Why stories on the ‘distress’ and heartbreak’ caused by Caroline Flack’s suicide must stop

Caroline’s Flack’s suicide is all over the media.

Within an hour of the story breaking, the Daily Mail online had already published 16 articles on her and last night the Sun took down a piece which mocked the dead Love Island presenter.

And today the Mail has run articles on her boyfriend, Lewis Burton who ‘reveals his grief’, on her ex-fiancè Andrew Brady looking ‘downcast’, and on her twin sister who she was close to.

And the general consensus is that as long as the media outlets publish the Samaritans helpline, they can run with whatever story they want. After all, if they’ve triggered a reaction, readers know where to get help.

But enough is enough. It’s highly unlikely that Lewis Burton has revealed his grief because that grief is impossible to articulate when you’ve just lost someone you’ve loved to suicide. Similarly, is it really a story that Andrew Brady is snapped looking downcast and upset when the woman he thought he was once going to spend his life with has just ended her life?

As a news reporter, I would have been all over this 18 years ago. Forget food. I dined on adrenalin, deadlines and the chance to get exclusives. Death doorknocks – where you turn up on the doorstep of a bereaved family to get a comment – were nothing more than a precursor to getting front page news.

Over the years I had a developed a tough as nails approach to death. I was just 15 when I covered my first inquest on work experience and was handed photos of a 17-year-old-schoolgirls’s mutilated body; 23 and fresh from my post-grad in newspaper journalism when I did my first death door knock for an 11-year-old boy who had collapsed after a day at the beach.

Since then I’ve covered death in all its guises, including murders, suicide, 9/11 and other major incidents. I didn’t question anything we did or the lack of training we got. It was just the way journalism was. We were there to report the news.

But that all changed when Matt killed himself because suddenly I was no longer the journalist dealing with the bereaved. I was the bereaved. But my journalist inistinct never left me and in those first few months, it was as if I was split in two. There was the me who had lost my brother and who was trying to support my parents, my brother, my sister-in-law and my nieces and nephew, but there was also journalist me who was constantly trying to guess what my colleagues might do next.

First there was a story that the nationals had got hold of and that was that the school my nieces attended had banned hangman from the classroom. Some parents complained because it was just a game and couldn’t understand how it could be so distressing. But as a journalist whose brother had hanged himself, I saw the situation differently.

Then came Matt’s inquest. I told my family not to attend because I wanted to save them from the question that a journalist would no doubt ask them as I had done on multiple occasions: How do you feel?

Eleven years ago if a journalist had asked me how I felt, I too would have said I was heartbroken, devastated and sad – the same adjectives that right now are being used to describe the reactions to Caroline Flack ending her life.

Now, however, I would give a much more accurate response. I would tell you that from the moment I learnt the news, I felt permanently sick and that making it through five minutes was a triumph itself. I would tell you that for a year, I survived on an hour or two of broken sleep per night, too afraid to close my eyes because when I did all I could see was my brother dangling with a noose around his neck. I would tell you that when I finally did get to sleep, I would wake up from nightmares so unpleasant I was choking on my tears. I would tell you that I shuffled off to work in dirty mismatched clothes because getting dressed in clean coordinated outfits required energy I didn’t have. I would tell you that I stopped wearing scarves and necklackes because I was scared they would catch around my neck and strangle me to death. I would tell you that every night I would come home and search for my boyfriend in my chest of drawers, in the wardrobe and under the bed, paranoid that he too had taken his life. I would tell you that I switched from being outgoing and confident, and happy to move to foreign cities on my own without so much as a second thought, to clingy, vulnerable and insecure, a woman who thought danger was lurking around every corner. Ending it all would have been a far simpler option than dealing with my grief.

Losing my brother to suicide has undoubtedly made me a better journalist. I now know how to approach people whose pockets are weighted down with grief. I know the questions to ask and the questions to avoid, but more importantly, I treat the suicide bereaved with the compassion, respect and sympathy they deserve.

