Suicide rates typically go down in times of crisis. Why? In March 2020, my partner, Amie; our 2-year-old son, Ratna; and I, who usually live in Kansas City, Missouri, were visiting Kerala, India, about to be in the throes of the country’s first COVID outbreak. When it became clear that Kerala was going to be locked down, we drove up the coast as fast as we could and boarded a flight to Delhi. From there we set out for the most remote place we knew—a small village in the Himalayan foothills called Bir.
On our way there we were nearly turned around at a series of police checkpoints. To go where? That was never clear. Hotels and Airbnbs were sending foreigners away. On WhatsApp, rumors were spreading about fellow expats being rounded up into camps.
An initially reluctant Airbnb host took us in only a few days before a nationwide lockdown went into effect. “Really, I should never have let you stay,” he told me. “But now you can’t leave.”
For the next four months, my family and I lived in a place that saw outsiders like us as the source of the virus. On the rare occasions when I went out for supplies (diapers couldn’t wait), I was cursed at and, once, spat on. Another time, while waiting for produce, I was thrown out of the line and told that rations were for locals only. I worried constantly that I wouldn’t be able to feed my wife and son or that we would be taken by the police to some refugee camp.
I have attempted suicide more than 10 times in my life, and the desire to kill myself is among my earliest memories. My adult life has been an ongoing struggle with addiction, depression, anxiety, chronic suicidal ideation, and suicide attempts.And yet in Bir, despite the fretful uncertainty of our time there, I never thought seriously about suicide. I was scared, but I was not depressed. I was panicking about the outside world, but my inside world—so often a source of misery—was relatively calm. My next serious bout of depression didn’t come until a year after we returned home. Judging by my mental health, the start of the coronavirus pandemic was one of the better times in my life. Apparently, I’m not the only one who feels this way.
During 2020—in the U.S. and in many other countries—suicide rates modestly declined, reversing a decades-long trend. We are learning that this is a pattern: Suicide rates typically go down in times of crisis. The sharpest decrease in U.S. suicide rates ever measured was during World War II; terrorist attacks and other catastrophes have also tended to reduce rates of suicide.
But now they’re rising again. This, too, is part of the pattern. In the months immediately following the Japanese earthquake of 2011, for example, suicide rates dropped compared with the rates in the years preceding the earthquake, and then spiked significantly.
I should note that during the coronavirus pandemic, suicide rates did not go down everywhere. Worldwide, suicide rates were generally lower than expected, and suicide rates went down in many countries, but often more so among men and only slightly among women. Some countries saw female suicide increase. A study from Japan showed that suicide rates among 10-to-19-year-olds rose during the early months of the pandemic. In Maryland, a study found that suicide rates decreased by 45 percent for white people during the first few months of the pandemic but increased by 94 percent among Black residents. Suicide rates appear to have risen among minority groups in the U.S.—especially in Black, Hispanic, and Asian communities—that were already experiencing alarming increases before the pandemic.