My Brother Killed Himself...

I know… it’s a drastic-sounding title. But when is this subject matter not drastic?

“My brother committed suicide” didn’t sit right. “My brother took his own life” didn’t either. This version says it as it is. And quite frankly, the world needs more radical honesty and authenticity. That’s what I hope to bring here. Because the honest truth is always the best way; it’s healing and expanding, even if it’s a little uncomfortable. (And if it is uncomfortable, there’s likely healing needed.)

This actually happened twelve years ago, on the 27th/28th of July 2012.

Some people know fragments of the story, most know very little. I’ve often contemplated writing about it, but I was concerned people would label it “self-centred,” “too much,” “inappropriate.” And besides… does the world really need another story about this (very important) subject?

But here’s the truth: this is a pandemic. Suicide is rampant - especially among men - and soaked in stigma. The more of us who share our experiences, the more we can dissolve the judgement. Because at the core of this, it’s about people suffering. Not weak. Not broken. Just in pain. Seeking relief. I’ve been there myself, I’ve had those thoughts in my darkest hours.

So. Why now?

Part of my journey now, as a spiritual coach and truth-teller, is to share my voice, my essence, my stories - not to centre myself, but because I believe it helps others heal. I’ve received so much healing through reading other people’s stories, especially the unfiltered ones. They help us feel normal. And by normal, I mean authentic.

The Day Everything Changed

Twelve years ago, I was in New York for the second time. I’d flown there to heal, after nine months of nannying under the roof of a narcissist who gaslit me relentlessly.

I woke up around 7 or 8am (I don’t recall exactly). I felt… odd. Something was off. I checked my phone and saw multiple missed calls and messages from my dad saying: “Call ASAP.”

Instant adrenaline. And its best mate: cortisol.

I knew something bad had happened.

I called my dad. Dreading what was coming.

What Came Before

Some context. It was the night of the London 2012 Olympic opening ceremony. I was meant to call my brother Nathan that evening, just before heading out on a cinema date. We’d messaged a lot that summer - more than usual. He kept telling me he missed me. I chalked it up to us both struggling with our mum’s mental health at the time (post-menopausal psychosis… a blog for another day). I figured he was just overwhelmed holding things together while I was away.

He always seemed clearer after our calls. So I didn’t see what was lurking beneath.

Truth is, I didn’t love being away. I felt the tug, the guilt, but my parents had insisted I go. They said I deserved a break after the “nine months of hell” the year before. At the time, it made logical sense to leave. But intuitively? Something felt wrong the whole trip.

The Voice

So, I’m sitting on my friend’s porch in NY. It’s 5pm. I’ve got a few hours until my date. I’m holding my phone. Thinking of calling Nathan.

And then… it went still.

I heard a voice: “Leave him be.”

Now, I’ve always been intuitive, felt energy. But hearing voices? That wasn’t one of my gifts. I looked around, confused, was it a neighbour? A TV? But it was silent. Still. The message landed. It felt spiritual, not mental. And even though my mind didn’t understand, my heart accepted it.

Later, in the thick of grief, I hated myself for listening. I tortured myself with what ifs. What if I had called him anyway? Would he still be alive? Did I help kill him?

But in that moment, I let it go. I tried to enjoy my evening. Tried not to overthink it.

The Collapse

When I called my dad, he told me:

“Your brother’s gone.”

I knew what he meant. My mind tried to scramble for other meanings. Gone where? On holiday? Somewhere else?

But my heart knew.

Two aspects of me severed that day: heart and mind. The floor disappeared. I crumpled. I cried. I couldn’t call Nathan. He was always my first call. And now… nothing. Just silence.

How the f*ck do you survive this?

The Flight

My friend’s partner hugged me. I called a few people. I think I even posted it on Facebook a few days later; tasteless, maybe, but it got the word out. You want people to know, but you can’t tell the story over and over. That alone is a trauma.

One friend kindly drove me to JFK. There was a horrendous storm. I cried the whole flight home… silently, tears streaming down my face. Head against the window. Listening to Enya. Writing page after page to my brother. 35,000 feet in the air, trying to make sense of it.

An air hostess offered tissues. Asked if I was OK. I said “I’m fine,” in true British style.

What I wanted to scream was: “My brother just killed himself and I am NOT OK.”

I landed. My aunt and uncle picked me up from Heathrow. I collapsed in the car. Home felt foreign.

Aftershocks

My mum was still on antipsychotics. Numb. Maybe mercifully. My dad… well, there are no words.

Everything became a blur.

I had no one. My brother was gone. My parents were grieving in their own ways. We were three islands. The pain was unbearable… watching them suffer, trying to hold each other, failing. No one had capacity.

I couldn’t sleep without a light on. I felt Nathan’s presence so strongly I was scared… was I losing my mind? Was it him? Was it something else?

I drank to sleep. My nervous system was wrecked. Valium became a necessity. My dad gave me some of his when the GP wouldn’t renew mine.

It’s wild how functional we can appear while we’re dying inside (that’s another blog).

Climbing Out

After about eight months, I knew I couldn’t keep drinking myself to sleep.

Reluctantly, I agreed to antidepressants - Mirtazapine. It helped me sleep - some night... Stabilised me - ish. But I hated it. I felt like I’d admitted defeat.

They bloated me. I forgot to take them. I came off them three times over the years. Eventually, I weaned off slowly - my way. And I’ve never looked back.

The shame around antidepressants is absurd. I was mortified, but now I’m not. Sometimes we need what we need to survive. I just hope people ask the right questions before medicating and explore the deeper pain underneath.

Family + Enmeshment

My parents and I were close before Nathan died. Then distant. Then, during lockdown in 2020, something healed. We talked. We remembered. We found one another again. I’m grateful for that.

With all my healing since, I see things differently now.

Nathan was like a dad figure to me growing up. Enmeshment. Emotional dependency. Not healthy, but common, especially with emotionally absent parents. We weren’t taught how to be whole.

Healing those childhood wounds as adults is brutal work. It takes courage. But it’s worth it.

You meet yourself on the other side. Your true self. Not the false self that keeps others comfortable.

If You’re Still Here…

Please know: you’re not alone.

If you’re in pain, seek help. Even small steps. You deserve to be you - fully. There is only one you. And you are extraordinary.

Thank you for reading.

Love,

Elisha ❤️‍🔥

* If you need support, guidance or someone to speak to about this, reach out to me and book a session or contact me.

Epilogue

We may never know why someone dies by suicide. Except that they were in pain. And they wanted it to stop.

There was no letter. No explanation. My brother’s phone and laptop held very little. Just signs that he wasn’t OK.

The last thing he wrote to me?

“Can’t wait to see you, sis.”

“Live from the heart.”

That line haunted me. Did I cause this? Did I share a meditation that tipped him over the edge?

Eventually, I realise… I’d never know. And I had to make peace with that.

It took me ten years to truly live from the heart again. Because society teaches us to live from the mind. But the heart… that’s where truth lives.

My heart is my portal. And I’m finally home.

Please be kind. To yourself. And to others. You never know what they’re carrying.