The Pandemic and Suicide
How suicide was brought full circle for me.
Each ending came with a new and even more challenging beginning.
The Pandemic and Suicide
In March 2020, the world awoke to a state of emergency. Life as we knew it quickly changed. The world shut down. COVID-19 had arrived. It crossed our borders and infiltrated our population; it did not care about race, creed, gender, or age—the way in which humans normally divide, segregate, and categorize others. No one ever imagined anything like this could happen in the United States. Sure, we’d seen news of people in Asian countries wearing masks due to SARS, but it really had no impact on our lives. Despite compassion for those suffering, most remained self-centered, judgmental, and non-responsive. That is… until COVID-19 hit home.
The pandemic brought everything to a halt. Companies closed to prevent the spread of illness, people lost their jobs, the medical field became overwhelmed, and due to hoarding, we experienced shortages of critical supplies. We were not good citizens. Some thought of COVID as vacation and chose not to heed the warnings to stay home. Even politicians escalated the spread, based on their own biased opinions. U.S. companies were able to declare themselves “essential,” and remain in operation during lockdown. Other companies saw this as an opportunity to reduce headcount without consequence, leaving former employees in a state of panic. With no source of income, they were left waiting for government assistance to help them live week to week.
During this time I owned a small apartment building. Being a landlord is not an easy task. Over the years I have been blessed to get to know many amazing tenants who eventually became like family. I experienced a sense of pride as they achieved life milestones like getting married, buying a house, and having children.
Then it happened.
Saturday May 16, 2020, around 7:00 a.m. I called my friend who lived in the upstairs apartment of my building to see if she wanted to grab lunch while I was in town. Her voice was shaky. I could instantly tell something was wrong. She said two hours earlier a young man downstairs had screamed, “Mary!” so loud it woke her. Not long afterwards the police and ambulance arrived.
I soon discovered Mary, the young lady downstairs, had taken her own life. This event cemented how horrible the COVID situation was. I was shaken. Emotionally numb. Tears streamed down my face in disbelief. This event brought suicide full circle for me—forcing me to see how my family and friends would have reacted and felt if I had successfully killed myself all those years earlier.
During the course of my career, I had lost jobs for various reasons, mainly due to downsizing, layoffs, and moving of operations. Every time, I would burn through savings and have to start over. After a while, “starting over” got woven into the fabric of my being. With each ending came a new and even more challenging beginning, along with an underlying fear that kept me from living life. I became afraid to spend money, so my life reflected itself in a way that excluded things that make life enjoyable. It added weight, burden, and stress due to financial hardship, eventually leading to the end of both of my personal relationships. At each critical juncture, unwilling to wait for me to feel secure, partners would leave.
My fear of lack, whether financial, job, or other, stopped us from living. My parents had instilled in me responsibility, which to me meant bills should be paid before play—no frivolous expenditures. When life gets overwhelming and stressful, it ceases to be fun. Mere existence becomes mundane, removing the luster from life and driving a wedge between partners. It creates a stagnation that deprives both parties of activities that bring them closer together. Consumed by worry, bills, and budgets, we live to work instead of working to live. This lesson was a difficult one for me to learn.
COVID took me back to 9/11, the day that made Americans question our security. I began to relive emotions of fear and insecurity. Even though things were different this time, I found myself stressed about paying my bills, worried how it might affect my tenants. Would I receive rent payments on time? This was key to my survival and to ensure the mortgage was paid, escalating that little voice in the back of my mind. You know? The one that freaks you out when you look at your unemployment check and it’s not even close to what you earned before?
Panic. Wondering. Fretting. Making ends meet… all the while trying to search for a new job, fighting depression, and falling apart each time a rejection was received. This situation was different, much worse than what I experienced in the past. I was blessed with the ability to continue working, one of the lucky ones, but I still was not prepared for what was about to happen.
I always tell my tenants, “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t live with you, nor do I want to. If you cannot pay your rent or if you need to make payments or are going to be late, tell me. We can work something out.”
This nice young couple downstairs who had been in my building for five years always contacted me when they were having money issues or needed something repaired, which was a breath of fresh air. When COVID hit, they both lost their jobs. Mary had called in a panic and said, “I can’t pay my rent. I’m frustrated. Things are just not working out. You know the type of person I am.”