I don’t agree with those who believe we shouldn’t report on suicide. We should. It’s vitally important because we need to de-censor it at a cultural level. But we need to do so without a backdrop of sensation and voyeurism. There is no need for a media circus to dissect the life of the deceased or constantly report on the superficial reactions of the bereaved and there is no need for the public to look on.

Those who choose suicide have left their pain behind but the moment they die they pass it on to the loved ones who survive them.

And that’s something that the tabloids need to bear in mind because simply in losing someone to sucide, the bereaved – in this case, Caroline Flack’s family and friends – have already suffered enough.

A version of this was published in Reporting bad news: negotiating the boundaries between intrusion and fair coverage in media representation of death (Sallyanne Duncan and Jackie Newton, 2017 Peter Lang Publishing)

 

 

Cause every little thing gonna be alright

I was in the gym this morning doing Pilates when the voice of Bob Marley singing Three Little Birds filled the room.

So there I was doing side bends (which I hate and which I’m really bad at) in Pilates when I was instantly catapulted back to the day of my brother’s funeral. As I was wincing my way to a count of ten, I was also carrying my five-year-old niece and grabbing hold of a branch of the willow tree that shaded the spot where my brother was going to be buried.

The words ‘Don’t worry ’bout a thing / ‘Cause every little thing’s gonna be okay’ filled the gym and my head and there I was in church listening to the song as Matt’s coffin was carried out. In the real world I still had 30 minutes to go of my Pilates class but in the parallel universe of the funeral, I could hear the absolute stillness of collective shock reverberate around me. I could feel the weak April sun warming my face and my niece’s fingernails pressing into the back of my neck. I could smell the dirty earthiness of the freshly-dug grave where Matt would be laid to rest. I used to love woody nature-inspired perfumes. Not anymore.

Of all the days that I had to be reminded of Matt’s funeral, it would have to be today. Because today is his would-have-been birthday. Had he not killed himself, he would have turned 46. I try to imagine him that old. His hairline was already receding, in part to the dodgy dreads he had as a teenager and only confirms that blonde dreadlocks are not a good look on anyone. Would he have been completely bald by now? Would he have shaved his head? Or would it have become some raggy, scraggy wild grey? Would he have still been cooking up his famous steak and ale pie for everyone in the village or would he have moved on to something else? Would he still be doing magic tricks and rock climbing or would be have been a dimmer, duller, more unhappy version of who he was at 35? Would he have been an alcoholic, alive but slowly drinking himself to death?

These answerless questions no longer bother me, not least because my older brother has now become my younger brother by eight years. He’s now a mini-Matt, a little statue frozen in time that is wedged tightly in my heart.

 As for Three Little Birds, I used to think it was an odd choice to play at Matt’s funeral, because I just couldn’t see how anything was going to be alright ever again. But at lunchtime, I uncorked a bottle of red wine and celebrated my brother’s life with a friend, and I realised that, actually, it was the perfect choice all along.

 

 

 

 

 

I’m back

I really am.

I’m well aware I’ve said it before, but this time it’s different. We’re in 2020, a sparkling new year and a sparkling new decade, which means I can finally put the last ten years behind me.

I was 32 when Matt died. I’m 43 now. The glossy magazines lied. My thirties definitely weren’t my prime. I wasn’t thriving socially, emotionally, sexually, physically or professionally like they had promised. Far from it. I spent the most part hanging on, clinging on, digging in and gripping hold of whatever I thought was going to get me through the mental toll of suicide bereavement. I also made a lot of bad choices. I hung out with the wrong people. I tried to fix them even though it was obvious that, despite all their problems, they didn’t want fixing. In fact, I was fixated with fixing as a way to make amends for not being there for my brother. I might not have been able to save him but I was damn well going to do my hardest to save someone else.

The turning point came in 2015 when my friend, M, sat in her car for hours below my apartment and ambushed me as I walked out of the front door and down the street. She quite literally pushed me into the car and took me to the beach.

“I know you keep on saying you don’t want to do Pilates,” she said. “I know you prefer yoga, but it will do you good. It’s also going to be life changing for you in a way that yoga isn’t. I know you don’t believe me but you have to trust me on this.”

