They've loved, and lost. Now, once a month, they speak about the unspeakable: suicide


No one wants to be in this circle. But it's been occupied once a month for 30 years.

An anniversary no one really wants to celebrate.


It's a Wednesday night at a church in Portsmouth. Fifteen people are gathered in a fellowship hall. Men, women, young, old, white, black, and in between. Metal chairs. Linoleum floors. Choir practice is under way in the sanctuary, notes drifting through the walls.

In this circle, they only avoid one word. Their loved ones didn't "commit" suicide. That makes it seem like a vile crime.

Instead, they "died by" suicide – which sounds more in line with what it was: depression, a disease of the brain that can be deadly if left untreated.

One by one, they introduce themselves. The Virginian-Pilot agreed not to include their names in this story. Quotes have been edited to remove identifying details.

Some are willing to tell the world. Others aren't ready. They're in different stages of grieving. Every wound here is deep, but some are just too fresh.

A man wearing a ball cap begins. He's clutching his wife's hand:

"I lost my daughter seven years ago. She took her life with a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. My wife walked in and found her. I was right behind her."

Suicide is a unique loss, with its own cascade of emotions. Guilt. Anger. Blame. Shame. Dread of God's punishment. A torturous loop of "what ifs" and "if only."

Christine Gilchrist, the licensed clinical social worker who founded this support group, the Hampton Roads Survivors of Suicide, encourages everyone to share the graphic details no one else in their lives can stand to hear.

This is where you speak the unspeakable. Loosen its grip on your soul.

"We lost our mom 13 years ago," says one of two sisters in the circle. "My dad found her in the bathroom. My sister and I were both pregnant at the time."

"We lost our son in 2016," says a man in a tie, "to a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. He was 18. His sister found him. She hasn't been back in our house since."

By now, they all know the statistics. People kill themselves far more often than they kill each other. Homicides in America hover around 16,000 annually. Suicide takes nearly 43,000. The toll is probably higher – suicides have always been underreported. Private tragedies, shrouded in stigma.

Gilchrist has been part of a modern-day movement to raise awareness. But despite public campaigns, the rate has stubbornly nudged upward.


Three decades worth of circles and only the faces have changed.

She reminds them: The people they loved and lost had an illness. Like cancer. It's no one's fault. Inside that unhealthy brain, they really believed everyone was better off without them.

Another reminder: Those left behind are five times more likely to take their own lives. Heads nod. They know. It's important that they're here.

Some have been coming for years, a testament to how long the pain can last, and the power of finding a place that shows it's possible to endure.

"I lost my son on April 25, 1999, by hanging," says an 85-year-old man.

The introductions are over. Silence falls over the room. Gilchrist lets it lie. Soak in. A clock on the wall ticks loudly. Tissues muffle quiet sobs.

Finally, someone speaks. The 85-year-old says he's grateful for the group: "You don't feel so alone."

Conversation starts flowing. Back-and-forth stories about things only they can truly understand. They talk about how awkward friends and co-workers seem to feel around them now. About their fears for other family members. About the thoughts that keep them awake at night, full of guilt for ever thinking such things.

"My husband – he left me with all these kids to take care of. How could he do that to me?" asks a woman wearing a college jersey.

In the end, they'll share cookies or cake. It's a ritual meant to demonstrate that it's necessary to carry on. Do normal things. Accept that it's OK to even laugh again.

Before they break, a candle is lit. It moves around the circle, hand to hand. Each person gazes into its glow, saying whatever is in the heart.

Some just pass the flame, throats too tight for more words. Others whisper, lips barely moving.

"I miss you, son," says a man with a salt and pepper beard. "I always will."

Joanne Kimberlin, 757-446-2338,