Illustrator Naomi Craigs’ heartbreaking tribute to her young nephew, Ashton Bowbanks, who took his own life

It was 11.08am when we received “the call”. The one I hope you’re not familiar with, but then maybe you are. My mother and I had just come back from our morning coffee walk. We were wrangling a slightly hard-to-tame two-year-old at the time. My mother picked up her phone. The slight change in her voice (hmmm, something’s happened?) to a more concerned remark (something’s really wrong) to a suffocating, bloodcurdling sound I have never heard anyone make. “What did she do?” I let out in a panic. I was actually referring to another family member, who has a history of wavering physical and mental health, and a few too many trips to the emergency room. “No, it’s not her”, my mother breathlessly replied. It was followed by the seven hardest words my ears have heard. “It’s Ashton. He’s taken his own life.” I’d never seen someone drop to their knees like that. If I didn’t know how I’d react to extreme grief before, I suppose now I know. Disbelief, it seems. An avalanche of heaviness clouded over me, and my legs couldn’t move. I simply stood there, frozen, with a weight on my shoulders that felt impossible to carry. I have felt this sort of feeling before. Years of my own struggles, not knowing if, or when, the skies would clear for me. I don’t think Ashton knew he had others so close to him that had felt it too. Would he have reached out? I’m not sure. But it may have helped him to feel less alone. It’s the impossibility of seeing a path out that can weigh on us the most. If your feet have been stuck in the snow for far too long, and if your clothes are too heavy from the rain, and if you can’t see a light through the fog, you can start to believe there’s no light at all. We said our formal goodbyes to Ashton on Friday. I watched as hundreds lay rosemary on his coffin, which was laden with painted hand prints, well wishes and goodbyes scrawled all over it. I watched that same heaviness on each person’s face as they struggled to walk away from him, not wanting to leave him behind — laying a last hand on the coffin. It’s a pain and a lesson all of the kids there, whether they were 17 like Ashton, 16 like his brother, 14 like his sister, or 9, like his youngest sister, were too young to be learning. The pain of knowing he was hurting. The pain of wishing something was different. We said goodbye to the vessel we called Ashton that day, but not his memory, his achievements, or what and who he loves. It took me seven years to see through the fog. Hell, it took me about five years to acknowledge how thick the fog was in the first place. The unbearable pain knowing Ashton couldn’t see the light is still with me, but I can carry a torch with his name written upon it, and use it to find others who are lost in the fog. I promise those of you in the dark, as living proof, you’ll never regret staying to see the skies clear. For my nephew, Ashton Bowbanks, and the nine people every day in Australia we lose to suicide. ********************************************************************************************************* Ashton died on August 1, 2023 leaving behind his dad Allen, step mum Alyce, and younger siblings Aiden, Ava, and Alexis. The family from Albany said “you gained your wings too early but fly high our precious man”. Suicide is the leading cause of death for young Australians with 434 people aged 24 and younger losing their lives to suicide in 2021 alone. For every suicide among young people there are an additional 100 to 200 suicide attempts. This is even more prevalent in regional areas with the suicide rates there well above the national average and more than two times higher than those who live in major cities. The impact of suicide deaths are found to be felt by up to 135 people on average, including family members, work colleagues, friends, and first responders. The rates have placed high demand on services, with the Department of Health estimating the country’s mental health nursing workforce will be 60 per cent short of what will be required by 2030. Lifeline 13 11 14