The Semantics of Suicide

I was 19 years old when my father took his life. When people ask why he’s no longer with us, I tell them that he was sick. I say this because it is true—he had struggled, on and off, with severe depression, PTSD, and substance abuse for the majority of my childhood. There were periods when he seemed to have a good handle on his mental health, and others when it would slip from his grasp. From a young age, this is the cycle within which I knew him to exist, and while our home life may not have been the same as that of my friends’, it was, more or less, what became our norm. As a child—perhaps because I was a child—I imagined that my father would always ride this wave, coming back around just before a turn could get too dark. 

When he finally lost the battle against his own mind, then, it came as a shock too great to accept in my own. He had slipped away, as quietly as possible, in his view longing to free us from being trapped in that cycle with him. I never got to tell him that this wasn’t the case, that he never felt like a burden to me and never could. It is something which, now as an adult riding my own wave (and as an MFA student finding their own voice), I think about quite frequently. 

I care deeply about this matter at both the personal level and at the language level. Because suicide is such a sensitive topic, the wording around it is, too. When people talk about someone taking their own life, often the common phrasing used is “commit suicide,” implying some kind of intense culpability, though this is no longer the correct terminology. This phrase was born back when the act was still criminalized, and back when we had just a sliver of the understanding of mental health that we do today. Thus, in honor of Suicide Prevention Month, I want to shed a little light on the semantics of the word—and why a slight change to our diction can have such a major impact. 

Anyone who’s ever loved someone who struggles with severe depression (or who’s battled it themselves) knows that it is anything but a choice. If you ask me, it’s more of a curse than it is a choice—and one that we wouldn’t wish upon our worst enemy, much less those dearest to us. Instead of saying the outdated and unnecessarily harsh “committed suicide,” I want to suggest instead the alternative “died by suicide,” phrasing which removes culpability and morality from the scenario and instead extends an individual humanity and empathy. This is also the official wording recommended by the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP), with whom I have volunteered before. 

Professional mental health organizations like the AFSP gently guide against diction that sensationalizes suicide and instead encourages that which is nonmoralistic. In other words, we can discuss a situation using more neutral, objective language, no different from how we might discuss a physical health issue, in doing so “decreas[ing] negative attitudes of mental health conditions.” You wouldn’t condemn someone for passing away from pneumonia or cancer, after all. The same also applies to someone who has died by suicide.

Language is also extremely important when it comes to discussing suicide attempts. Mental health organizations discourage the use of the words “successful” and “unsuccessful” when referring to a past attempt, as, much like the harshness of “committed,” this affixes an established moral code to a suffering individual. I’ve always thought this description was strange, anyway—why is the “successful” outcome the one that no one wants, the one that we pray is not the case?

Overly dwelling on the topic, too, can be damaging. Studies show that sensationalizing these stories in media, especially when prominently featured by news outlets, can leave others who are struggling with their mental health susceptible to their own attempts in what is literally considered to be a “risk of contagion.” Coupled with the fact that, according to the CDC, suicide rates increased by 36% between 2020-2022, there’s no question this is not a time to be catering to morbid curiosity, but rather a time to be strengthening our sense of compassion.

When I hear the phrasing “commit suicide” now, it comes as a sting, a shock to the system the same way as when you hear someone hurling a curse word. While I don’t fault anyone for not understanding the history behind this phrase, nor for employing it in conversation, it is important to me to point out the unnecessary verbal dagger that it can be. I fully acknowledge that language can be deeply ingrained, and that set sayings can be hard to rewire in our brains—but this doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t try for the sake of those around us. 

Change can start at the micro-level and still make a difference. For instance, I have a wonderful partner who will gently correct his family members when we’re at dinner together and they use incorrect terminology, softly reminding them of their word choice, knowing how uncomfortable it makes me. It’s a small gesture that means so much, and, with time, they have started to steer away from the outdated language, a new habit forming in its place. To give this kind of language respect is to recognize the deep complexity surrounding suicide—it is not something that has a single root “cause,” nor something that can be explained away so simply. And it is a topic we can choose to treat crassly or with care.

Indeed, our word choice can either fight or perpetuate the stigma that still surrounds suicide, and I suspect no community knows more about the impact that words can have than one of lifelong writers. My ultimate hope is that speaking out on this matter can spread awareness about how a slight change of phrasing can make a major difference moving forward—and how we can be the ones to drive it.