The stark headline, “Couple Dead in Murder-Suicide,” screamed from the news, forever etching January 2018 into my memory. My father, a 20-year Army veteran with multiple combat tours, and my stepmother were gone. His final act, rooted in a deep-seated determination to end his own life, robbed him of a burial with military honors and painted him as a monster in the eyes of the world. It also robbed me, a survivor, of the chance to grieve privately, forcing me to grapple with the public spectacle of a tragedy I barely understood.
My search for solace and understanding in the aftermath was met with a deafening silence. Organizations seemed ill-equipped to handle the complexities of murder-suicide, and personal accounts were scarce. The shame and guilt became a heavy cloak, the headlines a constant reminder of my father’s final act. I felt alone, adrift in a sea of unanswered questions.
The Two Halves of Grief: Murder and Suicide
The label “murder-suicide” became my dirty little secret, a burden I carried in silence. I fractured myself into two halves – one that mourned the father I knew and the other that grappled with the horrific reality of his final act. My “Suicide Half” grieved the loss of a complex man, while my “Murder Half” hid in the shadows, filled with shame and confusion.
The world saw a killer, a monster. And as his daughter, I felt tainted by that label. I questioned my right to mourn both my father and my stepmother. The estrangement that marked our relationship added another layer of complexity to my grief, making me feel unworthy of the pain I felt.
I lived a lie, whispering half-truths in support groups and office hallways, the words “murder-suicide” catching in my throat. Online searches yielded sensationalized headlines and anonymous stories, but no real connection, no shared experience that could help me make sense of the tragedy.
A 54-Page Crime Scene Report: Pieces of a Puzzle
The official crime scene report, a chilling 54-page document – one page for each year of my father’s life – laid bare the gruesome details. My brain became a repository of autopsies, transcripts, and evidence, mirroring the public’s morbid fascination with the case.
The media painted a picture of a crime scene: police cars surrounding my father and stepmother’s modest home, yellow tape marking the boundaries of a tragedy. But the reports omitted crucial context. They didn’t mention the incident two months prior, when my father, gripped by paranoia, discarded his belongings and hid in a portable toilet, making frantic phone calls. They didn’t mention his years of struggle with PTSD, the panic attacks triggered by loud noises and bright lights, the cocktail of antipsychotics and medical marijuana that offered temporary respite. They didn’t mention his delusion that enemies were tracking him, seeking revenge for atrocities he believed he’d committed. They didn’t mention his final breakdown, his belief that the world was ending, and his mother’s desperate plea for him to return home, leading to his voluntary admission to a behavioral health facility. That two-week stay was his last attempt to get help, a desperate cry for rescue from the torment in his mind.
The 18 months that followed were a blur of grief and confusion. Clinging to misinformation and myths, I internalized the label of “murderer’s daughter.” Everyday occurrences became triggers, reminding me of the violence that ended my father’s life. I suffered in silence, perpetuating the stigma surrounding mental illness and suicide.
Unveiling the Truth: Beyond the Headlines and Assumptions
The case remained officially open for almost two years, not due to ongoing investigations, but because of bureaucratic oversight. When I finally inquired about my father’s belongings, including his mental health records, I was horrified to learn they sat gathering dust in a locker.
The official narrative lacked crucial information about my father’s mental health, replaced by ignorant speculation from investigating officers who offered armchair diagnoses. “I heard he was schizophrenic,” one offered. Neighbors described him as “acting really weird,” attributing his behavior to “prior military involvement.” Had they bothered to review his records, a fuller story would have emerged. Instead, the narrative solidified within a week: “He had received mental health counseling” and “the couple had domestic violence issues.” Simple explanations for a complex tragedy.
The common assumption surrounding murder-suicide is that it’s a crime of passion, fueled by jealousy and rage. But research paints a different picture. These incidents are rarely impulsive acts of violence; instead, they share more in common with suicide than murder. The primary intention is often self-destruction, not the taking of another life.
Murder-suicides and suicides share striking similarities, often occurring on the same day of the week (Monday) and exhibiting high rates of mental illness among perpetrators, a characteristic absent in murders without suicide. Understanding these facts helped me to reframe the tragedy, recognizing suicide as the driving force behind my father’s final act.
Remembering the Man: Beyond the Final Act
My father was more than his final act. He was a man with stories, a helper who shared soccer balls and candy with children in war-torn countries. He was the man who told whimsical tales of Edmund, the daddy-longlegs spider who followed us from one government-owned dwelling to another. He was the father who gave me silly nicknames and enforced strict bedtimes. He was also a man consumed by anger, fueled by Coca-Cola and Kentucky bourbon, a man who sometimes disappeared for days. Our relationship was a tapestry of estrangement and fleeting moments of connection, but I always loved him.
As much as I hated his final act, I realized it shouldn’t define him. I carried the weight of guilt, believing I could have done more, as if I could have single-handedly altered the course of his illness. As his daughter, I navigated the wrenching decisions that followed his death, unsure if I made the right choices. But I know he was a person, flawed and good.
The Journey to Healing and Understanding
Healing has been a long and arduous journey. The support of the Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors (TAPS) has been invaluable, offering a safe space to explore the complexities of my grief and encouraging me to share my story.
Books like Dr. Edward W. Beal’s “War Stories from the Forgotten Soldiers” and Dr. Thomas Joiner’s “The Perversion of Virtue” have provided insight and understanding. Beal’s compassionate portrayal of veterans struggling with the invisible wounds of war resonated deeply, while Joiner’s research helped me to understand the link between suicide and murder-suicide.
Finding my voice has been a crucial step in my healing process. The constant stream of murder-suicide headlines has spurred me to challenge the simplistic narratives that surround these tragedies and to advocate for the survivors left in their wake.
A Call for Collaboration and Compassion
Meeting other survivors has revealed the untold stories hidden beneath the headlines. Many have carried their grief in secret for decades, ashamed and afraid to speak. The term “murder-suicide” itself can be a source of pain, a stark reminder of the violence that shattered their lives.
The lack of research and the controversial nature of murder-suicide within the mental health field further isolates survivors. Without a common language and understanding, they are left to navigate their grief alone.
All survivors deserve compassion, truth, and support, regardless of the circumstances of their loss. I refuse to let the headlines be the only story, my father’s or mine. Law enforcement, media, nonprofits, mental health professionals, academia, and survivors must work together to create a system of support that ensures no one faces this type of tragedy alone. We must do better, together.
Resource:
If you are struggling with suicidal thoughts or inclinations, reach out immediately to the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, which provides 24/7, free and confidential support for people in distress, and prevention and crisis resources for you or your loved ones.
