Scars of officer suicide run deep
Like briefly tugging one errant thread on a sweater, the after effects of police officer suicide often aren’t seen until many years after the event
The one aspect of being in law enforcement that isn’t frequently talked about in anyone’s academy, the one that keeps us up at night sometimes, the one that oftentimes there is no answer for “why?,” is suicide of a coworker who is many times a friend, lover, husband, wife, brother, sister, etc. Suicide in the world of cops is a third rail, one that no one is really comfortable discussing because let’s face it, it’s depressing and it sucks all the air out of a room the instant it’s mentioned.
For me, I’d rather hear that a coworker has cancer. Why? Because at least then, it’s implied that a fight for life will be mounted, friends and supporters will gather at their side allied in the fight to keep them upright and vital, and we’ll all pull together for a common goal. But suicide?
Ultimately, it’s a loner’s gambit. Suicide removes from the picture only the one who is taking their own life, and then leaves behind catastrophic damage in its wake... irreparable damage to the social fabric of everyone’s life who knew and/or cared for that person.
Like briefly tugging one errant thread on a sweater, the after effects of police officer suicide often aren’t seen until many years after the event.
My Blood Ran Cold
I confirmed through my sources that it was indeed true. To say the least, it was an upsetting piece of news. Actually, it made my blood run cold.
I had worked with Jeff at the Brown Field Border Patrol Station for three years, prior to his reassignment as a Special Agent with the ATF in Los Angeles. By all accounts, he was considered by many to be a good agent, good friend, and good family man... the “big three” we typically associate with a successful career and life, even though the details vary greatly from person to person.
Early in both of our careers, another Border Patrol Agent committed suicide in the locker room at the Brown Field Station. That agent also was considered by many to be a good agent, good friend, and a good family man.
We asked the question, “Why?”
As it turned out, that agent had an illustrious career in the Border Patrol but had incurred several on-duty injuries, become reliant on pain killers, and was fighting the administration on a whole group of issues to include workman’s compensation, a pending medical retirement, and upcoming surgeries that may or may not be successful. Maybe he felt left behind by an agency that he gave a good portion of his life to. Maybe he felt betrayed. Maybe he felt no longer useful. In the end, exact reasons will never be known and shooting himself in the heart ensured that the mysteries died with him.
Ten Years of Pain
Even Jeff probably thought that his problems associated with Deputy Kuredjian’s murder were of little consequence, given this nation’s razor focus on reacting too and rebuilding after the terrorist attacks. But not unlike many combat veterans, police officers, firefighters, etc., PTSD may have continued to gnaw at him. In our culture of “suck it up” and “eye on the prize” Jeff probably downplayed its significance. He and I commented to each other once — sometime after the suicide at our station — that we would never go out like that... what a waste it was.
It’s more than eerie now — all these years later — to consider as a possibility that one suicide, a witnessed murder of a fellow brother in a badge, the events of September 11th, the resulting suppression of grief and PTSD from all of those things, and Jeff Ryan’s recent suicide may have all been associated. I’m not sure that it’s a definite cause, but I’m sure that all those events somehow weighed very heavily on him and in the end, he felt that he could no longer function. What other reason would merit such a final and brutal conclusion?
In the end, the mystery of why he did it died with him. I can only hope that his family will make peace and live a long and fruitful life and that brother Jeff Ryan is at peace as well.
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