The Suicide I Carry

Suicide changes the trajectory of every life it touches. For me, it was the defining moment of my childhood and something that has followed me for more than five decades. My brother, Richard Dale Sanders, was born on October 29, 1951. He died by suicide on August 18, 1968. He was sixteen years old. I was twelve.

Even now, fifty-seven years later, the memories remain vivid in ways I sometimes wish they did not.

My brother and I grew up in what people politely call a “broken home.” When I was six years old and Richard was ten, our parents separated. Our mother moved out of state and took our two sisters with her. That left just the three of us in the house—my father, my brother, and me.

The divorce hit my father hard. Instead of rebuilding our home life, he withdrew from it. He spent most of his time in bars, leaving my brother and me largely on our own. In many ways, Richard stepped into the role that both our parents had abandoned. For six years he was the person who looked after me, protected me, and helped me navigate a childhood that suddenly had very little structure and zero parental guidance.

To me, he wasn’t just my older brother. He was everything. The only person that I loved in life.

Richard had once been a normal kid with interests and promise. I remember him playing street baseball when we were younger, with things like mailboxes making up the bases. But slowly, as the years passed and the lack of parental guidance at home became more obvious, things began to change. He was changing, a little more violent, a little more lost, but I still needed him.

By the time he was thirteen, my father was already letting him openly drink alcohol and smoke marijuana whenever he wanted at our house. Instead of being told to stay in school and think about his future, Richard was given the freedom to do whatever he pleased. He quit school at thirteen. There were no expectations placed on him, none from himself and none from anyone else.

For the next three years, his introduction into the teens, his life revolved around getting drunk and smoking pot. I watched the change happen in real time. From the time I was nine years old, I watched my brother drift further and further away from the kid we all knew, to the lost teenager he had become.

Even so, he was still my hero, all I had to look up to and all I could depend on.

Despite his own struggles, he continued to look out for me in ways that a twelve-year-old boy should never have had to rely on. When our mother left and our father disappeared into the bars, Richard became the person who filled every role in my life. Brother, protector, caretaker and both parents.

I loved him more than anyone else in the world.

That’s what makes August 18, 1968, impossible to forget.

There were several people in the house that night, including a cousin and a stepsister. I was one room away when I heard the gunshot. It was sudden and deafening in the way that only a gunshot inside a house can be. The only sound I have ever heard that came close to matching it was an artillery round being fired from the cannons near me while I was in the military.

Even though I bolted out of our front door to get to a neighbor’s house, I was back within just a couple of minutes to something I still live with today.

What I saw when I entered that room is something no twelve-year-old should ever witness.

Richard had gone into the bedroom we shared and shot himself. The coroner’s report later described “macerated brain substance, blood and skull fragments on every wall, floor and ceiling.” At twelve years old I saw that scene only minutes after it happened.

In that instant, my coherent mind simply shut down.

Shock took over. There are moments in life when the brain refuses to fully process what the eyes are seeing. That was one of those moments. My brother, the person who had taken care of me for years, was suddenly gone, and the way he left this world was violent and horrifying beyond comprehension.

I felt everything at once: shock, anger, guilt, and blame. I wondered if there was something I could have done differently. I wondered if I had missed signs that might have saved him. These questions are common among survivors of suicide, but for a twelve-year-old boy they were overwhelming.

At that time in American history, suicide was something people rarely talked about openly. In 1968 it carried enormous stigma and shame. Mental health resources were far less accessible, especially for children dealing with trauma. My only treatment were occasional valiums to reduce the stress level. And those were not prescribed to me.

There was no counseling offered to me. No therapist sat down with me to explain trauma, grief, or survivor’s guilt. No one helped me process what I had seen.

Instead, we went through the rituals that were expected at the time.

Richard had an open-casket funeral.

Because of the damage to his head, the person lying in that casket barely resembled the brother I knew. I made them open the bottom half of the casket so I could see his big feet, before I would believe it was him. The image of that body lying in a box, with enough make up on to try to hide the damage became another memory burned into my mind.

