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The Lies We Believe in the Dark
Why Suffering Convinces Us We Are a Burden—and How We Find the Strength to Stay I Bill Vassilopoulos
8/4/20262 min read
The Lies We Believe in the Dark
Why Suffering Convinces Us We Are a Burden—and How We Find the Strength to Stay I Bill Vassilopoulos
For nearly a decade, I worked on a project that forced me to confront the heaviest corners of human grief. My book, Eyes Above the Water, isn't a fictional narrative or a clinical manual. It is built on raw, unfiltered interviews with suicide loss survivors—families, bereaved spouses, and professionals working across mental health, agriculture, education, and faith.
One story that never left me came from Barb, a retired nurse from Manitoba. Her husband—a practicing doctor—took his own life the day before they were set to leave on a camping trip. Years later, Barb still wrestles with the lingering numbness and the relentless question that plagues almost every survivor: Could I have done more?
That question is a trap, but it's one millions of families walk into every day. Guilt and shame convince us that we should have seen the unseen—even when the person struggling was a trained medical professional.
I recognized that quiet guilt long before I ever put pen to paper.
Growing up, whenever I visited my uncle's home, I walked past a framed photograph near the living room. It was his younger sister, who had died in her late teens. Every time my uncle looked at her picture, his eyes would well up, followed by a quiet, affectionate smile. "She was a lovely young girl," he’d tell me. "She’s at peace now."
It wasn’t until 2013—when I began co-facilitating suicide intervention training with my colleague Demetre—that I learned the truth: she had died by suicide following a breakup. My uncle had carried the blame for years, but he kept her photo right there on his wall. When I asked him why, he said something that reshaped how I view grief: "I still love her, and I’m not ashamed of her."
Refusing to hide her memory brought healing to his life. It taught me that we don't recover by burying the pain; we recover by finding the strength to hold on through the storm.
Nearly 40 years ago, as a teenager, I attempted to end my own life. I wrote from a place of deep isolation, convinced I was a burden to everyone around me. It took decades—and the process of gathering these stories—to fully realize the catastrophic wake of pain I would have left behind.
If you are a parent or someone struggling in the dark today, hear this: suffering lies to you. It tells you that you are a burden, that outcomes are entirely your fault, and that the world is better off without you. None of it is true.
You are irreplaceable. You are unrepeatable. You are valuable.
If you or someone you love is searching for footing in the middle of grief, I invite you to read Eyes Above the Water. You are not alone, and there is strength to face another day.
Warmly, your friend,
Bill Vassilopoulos