good wave coming.
I was vaguely aware that I’d “let myself go” after Dad’s death. I was fully aware that my world had shrunk, and that I wasn’t putting much effort into anything other than work and family. At some level, I might even have worried I was beginning to head down a similar path to Dad – and that was when it hit.
I’d unknowingly been dealing with poor mental health before the grief of Dad’s suicide. His sudden death compounded my emotions and in a way, the grieving process masked my own issues that needed addressing.
For years I’d been looking for answers in the wrong places when, all along, what I needed to do was to identify the problem. To have courage. That meant I needed to become aware of my own thoughts, feelings and actions and find the strength to do something about them.
I didn’t want to be another statistic, another one of the nine people a day in Australia, or three-quarters of a million a year worldwide, who take their own lives.
I like to think Dad would be proud of how I turned things around. If only he were still here to see what I’ve accomplished.
In Australia, support is available at Beyond Blue on 1300 22 4636, Lifeline on 13 11 14, and at MensLine on 1300 789 978. In the UK and Ireland, Samaritans can be contacted on freephone 116 123, or email jo@samaritans.org or jo@samaritans.ie. In the US, you can call or text the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline on 988, chat on 988lifeline.org, or text HOME to 741741 to connect with a crisis counsellor. Other international helplines can be found at befrienders.org