Despite all my protestations, I knew she she had my best interests at heart because she always does. She’s the one friend that will always make sure I’m not alone on Matt’s anniversary and, if I am, then her family dinner will include me.

So, needless to say, M was right. And that Pilates class really did change my life. I met my paddling gang, I met my best friends. Through them, I created the life I thought was out of reach forever.

And another friend on mine, the singer of the 2004 hit Dragostea Din Tei, insisted that we were going to get up and go for a sunrise paddle on my 40th birthday even though that meant running across cold sand on a frosty December morning.

“This birthday is important. You don’t know it now but big things are going to happen in your forties. Everything that didn’t happen in your thirties is going to happen now.”

And, of course, she was also right. Three years in and it’s definitely my best decade to date. I’m working hard and I’m whacked at the end of the day, but everything is effortless. Everything flows.

That’s not to say I’ve sidelined my grief. I haven’t. It’s still there. It still blindsides me at times. My voice will sometimes wobble and catch me off guard when I talk about my brother. And on the last anniversary of his death, I sobbed noisily and inelegantly through an entire Pilates lesson and was watched by everyone in the wall-to-wall mirrors lining the room.

But these days I really don’t care. Losing Matt is as much as part of me as my hazel eyes, eight toes and the scar under my chin, which I bashed open on the paddling pool by the beach when I was a toddler. I think about him every day.

What has shifted is me. Disaster has stopped lurking around every corner. I don’t think I’m going to die every time I board a plane or that I’m going to get caught in a tsunami every time I go to the beach. I’m no longer terrified or exhausted at the thought of leaving the house.

So now it’s time for me to live every second, every moment and make my forties way better than my thirties could ever have been.

Just say no. The two-letter word that changes everything.

No.  I love swilling the word ‘no’ around my mouth. I love the feel of it. It’s round. Weighty. Assertive. And so much more powerful than yes.

Don’t get me wrong. I like yes, too. I say yes to opportunities and the unknown all the time. I love jumping out of my comfort zone and freefalling into new possibilities, whether that’s starting a new job or moving to another country where I can’t speak the language and don’t know anyone. Taking risks doesn’t scare me, whereas living with regrets does.

But no is so much more than just the opposite of yes. Whether you roll it around in your mouth, say it quietly or shout it out, no is satisfying in a way that yes will never be because strange as it may sound, no doesn’t limit me. It’s actually the contrary. It frees me to do exactly what I want.

Because by saying no, I’m defining the terms and conditions by which I live by. So, it’s no to energy vampires who would like to suck life out of me. It’s no to casual cappuccino dates with people who think they’ll get a free English lesson that way. It’s no to big parties when I hate crowds and would much rather catch up with friends one-on-one. It’s no to the hairdressers who want to turn me into a fake blonde when I’m perfectly happy to embrace the silver strands sparkling in my hair.  And it’s no to anything that isn’t necessary or doesn’t bring me joy.

After Matt died, my need to fix people to make amends for not being there for him meant my nos becames yeses and people took advantage of that. Boundaries were overstepped and the more I gave, the more expectation there was that I’d give. And at a time when my body was reaching breaking point from the emotional trauma it was carrying, that was simply wrong. But back then, I just couldn’t see it and wouldn’t object when people walked all over me and stole what little energy I had.

Now I’m back to don’t-mess-with-me me, I have no qualms about saying no. Sometimes I offer an explanation, sometimes I don’t. To some my refusal may sound rude but time is finite and none of us should have to account to those who don’t matter for the way we choose to use it.

By saying no, I’m looking after myself, avoiding burn out from taking on too much and prioritising my mental health. But more than that, I’m ultimately opening myself up to new opportunities and new experiences to which I can then say yes.

 

Why self-care (and stand up paddling) is my priority

Today’s to-do list is shockingly long. Important stuff. Urgent stuff. Stuff that’s important and urgent, along with all the things that I need to cross off before flying back to the UK tomorrow.

But right now I’m not queuing up in the post office to pay bills, I’m not planning lessons and I’m certainly not editing the video to meet tonight’s deadline because as much as it’s important and urgent, it can wait.