Without professional help or guidance, my young mind tried to cope with the trauma in its own way. And that way became my life for the next decade.

For a full ten years after his death, I lived with what I can only describe as a deeply disturbing psychological belief: I thought my brother’s spirit had entered my body to help us both survive. In my mind, he had come back to take the lead during the hardest moments, just like he had done when he was alive.

It truly felt like we had become two personalities sharing one life.

When times were difficult, I felt as if Richard was the one stepping forward to handle them. That belief gave me strength at times, but it also came with a darker side. The anger and confusion that I carried often manifested in violence toward others.

Looking back now with decades of perspective, I understand that what I was experiencing was a form of severe trauma response. Today it would likely be recognized as post-traumatic stress disorder.

But at the time, I was just a kid trying to survive a tragedy that my mind could not process.

The nightmares started back then and never completely stopped. Even today, fifty-seven years later, I still have vivid nightmares and almost constant daydreaming of visions surrounding that day. Trauma has a way of embedding itself deep within the brain, resurfacing when we least expect it and in ways that are indescribably dangerous.

I want to be clear about something important.

My reaction was not what most people would consider a “normal” response to suicide. But suicide seems to always leave a stronger impact than other deaths on our surviving loved ones. When I look back at the circumstances surrounding Richard’s life and death, along with our closeness, it’s still difficult to understand why my mind reacted the way it did.

We were children growing up without the stability we needed. Our mother had left, our father was largely absent, and my brother had been allowed to spiral into substance abuse during the most formative years of his life. When he died, I lost not only my brother but the person who had effectively been my entire support system.

When a trauma like that happens to a child without any professional support afterward, the psychological consequences can last a lifetime. For me the scene was just enhanced and filled in four and a half years later by military training that I volunteered for on my seventeenth birthday.

For me, PTSD is still a reality.

I share this story not to dwell on tragedy, but to emphasize something that was missing in my life after Richard died: professional help.

No child—or adult—should be expected to process a suicide alone.

Grief counseling, trauma therapy, and mental health support can make a profound difference in how someone heals after losing a loved one to suicide. Today there are resources available that simply did not exist or were not widely used in 1968.

If you are struggling with thoughts of suicide, or if you have lost someone to suicide and are having trouble coping, please reach out for help. You are not alone, and there are people who want to listen and support you.

In the United States, you can contact the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline by dialing or texting 988. You can also chat online at Chat.988lifeline.org. The service is free, confidential, and available 24 hours a day.

Talking to a professional, counselor, or trusted person can be the first step toward healing.

My brother Richard Dale Sanders lived only sixteen years, but the impact of his life and his death, has lasted far longer. I still carry memories of the boy who once played baseball in the street with me and the brother who stepped up to take care of me when no one else did.

And after all these years, I still miss him.

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**Reach out to me at any time. 

I am not only willing, but I also look forward to taking a share of your pain. Email: David@bondedabrotherslove.com. You will get a caring same day response.

Nothing scripted. 

You are not alone, and you matter.

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If You’re Struggling

If you or someone you love or know is in a dark place, please know you’re not alone and there is help available. Reaching out is a sign of strength, not weakness. There are people ready to listen, ready to walk with you, and ready to help.

Immediate assistance is available:

National Suicide & Crisis Lifeline  

📞 988

Veterans Crisis Line  

📞 1-800-273-8255 (Press 1) | 📱 Text 838255

Survivor Support / Crisis Group  

🌐 https://www.crisishotline.org  📞 832-416-1177

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💡 If you know someone who needs to hear that they are not alone, share this story. Together, we can create echoes of hope that outlast the pain.

For more than five decades, I carried this story in silence. Silence nearly broke me, but telling it is what keeps hope alive.

Bonded: A Brother’s Love : One Bullet. A Thousand Echoes my hope is that it offers understanding, connection, and even a reason to hold on when life feels unbearable.

📖 Order your copy today and join me in breaking the silence. Together we can spread hope, honor the lost, and change the future.