I explained to her that I understood everyone goes through trials and tribulations. I knew how hard it was for her to call me and share that they could not pay their rent. Mary was a very responsible person. Yet again, another area that I could relate to. We all experience things in life that bring us to our knees, and small acts of kindness help us stand again. Some may call it paying it forward; I call it being the best version of ourselves.
Ever since I was 17 years old, I had traveled through peaks and valleys of suicide, alcoholism, and eating disorders. I was that trendy person who decided to try everything and anything I could to ruin myself. Those were painful times filled with self-hatred and self-loathing. Dark times that consumed me. Pain that cut me to the bone. Failure. Not only failure in life but also failure in obtaining death. I’ve lost track of how many suicide attempts. The countless overdoses. Decades of self-mutilation. I shouldn’t even be here.
I finally realized that all of those peaks and valleys taught me a lesson that took years to learn and appreciate. Those things that once brought me shame not only made me the person I am but also someone who could help others.
During our conversation I told Mary, “COVID is something that’s out of our control. None of us could foresee or help what was happening to us. Don’t worry about the rent… we will work something out.”
During my junior year of high school I had taken drafting at a local vocational school, where I was blessed to meet Leah, a math teacher. Leah introduced me to what my future could hold, opening my eyes to the possibility of attending a local university. Prior to her, no one had ever taken interest in my dreams, my future.
There was one problem—my home school advisor did not help me prepare for entering college. This meant I would need to buckle down and complete correspondence courses in Algebra and Geometry, along with my current academic workload, in order to meet basic requirements.
Leah was amazing help. She made herself available to help me before and after school. Leah was able to see me, to see that I had value and that I was capable of being so much more than what I was.
My Algebra correspondence course began that spring and extended over summer break. Without Leah’s attention in the summer, I was lost, with no real friends as my life revolved around work and home. Home was not a place of comfort; it was my prison and I was in a constant state of solitary confinement.
I am a stubborn and independent person, but once I realized how great it felt to have someone appreciate me, my world came crashing down in its absence.
I remember it like it was yesterday… First attempt. I was seventeen, sitting at the computer desk. It was 5:00 p.m. and I was tired, frustrated. The house was empty. Alone. Emotions were building. Then it happened. I cut the top of my arm. It drew blood. Tiny crimson beads. A twelve-inch gash. I rocked back and forth, sobbed, saw my skin. Back and forth. Forth and back. Anything to stop the pain.
Then I put the knife down. I was drained. Lighter. Self-mutilation brought peace.
Eight years later I found myself talking to my therapist, who saved me by introducing me to myself—the person that I already was, but was unaware of. It was in that session that we discussed me being gay, which took me years to come to terms with. That session terrified me but it helped me understand why I had been so unhappy with myself. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but that conversation changed my whole life. My therapist helped me realize and accept that I was gay.
I think COVID helped me see that I had been living as a “human doing” instead of a “human being.” It’s not all about the money—it’s also about helping each other make it through.
But Mary apparently couldn’t see a way through. She didn’t have a “Leah.”
After the ambulance and police left her apartment, by 12:15 p.m., Mary’s cousin called, demanding to be let in to retrieve Mary’s purse and cell phone. I told her that I needed to seek legal counsel since the police were involved. My attorney helped me compile a list of questions and directed me to speak with the detective in charge of the case. He also explained that when a person is unmarried, living with someone, any claim to the lease expires when you do.
The detective guided me through the process, as the apartment was considered to be a crime scene until Mary’s death could be deemed a homicide or suicide. After reviewing the crime scene, the detective was certain it had been a suicide but given the continuous feud between families, there had to be a definitive answer.
The boyfriend was beside himself from finding her body. For me, I had a hard time even walking into the apartment. I was not really a victim in this situation, but yet I felt like it. The families drew me in with their need for someone to blame. There was this strange overcast feeling. A sense of being lost. It forced me to rethink what might have happened if my own suicide attempt had been successful. Given the severity of the situation, I began reliving those dark moments from my life, reaching a point where it was time for forgiveness of self. I chose to no longer deprive myself of human interaction. Days before, I’d texted my therapist, never dreaming that she would respond. A year prior I had to stop seeing her because I’d lost my job and had no health insurance. I was afraid to spend money so I’d given up the one thing that kept me on an even keel. It wasn’t an easy decision but I felt the weight of other financial responsibilities.
The day Mary died, I texted my therapist and shared what had happened. She responded quickly. In that moment I realized that God loved me and had placed her in my life when he knew I would need her the most. Mary’s death, even though tragic, turned out to be the moment my true life lessons would begin.