Instead, I’m sitting at my favourite beach bar sipping a cappuccino as I watch the waves roll in only to fizzle out before reaching the shore. In a minute or two, I’ll pack my laptop away, grab my board and spend the next hour paddling, lost in my rhythmic strokes and the beauty around me.

Because what I’ve realised is that the sea is important to me. When I’m out on my board and thoughts spill from my mind, I have no problems, no worries. There is no right, no wrong, no stress, no angst and everything is as it should be. When I arrive back at the beach, I’m in a state of zen and more able to concentrate on the tasks I’ve got to get through. Put like that, it’s obvious why it’s become my number one priority on my to-do list.

If only I’d known how important self-care was back in that scary place that was the world after my brother killed himself; that not only was looking after myself not selfish, it was vital if I wanted to make it out of the black, fragmented chaos I found myself inhabiting. But nobody told me. Nobody. At a time when I was mentally beating myself up, guilt-ridden over Matt’s suicide and for the things I’d said and done 25 years earlier, I wish someone had gently – but forcibly – taken my hand, pushed me into their car and driven me to the beach. “Sit here and breathe,” would have been the best four words anyone could have said. Perhaps then my grief could have been carried away by the breeze instead of remaining wedged internally and choking me to brokenness.

Now that I’m happy, I have no intention of getting sucked back into that vortex of mental anguish, which is why, on my ever growing to-do list, wellness and self-care will always be my number one priority and I make no apology for that. So, if you need to speak to meet, then sorrynotsorry but you’ll need to wait until I’m back from the beach.

A summer wave of wellness

I look in the mirror and smile.

My hair isn’t bouncy and I’m not radiating that Icouldbeonthecoverofamagazine glow. Not even close. My hair is what can only be described as an uncovetable mix of greasy and knotted, my face hasn’t seen make up in weeks, I’ve got a spot or two from overindulging on pizza and the dark circles under my eyes are proof I need to spend more time in bed asleep. Put bluntly, I’m not going to be scooping up top beauty awards anytime soon and should probably be reaching for one of those all-in-one face masks that promise instant glow, hydration and brightness as if I’ve just come back from a week at the spa.

And yet. I’m happy.  Despite the dark circles that have been awarded a permanent resident permit on my face, my eyes sparkle and yesterday at yoga, a friend who I hadn’t seen in months because of our conflicting schedules told me I was lit up with energy, though I suspect that had much to do with the two cappuccinos and espresso I’d already knocked back by ten am (disclosure: I’d been up since 5am. Three coffees in five hours isn’t quite so bad. Is it?).

Being knackered because you’re hungover from a summer of fun is completely different to not sleeping because of nightmares and trauma and grief because in the first instance you actually can’t wait to do it all over again, whereas, in the latter, you know that as much as you want to close your eyes and sink into oblivion, you can’t.

Right now, I’m zen. I’ve spent most of my summer in the water or on the water. I’ve paddled out to watch the sun rise and the sun set. I’ve paddled in the light of the full moon. I’ve sat in silence as dolphins have swum next to me. I’ve had morning coffee and evening prosecco on my board in the middle of the sea, laying the board as you would a table, complete with a tablecloth, linen napkins, a candle and china cups. There’s something rather special about drinking from china cups or wine glasses as the waves roll around you. And up until this morning, I haven’t written a word. No angst of the blank page or writer’s block as I stared at the screen of my laptop and willed the words to come. No agony of a deadline and wondering what to write. No pressure of trying to make adjectives and nouns come alive. My conscious decision not to write has been freeing, life-enhancing even if it sounded strange at first.

“What do you do?” strangers would ask me.

“I’m a writer,” I’d reply, just like I always have.

“Really? What are you writing?”

“Nothing,” I’d shoot back. “I’m living.”

