20 years ago today, my father committed suicide, at the age of 46.

Although we knew depression ran in his family (his own mother committed suicide when he was a child), he exhibited no signs of depression, or expressed suicidal thoughts. Ever.

We had a happy life. He and my mother had been together since they were teenagers, and were truly happy. He had what seemed, everything to live for. Yet, on the afternoon of February 23, 2001, my dad left a note on our screened porch, telling my mom not come outside, and hung himself in the shed behind our house.

I’ve read many posts and comments here of those suffering and contemplating taking their own life. For what it’s worth, and it may not be worth much, but that voice - the one that is telling you it’s for the best, and your loved ones are better off? That the pain is too much to continue? That you are a burden to those around you? It’s not true. I am not dismissing your feelings, I’m really not. I just want you to know, as a person on the other side of suicide, that voice is wrong.

It may be situational — an episode in your life that seems hopeless. Or maybe you’ve suffered with depression and these thoughts for years, and you just want it to stop. So you make the decision. You plan, and you are finally at peace because you know the end is near. That’s one part people don’t understand. How could someone go about their lives as if everything was ok? “They were happy! It doesn’t make sense!” “They finally seemed to be ok!”

But think about it. When you have what seems to be an impossible problem, how do you feel and act when you finally find a solution? You feel relieved. Calm. Sometimes even euphoric.

I can only imagine the pain my father was going through to have chosen to leave us in such a way. But the days leading up to his death, he seemed so happy. The day of, he and my mom went to lunch, spoke of plans about moving down south to be closer to my sister and I, and even spoke of plans that evening to have dinner with friends.

I was 22 when he died. I was so angry right after. We all were. How could a man with so much to live for, who had such a wonderful life, choose to kill himself? We were totally blindsided, and thought what a selfish, deplorable thing he did.

How wrong I was.

Since then, after research, talking with suicide survivors, and those who have lost loved ones, plus suffering from my own depression, I now know it isn’t selfish. To the sufferer, it’s selfless. Sufferers are totally convinced their absence from this earth will be a relief for those who love them. One less burden. The feelings are real, and they are persistent.

I’m not sure what I’m trying to say. I guess I’m talking to both sides. If you’ve lost someone to suicide, try not to be angry. It’ll be hard, trust me, I know. But after 20 years, I’m not angry anymore. I’m just so fucking sad. Sad he had to suffer in silence. Sad he’ll never know his grandkids, or see what my sister had I have accomplished. Sad my mom still cries for him and misses him everyday. Sad I can’t get his advice or hear his corny jokes when I’m down.

I’m writing this to you.

You are loved. You are worth it. You will be so very missed. This pain is real. But it doesn’t have to be permanent. Reach out. Talk. Share. There is no shame.

The voices are temporary. They can be silenced, and there is help.