As a suicide survivor, I saw Mary’s death from a different perspective. I felt her desperation, her pain, I understood what had been going through her mind. When I was 24 years old, I’d lost an ex-boyfriend to suicide and now I was being forced to see yet another side—that of family and friends. Mary’s family continued contacting me, questioning and pointing fingers. I immediately began seeing my therapist again and hired my attorney to deal with Mary and Jordan’s families since I didn’t know how to handle this situation.
Because the pandemic changed a lot of things, especially funerals and celebrations of life, there was no visitation for Mary. I found myself with no closure, no final goodbye. Like an endless bad dream, her decision to take her own life not only affected her loved ones but those that were connected to her by various means. For me, it was a constant reflection that lasted for months, addressing the issues that had been pushed down without proper resolution in order for self-forgiveness to be achieved.
I was forced to see how families really deal with their pain after a suicide. I witnessed anger from both sides, blame and legal ramifications due to families fighting amongst themselves. It appeared that everyone forgot about the young lady who died. What about Mary?
As expected, her boyfriend decided to move. Even I had a hard time walking into their apartment. I could only stand there and wonder where it happened, how it happened. Maybe it was a way to feel connected, to understand how the pain finally created so much chaos inside of her, that she was able to do what I could not.
The garbage cans were full of Mary’s belongings, those items that neither family wanted. This placed a surreal vision in my head. The remnants of Mary’s life, thrown out with the trash—things she held dear were considered rubbish to those who loved her. This moment created a sense of loss and a realization that was staggering.
Suicide is truly a cry for help, a warning for those around to pay attention. Someone is in need of things that have no material value—like time, love, understanding, physical touch, and patience. They are asking to be saved, to be embraced in love so they feel protected. They desire to be held for a moment as they let their guard down, to cry in someone else’s arms and relinquish the need to be strong, an opportunity for a moment of peace.
Before Mary’s death I was on the verge of starting a PhD program. My life has been in transition for several years. I couldn’t remember a time in which I was not ashamed of myself or my actions. My existence had not brought me joy. I wore my shame like heavy chains—chains that I forged and used to shackle myself. I had been embarrassed by my life and could only see failure; success was unachievable for someone like me.
A few months later, I had to write a generic version of a TED talk about a topic with personal meaning, to present in front of our class. I found myself struggling with writer’s block until the night before the presentation was due. I decided to talk about my journey, to be vulnerable and share some of my shame. I wrote about the more than 25 jobs I’d had, jobs I either lost, quit or from which I was fired or laid off.
That presentation forced me out of my comfort zone. I could finally see that the things I considered to shameful and misfortunate had actually been opportunities to start over. Once I learned to lean in and accept the change, and actually appreciate the journey, I began to find joy.
We all make decisions that are less than palatable. It is important to realize that relationships are not one-sided. It’s easy to point fingers, but rarely do we choose to see our part in how things went wrong. Like many, I had been in an abusive relationship that I allowed to continue for six years. I felt that I deserved to be treated badly. Lord knows, I hadn’t even treated myself with respect.
My self-talk said I was never good enough for myself, so how could I be good enough for anyone else? I saw myself as unattractive, unintelligent, unsuccessful, and unlovable. That presentation allowed me to see that I was not a failure.
A weight was lifted from my shoulders, a sense of pride instead of embarrassment and shame. Because I presented second that day, giving myself permission to be vulnerable, it also gave others an opportunity to feel safe in sharing their own vulnerabilities later on. It all began to make sense. Lost jobs and broken relationships had been blessings. I learned to feel privileged to be a part of so many different people’s lives. Those experiences shaped the person I am, and made me a better manager, co-worker, and friend.
COVID has been a blessing as well as a curse. It has helped me find my path, to share my story, to learn who I am, and to accept a journey filled with failure, depression, suicide, anxiety, and financial challenges. It has given me my independence by allowing me to embrace another huge hurdle. I found myself in my 40s, alone for the very first time, and I was terrified. But looking back from where I am now, I wouldn’t change it for anything. Change is good, scary, but good, stay agile, walk on the edge or outside of your comfort zone. Face everything and rise to the challenges instead of forgetting everything and running away. We learn the most when we are afraid, it allows us to experience the most growth.