Apart from paddling, I’ve swum in ice-cold pools high up in the mountains, I’ve camped under pine trees near to the sea. I’ve fallen asleep in a hammock. I’ve been to a sunrise concert on the beach and skinny dipped at midnight. I’ve caught up with old friends and made new ones. I’ve built mashmallow worlds with my three little besties who are ten, six and three. I’ve put on weight: I like to pretend it’s from building up muscle from all the paddling but I suspect too many glasses of wine, slices of pizza and bowls of crips at the beach are the real culprits. But the day I can no longer fit into my bikinis is the day I will begin to worry.

For now, I’m ready to be a writer that writes again, including blogging here regularly – another reason, if I really needed one, to look in the mirror and smile.

My Brother Killed Himself now on Facebook

The blog has gone and got itself a Facebook page. In other words, I’m putting off the cleaning and all the other things I’ve got to do on this dull Saturday morning.

You can check it out here.

Seven years today

It seems like yesterday, it seems like forever. Seems like some days I never had an older brother, on other days he’s still the big brother who looked out for me when I was little. Memories and grief are layers of onion skin. Sometimes they make my eyes sting, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes the wound rips open and I cry and cry and cry. Nights I sleep deeply, peacefully; others I close my eyes and open them quick to shut out the images flashing through my mind. The impact is nuclear, the fallout is far reaching and it would be easy, so easy, to close my eyes and end it all. But life is beautiful. The Sardinian snow that on closer inspection is almond blossom covering the hillsides. The shimmering turquoise sea. Snails that kiss on the pavement in the rain. A five-year-old that runs to hug you when you pick her up from school, a nine-year-old that makes you a wonky clay heart to keep on your bookshelf and 10-year-olds that tell you you’re the prettiest teacher ever. Fleeting moments of simplicity because in this brave new world post-suicide everything is measured differently. Career prizes, consistently scoring top marks in evaluations, getting commissions from big-name magazines once so important no longer matter. In the immediate aftermath of losing a loved one to suicide, success is simply having the strength to put one foot in front of the other and make it through the hour. Months later, it’s about functioning on the outside while learning how to knit yourself back together again, how to stretch your skin across your bloody, broken heart. And now, the biggest achievement of my life is being happy, thriving again, while knowing the frightening statistics that say the suicide bereaved have a much higher risk of dying by suicide themselves. It seems like yesterday, it seems like forever, but, actually, it’s seven years today. So today is all about doing yoga, hitting the beach, paddle boarding, feeling grains of warm sand between my toes, filling my house with freshly-cut flowers, baking cakes, reflecting, remembering, having dinner with some of my dearest friends, opening a bottle of red wine and celebrating my brother’s life.

 

Starting off the week – 2016/3

Perhaps because I’ve had a cold and been hibernating on the sofa, or simply because February is my least favourite month of the year, sandwiched as it is between the newness of January and the hope and beauty of March, I’m concentrating on poetry and magic this week.

The first link is An Understanding of Joy by my friend Dawn. It always resonates, no matter how many times I read it.

Next up is a poem by RM Drake on the beauty of moving forward – a reminder that if we stay still, nothing will change.

Then there’s this from Tyler Knott Gregson about allowing in the light.

I’ve just finished rereading History of a Suicide by Jill Bialosky. As a poet, it stands to reason that her writing is beautiful, heart-breaking, and full of straight-to-the-point phrases such as “I suppose no one is truly dead when we go on loving them”.

And, to end, I’ve been going to yoga once or twice a day over the past month and I always hear this at some point during the class.

Have a good week  x

Starting off the week – 2016/2

Here are a few links which focus on suicide prevention that have been collected over the past few weeks when I’ve been busy doing other stuff:

What’s it like to be a moderator on suicide watch and is it really necessary?

I’ve read this story on the suicide of the Columbine killer, Dylan Klebold, on so many websites and seen it on the news, but that doesn’t dilute its impact.

This was also powerful reading on Slate, in part, I guess, because Italy is embedded in fierce debate over the rights and wrongs of civil partnerships.

And from the Times, this article on the rise in suicides among teenage girls. It was sent to me as a photo because of the paywall, which would prevent some of you from reading it. I teach so many pre-teens and teens that this really resonates. And it proves that governments really do need to make mental health a much bigger priority.