What teen suicide tells us about ourselves

The record number of teenage suicides shows a culture in steep decline. We can reverse the trends, if we have the will.

I learned yesterday morning of a suicide of a 13 year-old boy in Sheffield, England, the only response he felt capable of making to relentless bullying. No one was there for him. Andrew Solomon reports in The New Yorker (9/30/2024) that social media itself is fueling the crisis of teen suicide: trends move so rapidly that no one can keep up, and vulnerable kids feel their lives have no meaning. Add to the impossible-to-attain imagery all the prompts to self-hatred, self-harm, and even suicide. Don’t believe me: read the article.

For two decades I have been aware of rampant suicide among Native American youth, also the only response they feel capable of making to challenges and horrors you and I cannot begin to imagine. I know of these challenges and some of the horrors because I used to work in Indian Country, as Native Americans refer to their space.

Suicides among all American teens is up significantly from 1999 to 2021, with significantly higher rates among African Americans, Native Americans, girls, and LGBTQ+ kids.

Something is seriously wrong. Our most vulnerable populations are not benefitting from the protection of those who should be offering it — and we aren’t even considering here the number of children whose lives are lost to elective abortion, truly the most vulnerable amongst us. Where are the adults?

I feel these statistics and facts keenly, as I myself was bullied and ridiculed as a kid and as I now have the privilege of being a member of various Catholic chivalrous orders. One of the ancient maxims of chivalry is “thou shalt respect all weaknesses, and shalt constitute thyself the defender of them.” As a man who has recovered from bullying and ridicule and as a member of orders committed to defense of the poor and the sick, I feel compelled to offer some response, some help, some aid to those at risk. I am not quite sure to do, but I have some general ideas.

We are taught in the wider culture to despise weakness. Wherever we identify it in ourselves, we are tasked to overcome it, whether it be physical, mental, or moral. All this is to the good, as we can overcome much. Yet we forget that there are some wounds that just don’t heal, no matter how much attention — spiritual, therapeutic, and medical — we give to them. At this point we are obliged to “accept the things we cannot change,” as that part of Niebuhr’s Serenity Prayer reads; only then does peace come, and from the peace, that clarity of vision that gives rise to the sort of wisdom that issues in fruitful action.

We are also obliged, insofar as we are able, not to burden others with burdens they cannot carry for us. This is a matter of good manners, but it is also good theology. We take these weaknesses and wounds to the Cross, offering the suffering they cause us in union with the sufferings of Christ Crucified. Those sufferings then take on new meaning for us, because our wounds and weaknesses become points of encounter with the Lord, whose name means “God saves.” In those encounters we are given the strength to bear the unbearable, and we also develop compassion for others who suffer and cannot heal themselves. We come to realize that in the end, no one can heal himself or herself completely: that healing is the Lord’s gift to us, and he gives it to us progressively. Do miraculous healings of all types — spiritual, moral, physical — occur? Sure, all the time, actually. But they don’t occur in every single instance, nor do they always occur instantaneously, and to the extent the need for healing persists, it offers us opportunity to go to the Lord for the help that only he can give. Persistence develops patience, and patience develops endurance, and from patient endurance arise many virtues that otherwise would not arise. What happens, though, when you have neither persistence nor patience because you have been trained to expect instant gratification?

We are taught in our culture to despise the weakness of others, and to despise the weak because they are weak. The poor are poor because of their moral failings, we are told; the alcoholic and drug-addicted, and sufferers of any addictions, are “that way” because of poor choices they have made. There is often an element of truth in that perspective, but it is a dangerous truth, because it is incomplete. You and I don’t know what we would do, how we would respond, if we were in the desperate situations that led people to develop desperate habits. And as you and I did not choose the circumstances of our births, neither did those who suffer from chronic mental illness, addiction, poverty, or disease. Count your blessings, and don’t blame those who don’t have them.

So our first response to the suicide crisis, and to the crisis of any acute suffering, is to reject the rhetoric that says those who suffer brought it on themselves. Especially in the case of minors, this is absolutely, patently untrue; in the case of adults, whose self-destructive habits may not yet have extended as far as suicide, the answer is compassion: it doesn't matter whether they brought the suffering upon themselves or not, what matters is that they are suffering.

Compassion is not a willingness to excuse, or a polite dismissal of those whose behavior or hygiene, mental or physical, disgusts us. The word “compassion” contains its own meaning: we have to be willing to suffer with those who suffer. This means supporting them in their struggles toward wholeness. It also means that when we have the power to do so, we put a stop to the actions of others that cause suffering and harm. We don’t always have that power — and we take comfort in that, as though we are thereby somehow excused. Often enough, however, we do have the power to do something, and we fail to exercise it. For that failure, we are responsible.

I understand, too, the need for boundaries: there is, in the end, only so much we can do, and it is also true that some are troubled because they haven't troubled themselves to do what they can to end or ease their sufferings. Part of compassion means helping others to discover that they are more capable than they think, and to help them develop those capacities and capabilities so that they can live, and love, more effectively. I don’t like the term “tough love,” because too readily it is used to excuse an engagement that is more tough than loving. “Firm loving-kindness” might be a better choice of words.

We have, then, two principal duties. The first is to aid those who suffer in any way we can. We can help them develop the strength to carry the burdens and face the challenges that are theirs to carry and to face. We can stand with them in their suffering, compassionately, offering our experience and strength for them to rely on. We can point them to the source of our strength, Christ Jesus Crucified, who endured the Cross and despised the shame, by whose stripes we are healed. And I think this is the order we have to follow. We have to accept that some will never see the source of our strength, for whatever reason. We don’t turn away from them: we offer them the strength that we have and suffer with and for them as Christ suffers with and for us. We give them whatever we can give them, without forcing anything on anyone. The rest, God will work out in his own time and way.

The second is to say “no” to the violence that so casually pervades our societies. Please note that here I do not eschew the use of force. Force of some kind is generally required to put an end to violent behavior and action. If one of the maxims of chivalry is to respect all weaknesses, another is “thou shalt not recoil before the enemy.” The enemy here is anyone who reviles the weak, the sick, and the troubled, who will reduce them to objects of derision and scorn, who will walk away from them in their need. We need to be courageous men and women who speak the truth about their violent and abusive behavior even to those who will not hear it. We need to use lawful means to end it when we can. Sometime we need to act and not just to speak. Circumstances will show us what is required of us.

We have to note, finally, that the proliferation of violence, and of suicide, in our society is an indictment against us. Where the Gospel is preached, accepted, and lived, peace prevails. This is a hallmark of Christian conversion and of Christian civilization: when people find peace with Christ, they find peace with themselves and then with others. Just look at Church history to see this truth time and time again. Or, we can look to our own lives and see what we were like before we had a conscious, living relationship with the Savior and His Church, and what we are like now. We know the truth, and yet we fail to evangelize, blaming others for our failure. This will not do. Each of us is called to be a herald of the Gospel, like John the Baptist, who knew he was not the Savior and who pointed Him out to those who were seeking. Each of us is called to be like Mary, nurturing Christ within us, presenting Christ to the world, standing with Christ and suffering with him in his sufferings for the redemption of the world. Each of us is called to accept the possible scorn and derision of the world for attempting to divert them from landing upon others. It is true that sometimes we suffer grievously in the attempt. Do you want the peace that passes all understanding or the unquiet quiet of choosing safety when action is required? What will you say on Judgement Day if you see that you could have acted to save a life, a soul, but didn’t, and so that soul is lost? These are sobering questions, because these are sobering times.