I hope you will permit me a bit of personal indulgence ... but today marks the second anniversary of a true turning point in my life.
Longtime
Blast Off! readers may remember
the essay I wrote and posted last year around this time. I'd like to repost it today in its entirety, as I hope to do every May 17 as long as this sucky blog lasts. I'm certainly not trying to generate sympathy; indeed, I'm absolutely fine now, and the events of two years ago seem almost like they happened to someone else. My reason for posting this, beyond commemorating the event, is because I hope my experience can help someone similarly situated. If you know someone like this, please feel free to pass this on. And if you
are someone like this, please know that you are not alone.
Anyway, thanks for allowing me this brief personal moment ... I promise to get back to laughing at Republicans shortly. And Happy Anniversary to me.
(originally posted May 22, 2007)Welcome to the
1,000th post here at
Blast Off! Fittingly, it comes one full year after a major turning point in my life – an event, or really a culmination of events, that has (have) had a truly transformative impact on me and which, I think it is safe to say, has made me a stronger person, better able to deal with the problems and pitfalls that life inevitably offers us.
Although it’s really nothing more than serendipitous timing, post number 1,000 is an opportunity for me to write about some very significant changes I have undergone over the last year. More than merely navel-gazing, I hope that by revealing something very private about myself, I might be able to reach someone who is in the same situation in which I found myself last year, or at the very least, bring a sort of closure to the tumult and upheaval I have experienced, really, since returning to Florida in 2004. I recognize that I am taking a significant risk in writing this, not so much out of concern over people who only know me in my online persona as “Sinfonian,” but indeed, because a number of people read this blog who know me in real life (or, in the neat linguistic turn I prefer, “meatspace”), the revelations herein may color the opinions of certain of my friends and acquaintances. Nevertheless, I feel the potential for positive outcomes, whether for myself or someone else, outweighs any possible damage to existing “meatspace” relationships.
So, here goes nothing:
A year ago this week, I quite calmly and methodically attempted suicide.
Well, to be precise, I didn’t get quite as far as the attempt. Indeed, I had
actually attempted to take my own life several months earlier, in September of 2005, by taking sleeping pills and trying to drift peacefully away in my car, running, in my garage. I once knew someone – a former pastor, actually – who had committed suicide by that method, and it seemed to me to be the least painful and least
messy way to go about it. I remember the feeling of immense weight on my chest as the time passed that night in my car, and ultimately I stepped back from the abyss, groggily using my cell phone to call for help.
But this essay isn’t about September of 2005. After that incident, I was hospitalized for a couple of days, put on medication, and sent on my way. I thought that would be that.
However, my life continued to spiral out of control. I was out of work, separated from my wife, distressed about my absence from my children’s lives … and I genuinely, truly, once and for all, lost all hope.
Around March of 2006, then, I began to conduct rather extensive research on the Internet about suicide and, specifically, the most efficient and effective ways of doing one’s self in. You’d be surprised at the plethora of information about suicide that’s out there … or maybe you wouldn’t. (For obvious reasons, I’m not posting links. Just trust me.)
Finally, considering the resources available to me, which were few, and my tolerance for pain and suffering, which is little, I ruled out drug overdoses (I’d probably just puke it all up) and carbon monoxide (that worked
so well before), and I didn’t want to go the wrist-slashing route (too slow and messy) or jumping from someplace high (the anticipation would … well,
kill me). It looked like the best bet was a gun. And, fortunately, living in Florida without a criminal record beyond traffic tickets, it wouldn’t be hard to obtain a gun.
The only question then was, what kind of gun? I didn’t want to risk it
not working, which eliminated most of the small-caliber choices. Besides, I had no idea how to obtain a handgun, and the waiting period would really throw off my timing. By comparison, a shotgun would be readily available and accessible, and it certainly worked well enough for Hemingway and Cobain. I’d never fired a gun of any kind, other than a BB gun, in my life, but I didn’t think it would be that hard to figure out. I knew it might be messy, so I also began thinking about locations.
May 17, 2006, was a Wednesday. For most, it was probably an unremarkable day. For me, however, it was The Day – the date that forevermore would go on the right side of the dash, opposite “November 11, 1965.”