We're all fighting battles at different times and places. Small acts of kindness make us appreciate each other even more. Take a few minutes while you are mowing your lawn, shoveling snow, or just sitting on your porch, to strike up a conversation with a next-door neighbor. That conversation could help you as much, if not more, than them.
A few years ago, I started to take 15 minutes on a holiday to wish everyone in my contacts list a “Happy Holiday.” This has become one of my favorite things. Not only do people look forward to the small, somewhat meaningless messages, they actually text me if I don’t send them something.
You would be surprised by the replies. There is usually one person who really needs to hear “happy holidays” from somebody. This endeavor began with 15 minutes of my time, but often wound up as amazing all-day conversations with multiple people. The goal was to acknowledge others, to help make their day a little brighter. Together we can grow and become better people. It’s important to remember that even though our stories are unique, we all have a different perspective and our stories are who we are, something to be respected.
My life has been riddled with trials and tribulations, some of my own making and others that were out of my control. Seeing suicide from multiple perspectives has opened my eyes to how severe the issue truly is, especially during a pandemic. We never really know when someone else is struggling and just how much a small act of kindness can change the course of their day… maybe even save their life.
We humans are ruled by our emotions. For me, I can be quick to judge and impatient, forgetting that we all have bad days. If we are truly honest, we recognize that life is messy and we often make it more difficult than it has to be.
Mary’s death has changed me forever. I no longer count only material things and money as indicators of success. I realize that the material things I hold most dear in this life will be rubbish for others to discard. If anything, these last two years have taught me how to love myself and to no longer settle for the status quo.
Appreciate your journey. If you need help to resolve those daily negative reflections, consider your worth and get the help you need. Therapy is not shameful; it is the act of giving yourself a gift. It’s available for those who choose to become the best version of themselves. Sharing in a safe place can reduce or even remove the shame that you carry—that silent weight that holds you down and builds walls so no one can see who you really are. Consider how you are feeling. Are you willing to be vulnerable with a therapist? Has the pain amassed to the point where you are willing to allow someone in to help you break down the walls that you built? Those walls are holding you back from something great, the person you truly are meant to be. Are you ready to be “selfish”… to become the amazing person that you are?
The Formula of Grief
Growth through loss
We only see our hurt, our anger, and our emotions. We say and do things that are unkind because we want back what we believed to be ours. We are all on loan to each other; our tickets can come due at any moment while we are on this journey.
The Formula of Grief
The Great Flood…
It was a Saturday night and my parents were out with friends. I was in third grade and home with my brothers when the call came in. The neighbor wanted to see if his son Frankie was at our house or if we had seen him. They could not find him or his friend Jordan.
No one knew at the time, but the boys decided to be adventurous. They went to the towpath that ran along the river behind Jordan’s house. Floodwaters rose quickly and trapped them in a tree. In those days there were no cell phones. The boys were eventually found, but the situation did not have a happy ending. Jordan died due to complications from hypothermia.
That night not only changed the lives of two families but also the entire town. I can still see Jordan lying in the small, white casket where his parents added some of his favorite mementos. I didn’t know what happened. I had a difficult time understanding that he was gone. I can only imagine what both of the boys went through on that fateful afternoon—how Frankie must have felt. He probably blamed himself for Jordan’s death.
Jordan’s parents were beside themselves with grief. Likely they blamed Frankie, too. When things like this take place, we only see our hurt, our anger, and our emotions. We say and do things that are unkind because we want back what we believed to be ours. We are all on loan to each other; our tickets can come due at any moment while we are on this journey. Probably Frankie suffered just as much as Jordan’s parents… If Frankie is anything like me, he suffered in silence, all the while asking God why Jordan was taken but he had been spared.
Accidental Suicide…
During my junior year of high school, death ran rampant. Kids were dying in car accidents, being hit by trains, or taken by their own hands. Bobby was an HVAC student at the vocational school where I studied drafting. Bobby was popular, and he was a jock. He and I talked, acquaintances more than friends, because his grandfather worked for my parents’ company. He was an only child and always seemed happy. He loved working on his car with his dad.
The story around town was that Bobby and his dad were in the garage tinkering. It was late and his dad let Bobby continue to wrench away while he went to bed. It was cold outside so Bobby closed the garage door—while the car was running. Fumes overtook him and he died.
I remember the silence laced with sadness and disbelief. The funeral home visitation was packed as students lined up to pay their respects to the family. The burial was surreal. Buses of kids made their way to Bobby’s final resting place in the cemetery. Everyone filed out, silent, heartbroken and lost to say teary goodbyes.
