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Philip was in his mid-forties and, by outward appearances, thriving in his career. A respected veterinarian, he had been chosen to join a United Nations’ study on biological oceanography. He sought me out while preparing for his wedding, unable to move past a growing rift with his fiancée.

I first spoke briefly with Janice. Her decision to end the engagement was already firm, and nothing seemed likely to change her mind. She spoke with a deep frustration about Philip's ongoing struggle with anger; describing outbursts that were both frequent and intense. Having reached her limit, she declined any joint counselling session.

When I met with Philip, our conversation kept returning to his difficult relationship with his father. As a young child, Philip endured harsh physical punishment from his father for even minor rule-breaking. More than once he ran away, dreading what awaited him, only to face worse treatment upon each return.

Though he lived alone, he remained close to his mother, who had left his father back when Philip was in his final year in high school.

One night, I got an urgent call from Philip's mother, Mrs. Lim. She was at his apartment, and Philip was perched on the edge of an open window, legs hanging over the fifteen-story drop. Nothing she said could draw him back inside. I went straight there.

Philip sat withdrawn and hollow-eyed, fixated on the ground far below. Mrs. Lim explained that he'd gone off his medication days earlier and had shut himself in his room. When he stopped answering her calls that evening, she rushed over and found him on the ledge.

While we talked, I sensed a quiet prompting, “Draw closer to Philip, and gently voice his mother's feelings for him.” I positioned Mrs. Lim where he could see her, near the doorway, and eased myself toward him, keeping my voice low and unhurried as I acknowledged the pain behind his impulse to end his life.

Once close enough, I lowered myself to the floor and steered the conversation toward his mother's grief; the devastating sorrow she would carry for the rest of her life, if he went through with it. I gave him space to sit with that.

After a couple of minutes, he looked at me directly for the first time that night. I met his eyes and offered a faint smile. His face crumpled as he saw his mother, and he began to sob. I stood, reached for him, and said, "Come on, let's get you back inside." He shifted his feet off the ledge and stepped down into the room.

I walked him to the lounge and had his mother to secure the bedroom window.

We remained together for roughly an hour as he settled. Eventually, he took his medication and went to bed. I stayed a while longer to debrief with Mrs. Lim and give her guidance for when Philip woke.

This case illustrates several pertinent psychological threads that often converge in a suicidal crisis. Here's a breakdown of the key issues at play:

Early developmental trauma and attachment wounds:

Philip's childhood was marked by repeated physical abuse from his father, with unpredictable severity tied to minor infractions. This kind of experience, where a caregiver is both the source of safety and the source of terror, often produces disorganized attachment patterns that persist into adulthood. Running away and returning to escalating punishment likely reinforced a sense of helplessness: that fleeing danger only invites worse danger, and that his actions have little power to protect him. This can shape a deep, lasting belief that he is unsafe even in his closest relationships.

Anger as a trauma response:

Janice's complaints about his persistent and volatile anger are consistent with a common pattern among survivors of childhood abuse, anger that was modelled by an abusive parent, or anger that developed as a defence against feeling powerless. Unprocessed rage from childhood can resurface in adult intimate relationships, often in ways the person themselves doesn't fully understand or control, which then damages the very relationships he needs for stability.

Loss and abandonment as a precipitating stressor:

The breakup functioned as an acute trigger layered on top of chronic vulnerability. For someone whose early experience taught him that connection is conditional and can be violently withdrawn, the end of an engagement may not register as a normal relationship setback. It can feel like confirmation of a core fear: that he is fundamentally unlovable or destined to be abandoned.

Psychiatric vulnerability and treatment disruption:

The reference to medication suggests Philip had an existing diagnosed condition, possibly a mood disorder, that was being managed pharmacologically. Stopping medication for several days, combined with self-isolation (locking himself in his room, not answering calls), points to a rapid destabilization. Medication discontinuation can trigger a return or worsening of symptoms like hopelessness, agitation, or impulsivity, especially under stress.

Hopelessness and constricted thinking:

By the time he was on the ledge, Philip showed classic markers of a suicidal crisis: narrowed focus (fixated on the drop below), emotional withdrawal, and unresponsiveness to his mother's attempts to reach him. This tunnel vision is a well-documented feature of acute suicidal states, the person's perspective narrows so severely that alternatives become psychologically invisible, even when people who love them are right there.

Protective factors and the turning point:

What shifted things wasn't logic or argument, but emotional connection, specifically, being helped to feel his mother's love and prospective grief rather than his own isolation. This reflects a well-established principle in crisis intervention: reconnecting someone to their relational bonds can interrupt the tunnel vision of a suicidal crisis, because it reintroduces the felt sense that his life matters to someone, at a moment when that had become psychologically inaccessible to him.

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Coram Deo — before the face of God. This blog reflects on Scripture, world events, science, music, psychology, and the human mind — always through the lens of Christian faith. All of life is lived before the face of God.