Nightbird delves unflinchingly into the complex dynamics of revenge suicide in the context of abusive relationships, laying bare the manipulative tactics and emotional toll they inflict. The authorās honesty about her own upbringing, her missteps, and self-blame makes her story relatable and deeply moving. It is a testament to the idea that we are āin the process of re-authoring our lives,ā as the author undergoes her own transformation from a person shaped by trauma to a compassionate healer. This memoir will resonate with anyone who has struggled with self-doubt, shame, and the quest for self-acceptance. Itās a must-read for those interested in the psychology and trauma of revenge suicide in the context of domestic violence and the human capacity to overcome, to transform, and to grow out of our trauma, that our past need not define our future.
Nightbird delves unflinchingly into the complex dynamics of revenge suicide in the context of abusive relationships, laying bare the manipulative tactics and emotional toll they inflict. The authorās honesty about her own upbringing, her missteps, and self-blame makes her story relatable and deeply moving. It is a testament to the idea that we are āin the process of re-authoring our lives,ā as the author undergoes her own transformation from a person shaped by trauma to a compassionate healer. This memoir will resonate with anyone who has struggled with self-doubt, shame, and the quest for self-acceptance. Itās a must-read for those interested in the psychology and trauma of revenge suicide in the context of domestic violence and the human capacity to overcome, to transform, and to grow out of our trauma, that our past need not define our future.
My hands were shaking so badly that I had a hard time holding onto the phone, but I realized I had to hit three numbers to call for help. Time. Had. Stopped. Everything was suddenly wrong.
It was dark, and the wind had picked up, sending the windchimes on the back deck spiraling. I was having a hard time thinking.
I paced in a circle with small, frantic steps as I hit three digits with my index finger. As I waited for the call to connect, I reminded myself to breathe. One ring. Two rings. Three rings.
Then, finally, a male voice greeted me.
"Please send an ambulance," the words choked around the ragged sobs escaping from my throat. "I came home and found my husband ā he's hanged himself."
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone, but I filled the void with sounds I'd never made before.
Finally, the man said. "Maāam, this is 711. We're Repair. We can't help you. Maybe you should try 911."
"Oh, of course, I'm sorry," I said, ever polite. "I was trying to call 911. I'm upset. I'll try again." I hit the button to disconnect the call. āBreathe,ā I said aloud as the windchimes tinkled.
I stared at the shaking phone in my hand as the numbers swirled. My fingers were drunk. The shaking spread from my hands up to my arms and vibrated through the center of my body. I hit three more digits and waited much longer this time.
I could hear myself gasping for air, and the room was spinning. I was dizzy, weak in the kneesāand cold as if I'd suddenly fallen into ice water. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four rings.
Finally, I heard a woman's voice. She sounded kind, and I was relieved. "Please send an ambulance. My husband is dead. I came home and found him hanging, and I don't know what to do."
"Ma'am, you've reached directory assistance at 411 ā you need 911."
"OH SHIT!" I sobbed.
"Ma'am, I'll put you through to 911. Just hold on."
While the wind shook the house and rattled the windows, I kept pacing, shaking, and trying to breathe.
Then, out in the driveway, on my knees with sharp gravel pricking the skin of my bare legs, I held the phone to my ear, and there was a new man on the line who kept saying, "Calm down, ma'am, calm down!"
The part of me hovering above recognized that he was being absurd. No one ever calms down because someone tells them to. I understand these things because I'm a therapist.
I wanted to explain that to the man but couldn't speak the words as I wailed at the moon above my head.
Nightbird is a book that explores a very specific and intensely dark phenomenon, that of revenge suicide in the context of intimate relationships. It feels like a topic that might be even more taboo than just suicide itself, which already hovers on the margins of what society generally finds acceptable to talk about. And yet Scott's experience and her memoir join the overwhelming amount of evidence that talking about it is exactly what we need to do in order to understand why it happens and how one can even begin to heal from the inconceivable.
The opening scene after the prologue in which Scott describes how she discovered the very deliberately staged scene of her husband's suicide is devastatingly compelling and memorable. It almost feels like an intrusion to know so much about something so intensely personal, but when the spotlight turns on how the events made her feel, how they impacted her life and ability to function, it becomes clear why the amount of detail is so important. The point is impossible to miss - when somebody takes their own life in order to hurt a loved one, they know exactly what they're doing and the impossible amount of guilt, regret, pain and devastation they leave in their wake. The surviving person, in this case the intimate partner, pays the price for caring too much and yet being unable to derail the apocalyptic train from its doomed tracks.
From there, Scott takes us back to her childhood, starting a chronological account of her life in an attempt to outline how she got to that scene that the book starts with - phone in her hand, desperately trying to call for help and put the unspeakable into words.
Detailing her upbringing and relationships with both of her parents, the shadow of religious trauma, the cruelty of dysfunctional relationships and the impact of magical thinking on her life, patterns begin to emerge. Some of the events highlighted let pieces of the narrative fall into place with stomach-churning clarity, especially with hindsight and knowing exactly what happens in the end.
The writing comes across as tight and clear, with no fluff or padding - it cuts right to the core of the subject matter, presenting what happened, how the author felt, and how she interprets the events in hindsight. The clarity with which the material is presented builds a bridge between clinical insight and lived experience. Scott has the disarming gift of admitting how her choices and behavior in the past might have contributed to the ultimate devastation while at the same time showing her past self compassion and understanding. This kind of balance is where healing happens, and it's easy to imagine Scott offering this exact same insight to her clients and friends before realizing it applies to her as well.
Interspersed with quotes, poems, and rounded off with other people's experiences of the same devastating phenomenon, this memoir is essential reading about healing and perspective. The lines between client and therapist are blurred in a masterful way, because we are given the unique insight of someone who is both a therapist and an affected person, but not a victim - not anymore. In selflessly offering us the story of her life, Scott reclaims the spotlight from a painstakingly staged tragedy meant to harm and shines it on a compassionate analysis and interpretation meant to heal.