In the Aftermath of Suicide
I’m writing this post on the day after the memorial service for my brother-in-law, Joe Gallo, who died by suicide in August. The service was a gut-wrenching milestone, an important gathering where we showed up for one another in affirming ways.
Joe hated being the center of attention, but collectively, we overrode him by hosting yesterday’s service, and I am overriding him with this post today. May you know Joe, know his pain and his joy, his wounds and his beauty, his quirks and his universality. His official obituary is below and there’s a remarkable post that his friend Doug wrote about him here.
We held the service in a Quaker format where attendees speak from the silence. It’s a magical way of grieving, and I mean that sincerely – there’s something extraordinary that happens when people sharing loss are invited to participate in commemorating the person who died. We sang happy birthday to Joe because the service was held on what would have been his 50th birthday – that singing was an unplanned, spontaneous act that started as one person’s urge and became a collective voice. Joe’s mother shared that Joe always called her on his birthday to thank her for giving birth to him, and she tearfully noted that she wouldn’t have that ritual any longer. And then, someone sitting across from her thanked her for giving birth to Joe. It was an exquisite moment.
The room was filled with regret and agony. Those of us left behind in the aftermath of suicide are truly left behind, left holding questions and pain and unfathomable loss. So many people at Joe’s service spoke of the people they lost to suicide. They offered suggestions for the rest of us so that we might traverse this uneven, pothole-ridden ground. One woman said that she shouts regularly at her brother’s photo, another raises money for suicide prevention in honor of his wife. Someone told my sister that her loved one is surely looking out for Joe now that he has crossed over. Another urged us, individually and collectively, to remember to check on my sister in the coming months. “She will need us,” he said.
Some of the most poignant sharing came as people recounted seemingly mundane moments of connection that they shared with Joe. Those moments were meaningful to all of us in ways that we rarely express or even pause to note. I feel so much more at peace with Joe’s death because I was in that room and I heard the spoken words, the words that were sung, and the rich silence that had a shared heartbeat.
As a therapist, I talk to people about suicide ideation almost every workday. “In the face of this pain,” I say as I name their pain with specificity in each intake session, “do you have any self-harm urges or behaviors?” My pace slows and my tone softens when I ask these questions.
I wanted Joe’s therapist to have softened and opened his heart to Joe’s pain and given him a portal to healing, a pathway back to himself, one that steered him through his emotional pain. I can taste bitter anger as I imagine Joe’s therapist missing cues, hints, perhaps veiled clues. I have no idea what happened between Joe and his therapist, but I find myself rehearsing their conversations, almost like studying for an exam. The truth is, Joe’s death scared me because none of us saw it coming. I want to finger-point and blame someone, so I blame Joe for going underground with his pain, I blame his therapist for missing clues, I blame our collective fat-shaming culture. And all that blame simply yanks me deeper into my own muck – it’s a futile move, and yet I succumb to it on the regular.
Yesterday, I sat next to Joe’s mom, and she said in such a lonely, lost way, “I was counting on him to take care of me in my old age. Who will I turn to now? There’s no one left.” I had to remind myself that her words probably wouldn’t have turned Joe away from his plan to end his life if he could have heard her. Likewise, I don’t think he would have been able to endure the spotlight of attention and care and love that beamed his way during that memorial. “They don’t want to hear reasons for them to stay,” my dear friend told me as she shared her deep wisdom, gleaned from weathering her husband’s suicide more than 20 years ago. “They just want to go.”
I agree that it’s often not effective to wield guilt (“think of the pain of the people you’ll leave behind”) to combat others’ suicidal thoughts. The added layer of guilt on top of shame, hurt, loneliness, and other pain can sink people more deeply into depression. Instead, as therapists, we are taught to turn towards the pain that is driving the ideation and gently explore and work through what’s surfacing for clients.
Now here I am, holding my own pain, and I am raw and hypersensitive in the face of my clients’ struggles. I want to distill my experience with Joe’s death into some takeaways for myself and for you, dear reader. Here’s the best of what I have in this particular moment:
sharing pain eases pain
blame sinks me deeper into stuckness
it’s important to me to show up more fully to my own life and embrace what’s here rather than what I wish were here
every person who attended the memorial (and those who reached out to my sister and my family, those who karmically sent us sympathy and healing vibes) will often step up and give support to me and to others without hesitation or question
we’re surrounded by care and love and support if we can but signal to one another.
I hope that by meeting Joe today, through this post and his obituary below, you find your way to release anything that’s bottled in you.
Joe’s Obituary
Joseph James Gallo, 49, died on Thursday, 17 August 2023 at his home outside of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.
The outline of Joe’s life is pretty simple: he was born in Ewing, NJ in 1973. He briefly attended college in Atlanta, GA, then moved back to NJ and worked in convenience stores. He started a zine called Gulp Life, and through that made some lifelong friends, including folks in California. He moved to San Francisco in 1998, met and married Shawna Smith and had several happy years. After their marriage ended, he met Vee in 2014 and moved to Gettysburg, PA to be with her.
Joe was an only child. His father, Joseph J. Gallo, predeceased him. He is survived by his mother, JoAnn (Vandegrift) Gallo of Ewing NJ and his partner, Virgina (Vee) Virkus and many friends. He didn’t have any children, but he loved animals, especially cats. He had a tattoo of one of his favorite cats, Butch, a gray American Shorthair, and another tattoo of his dog, Archie, a Jack Russell Chihuahua mix.
Joe took his own life. He wrestled with depression for most of his adult life, and it had a strong ripple, but he was much more than his struggles. He was a loving partner and son, he had a cynical wit and spent a lot of time on reddit and in other forums interacting with both strangers and friends and strangers who became friends. He was a caretaker and administrator, who kept a household and a small business running. At Dancing Pig Pottery, where he worked in the final years of his life, his unofficial title was Emperor of Wax and Flames, His Excellency, the Quartermaster General. He was a cherished friend, someone who listened deeply, without judgment or criticism. He was involved with Recovery circles, both Alcoholics Anonymous and Overeaters Anonymous. He was a person with an additional progressive illness (a rare form of muscular dystrophy called Central Core Disease) that affected his balance and mobility and hindered him on several levels. A gamer with enthusiasm for both board and video games, he was a smart strategist, which served him well both personally and professionally. He would probably object if anyone suggested that he took time to stop and smell roses, but he would not be able to deny that he took photos of blooming houseplants and the pumpkins that grew along the barn where he walked his dog. He reveled in rituals such as changing bed sheets at both the full and new moons, making a fine cup of tea, and waking up early to clean the kitchen as a proper start for the day. He left us with many gifts, memories, and questions.
In our grief, we now look to one another for solace and care. A memorial service to celebrate him will be held on what would have been his fiftieth birthday, Friday 27 October 2023 at the Unitarian Universalist Church in Gettysburg, PA. The memorial will have two parts: a traditional memorial service in the Quaker style at 5:30pm and an informal gathering with tea, pizza and board games from 7 til 9. Attendees are requested to wear tie-dye, if they have any, as Joe appreciated the whimsy of tie dye and often wore it himself. Folks are welcome to attend all or part of the memorial. If you are wondering if you should come, please do. Joe missed much of his life by hiding and withdrawing into himself. A nice way to honor his memory is to try to show up for each other whenever we can.