Enzo Anthony Aloisi

In spite of these words, my brother lost his hopefulness for life and died just three months later; two terms away from graduating from high school.

My only brother Enzo, or ‘Enz’ as he was affectionately known, was born in November 1973, the youngest of four children. Enzo was a seemingly happy, intelligent and extremely selfless young man who always made us laugh and put others’ needs before his own. From the day he was born, we knew he was going to be special. His love of music began when he could barely speak – we will never forget how he loved to sing along to all the ABBA songs! He was an avid Port Adelaide fan, a competent tennis player and an aspiring musician who wrote his own songs and had made plans to study music at university.

However, somewhere in his seventeenth year, he lost his passion for living and became a statistic. Enzo was one of 380 Australians between the ages of fifteen and twenty-four who suicided that year. Unknown to us, Enzo had suffered from bouts of depression and had contemplated suicide from the age of fourteen. He had confided in his friends and one of his favourite teachers, but no one took him seriously enough to inform us or offer professional counselling. Four days after my wedding and on an unusually warm Autumn day in May, Enzo walked out of the school gates during the recess break, caught a bus home, wrote a letter to his teacher, and then hung himself in the shed.

What Enzo could never have known is that the lives of those of us, who loved him, would change forever. Sadly my mother passed away from cancer two years later but I will always believe she died of a broken heart. My mother was the strongest woman I will ever know, but the anguish of finding the body of her only son, became too unbearable.

As the editor of his school newspaper and house captain at a prestigious private school, why would he choose death over life? With so much going for him, why did he choose to die? When we discovered his diary five years after his death, some of our questions were finally answered. My brother was an articulate writer and thought deeply… perhaps too deeply. We may never fully comprehend the reasons behind his choice, we will never know if something happened to him that left him feeling so disillusioned about his future, but we can try to give purpose to his life by promising to live a little better for having loved him.

Below is the reflection I read at Enzo’s funeral service, also engraved on his tombstone. These words have often consoled me in my moments of darkness. My hope is that for anyone who reads this, that you may be comforted also.