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John and Wanda, Saviors Of The Earth’s Suicidal Children

March 10, 2014 0 comments

It’s really hard for me to explain to people, “Yes. I have, in fact, been suicidal.”

I think it’s because I may have told only five people tops, and it’s also such a taboo topic. There are the people who will break down and panic until a point where you simply don’t want to talk to them. There are also people who just simply do not know what to say. Then there are the complete and total assholes who will mumble from their greasy, hairy faces, “Oh, he’s just saying it for show. He won’t do it.” 

Assholes. All of those guys. Each and every single one. I say that in the most Christian way possible. I love them, but they are still utter assholes.

That said, my battles with the concept of suicide have always been a little odd. I don’t mean to be morbid, but I do intend to be fully transparent and completely honest. What you get from me is typically unfiltered unless otherwise specified.

No, I’ve never set a date to do the deed. Yes, I’ve had repeated thoughts of how great it would be if I would just be dead.

No, I don’t think everyone else’s world would be better if I was dead – I’m a great guy, damn it. Yes, I think I would be a bit more relieved.

No, I’ve never made an attempt. Yes, I’ve thought of numerous methods and ways I could do it with items around my house.

No, I’ve never planned out my suicide. Yes, I’ve made the beginnings of a suicide note.

No, I’ve never created a Buscemi-styled hit-list to take people out before I go out in a blaze of glory. Yes, I’ve hated myself.

No, I’ve never started the beginning stages of suicide. Yes, I’ve wrestled with myself all night about whether or not it would finally give me some relief.

No, I’ve never called a friend and told them I was going to do it. Yes, I’ve called the National Suicide Prevention Hotline – a few times, in fact.

Tonight even, I spoke with a couple of people, and that’s because I called twice. I spoke with Wanda first, a woman who I can only imagine to be a rather large black lady with a southern sweet tea, front porch kind of charm and a heart of gold. Then I spoke to John, who I imagine is a volunteer fireman – when he’s not doing social work – and has a passion for weekend fishing trips.

Wanda let me sob and speak through stuttered words, only occasionally murmuring various mhmmm’s that made me feel like I finally was in the presence of the black grandmother that I never had. John (bear in mind that I was in a more intense state of mind at the time of this call) took action and set me up with an appointment at a local mental health center. Like immediately. Lightning fast. Like sh-bang. John Power. Boom. Pow. Bang.

Ka-pow.

What I’m trying to say here is that there’s this common interpretation of suicide being something we see on TV. Where you write some dramatic letter and then tie a noose and hang yourself. Then everyone cries and talks about how they wish they had known and that they miss you. Funeral happens. The lab finds out it’s actually a homicide. An investigation happens. Then NCIS takes the bad guys down.

It’s always that, though.

I view being suicidal as being on a spectrum, where you can be on any part of it and still be in as serious trouble as the guy about to kick the chair out from under his feet. With that said, if you speculate you are suicidal, but you don’t quite fit the criteria of listening to My Chemical Romance and wearing eyeliner, then don’t doubt yourself. Get help. Please.

This may be a premature post. No, I don’t have the whole, “Back in 2014 when I was 22, my life changed after I saw the light and finally saw a psychiatrist,” kind of story going on. I’m not telling this story from a mountain looking down at the dark valley I was in. I am in that valley right now. It’s terrifying. I’m honest-to-God scared. I hate it.

But at the same time, I think strength is greater in numbers, and if we’re in the same valley, then we might as well trudge through it together. Get help now if you haven’t.

Regarding the photograph attached to this article? Groundhog Day. Dark humor, I know.

Image: Twentyfour Students

My Heart Hurts

February 16, 2014 0 comments

Theodore Roosevelt had it rough. When his mother and wife died within hours of each other, he simply wrote in his diary, “The light has gone out of my life.”

On another note, my goal has always been to be a good man. Godly even – when I can, of course (while plagued with many errors and faults that make the goal seem preposterous and entirely out of reach). I consider the latter goal a bit silly sometimes. I can’t attain it, but I can work towards it. Unfortunately, I’ve recently failed, and on top of that, I’ve failed worse than any other time.

While not plagued with immediate death, I believe I could safely say that the light has also gone out of my life.

After two years of fighting depression and focusing solely on defending myself, I failed to realize that the Monster was also harming someone incredibly close to me. While blinded by my own battles, I was leaving the very person – my partner – open to the blows of the enemy.

In my private life, I have been a hateful, scornful, unforgiving individual, and it finally caught up to me. It’s so easy to be worn down and let the pain show through when in such a vulnerable situation. One can be kind just as long as others are looking, but when we were collectively distracted, I became consumed. After fighting this Monster over the course of two years, I eventually became the Monster incarnate and lost my strongest supporter.

No one should have to deal with that.

I’m sorry.

beach

Jekyll, Hyde, & The Sad Man In Between

February 4, 2014 1 comment

I freaking hate being all doom and gloom. With depression, it’s easy to be all doom and gloom. But despite my doom and gloom, I like to think that I’m a pretty cheerful guy. Quiet, but cheerful.

I like to think about the good things in life, and to be perfectly honest, it makes my day to make someone else’s day. Literally, I can’t think of any better feeling than making someone say, “Man, I don’t have to worry about [insert-the-blank] anymore!” 

Great feeling. Really, it is.

Comedy films are another fantastic tool that keeps me positive. They make me laugh. Good ones make me laugh hard. The best ones make me laugh until I am hurting and crying uncontrollably. Yes, there are times where I am ridiculously happy, and sometimes, it’s just for a little while. It’s still nice, though.

But unfortunately, with depression, those happy feelings are all too fragile.

NashvilleSkyline

I Don’t Know Why I’m Here

November 14, 2013 0 comments

It has been a long time since I have allowed my words to properly breathe as opposed to letting them process through the proverbial meat grinder, assimilating themselves into edible, digestible chunks for the tech-enthused masses’ critique and attempts to improve upon.

Just recently, I have faced such insightful comments like, “How dare you criticize Justin Bieber?!” and “To the author: you used the phrase, ‘with that said’ too many times in your article.”

So helpful!

No, but really. I’m happy with my writing job, and I’m also happy with my recently acquired job at a professional video equipment rental house in Nashville, Tennessee. I have a fantastic girlfriend, a beautiful town-home, and a dog that doesn’t have a name, and since I can’t find the owner, doesn’t seem to be leaving anytime soon.

But every morning, I wake up and think to myself, “I don’t know why I’m here.”