I didn’t wake up that morning with the intent of killing myself. But after a telephone conversation in which someone very close to me essentially ended our friendship, it seemed that the time had come to put myself out of my own – and everyone else’s – misery. It wasn’t just the end of that one friendship that drove me to my decision, mind you, but it’s remarkable how stress and depression and the magnification of problems pile on until there’s no way out but down. So, that’s where I went.
I went to a nearby Wal-Mart and purchased a shotgun and some shells, relying on my newfound expertise culled from the Internet to select the most appropriate size and type. There was a cursory review – I had to fill out a form or two and let them check my driver’s license and call in the information to a database somewhere, presumably Tallahassee – but I left the store that day with the gun and the shells, and I headed down the road.
I don’t remember if I went home first (I lived by myself) or anything, but the next thing I knew, I had driven to the next county, turned off the highway, and traveled down a number of dirt roads, trying to find the most remote location possible in central Florida. I even had called my estranged wife and spoken to my son and found a way to say goodbye without actually saying goodbye.
Eventually, I found a long driveway (or private road) with a little turn-off into the midst of a field – I think it was corn, but I honestly don’t recall. Whatever it was, it was high enough to shield me from the view of passersby on the dirt road, and I didn’t think I’d be around long enough to worry about whether people would travel down the driveway anytime soon. I was in a nice little clearing, and whatever happened, it wouldn’t be terribly public.
I got out of the car. I decided that I would be kneeling, with the butt of the shotgun on the ground and the muzzle pointed into the soft spot underneath my chin. I hadn’t loaded the gun yet, but over and over again, I practiced opening and closing the gun for loading, fiddled with the safety, and carefully examined the instrument of my demise.
Then I started thinking about
my children. And my children saved my life.
I love my son and daughter more than anything in the world and, I add without hyperbole or self-consciousness, more than life itself. That love was what brought me back from the brink. I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing them again, of never hearing their laughter, seeing their smiles, watching them grow up and grow strong – hopefully stronger than their flawed, weakened father.
So I went home. The next morning, I called my therapist and went in to the hospital for evaluation. Given my change of heart, the doctors decided I was not a threat to myself or anyone else (and I genuinely believed that I was not), and I was sent home. Unbeknownst to me, though, my wife simultaneously was filing an
ex parte order with the county court, and so when the Sheriff’s Department arrived at my house the next day (two days after the shotgun episode), I was taken into custody and admitted to a hospital’s mental health unit for the second time.
Turns out it was fortuitous that my wife did what she did, although I was surprised and angry about it at the time. The doctor there prescribed a different medication, and I have felt better – or at least
normal – ever since. Sure, I have bad days, but they are fewer and far less severe than they once were. Over the last year, I found a new and terrific job, I moved to south Florida, and I’ve made great new friends and reconnected with many old ones. I’ve returned to my activities like
singing and my
fraternity (and, yes, blogging), and my old goofy nature and self-confidence have returned. I’ve even had the privilege of appearing and competing (and winning) on a national TV game show. My wife and I have divorced, but our relationship in many ways is stronger than it was for the last two years of our marriage. Most importantly, I am a regular and important presence in my children’s lives, and I get to watch them smile, laugh, play, learn, and grow up. There truly is no greater gift.
I continue to undergo therapy and take medication, but I’ve been told it won’t last forever. Indeed, I’ve learned that the darkest days don’t have to last forever … but sometimes it takes intervention by people who care to help bring an end to the darkness.
Again, I don’t know exactly why I feel compelled to write this and post it for all the world to see. As I said, it might be for closure or for some heretofore unrealized need to purge myself once and for all of the demons that plagued me for so long. Ultimately, though, I think my story is one of redemption – not a deathbed conversion, of course, as I still remain willfully detached from religion and faith – that I hope could serve to assist others who are facing challenges in their own lives.
A year ago this week, my two dear, sweet, beautiful children saved my life. The rest … well, the rest is up to me.
Labels: children, meta, personal, suicide
My son turns 8 today.