Bobby was the first of many deaths that year. The young seemed to be dying quicker than the old. My mom asked the undertaker, “How do you handle death the way you do?” He responded, “The older people that die, they have lived life and it’s a part of natural progression. However, this rash of young people dying takes its toll.”
Silent pain…
Rick was filling in as supervisor where I worked, a loudmouth, overbearing, gruff, and mean man that screamed orders and threw his weight around. I can normally get along with anyone, yet Rick was hard. Little did I know we had one thing in common—we both struggled with suicidal ideations. After a few weeks we received the news that he shot himself. Again, death taunted me as I consistently failed at ending my own life.
Deep down there was this need to go to the funeral, to see what killing oneself looked like, what it felt like, what was left behind… a desire to face the demons that were calling me, attempting to pull me into the darkness, just like Rick. The rumor at the store was that his wife had left him and took the kids. He could not handle the loss. His internal pain and grief went unshared, more than he could bear. At his funeral, tears streamed down my face as if we were close. This stranger's death brought all of my hidden emotions to the surface, erupting tears that burned like lava.
Another life lost, another opportunity to learn from not only my mistakes but his as well. I chose to ignore the permanent absence of this man from his children's lives.
Anger, Sadness, and Jealousy...
God showed some compassion, or so I thought, as he brought Doug and me together. We thought we were the loves of each other’s lives—meant to be, meeting and developing a very unhealthy codependent relationship. Both of us were sick and clung to each other for support, doomed from the start. One of us would be healthy while the other fought to stay alive. The relationship was like a rollercoaster ride, on again and off again. Until it ended permanently.
Months after Doug’s death, my family finally shared the truth. It was a massive blow. I found myself dealing with the suicide of an ex-boyfriend, leaving me to cope with anger and disappointment, and the loss of the one person who understood me the most.
My emotions ran rampant. I knew the feelings of death and despair, yet hated Doug for what he had done. There was no correlation between my issues and his selfish desires to end it all, only jealousy for my friend and lover's success, and the fear of being alone. Left only with dark internal thoughts and voices of unreason, I waited for the next moment of despair to also end my season. With nowhere to turn, even seeking professional help seemed to be an unsuccessful endeavor. There was little hope I would survive such a devastating blow.
Frozen…
I choose not to live, yet struggled to die. I was standing in the middle of the driveway on a sunny summer afternoon, physically and emotionally bankrupt. I couldn’t pull the trigger. My heart weighed heavily with failure and defeat. Success hung in limbo in a web of fear. Why was I so scared? I wanted it to end but I did not dare. The gun barrel was pressed tightly to my temple. I froze. My body went tense. The trigger seemed heavy and difficult to pull. I closed my eyes and prayed for it to end. “Just give me the courage and strength to proceed… Allow me to finally find peace.”
Having never fired a gun before in my life, I thought a test shot might ease my fright. No one was home so there was plenty of time. I took my place upon the stones. With feet shoulder-width apart, I grasped the handle with both hands. My fingers took their place upon the trigger. Tears streamed down my face. I closed my eyes. With every ounce of energy that remained, I pulled the trigger. Boom! As the shot rang out, I fell to the ground. This would not be the way I would take myself out.
Jacob…
Transparency as to my mental health was a must. I needed a psychologist and psychiatrist. Darkness loomed in the shadows, waiting for me to fall, waiting in silence for me to find myself alone in a corner with nowhere to go. My first wife, Maggie, was close with her family, something that I didn’t understand. Growing up in business, we were captive, a forced family closeness. Maggie’s brother, Donovan, lived in a trailer with Jacob, their next-door neighbor. The boys were close, growing up together and getting into mischief.
Responsibility took over and the boys decided to share the financial burden and become roommates. Donovan came home from work to find a note from Jacob on the front door. Donovan knew something was wrong, yet he had no choice but to walk inside… a sight he will never be able to unsee. Jacob had placed the barrel of his shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Donovan was beside himself, calling 911, Jacob’s family, then his own family and their closest friends. Donovan felt responsible, wondering if he had come home a few minutes sooner if Jacob would still be alive.
For me, it brought back thoughts of Doug. Was this a way for me to say goodbye all those years later, or just another opportunity to learn from mistakes.
I was baffled that Jacob’s father demanded an open casket, especially after the immense trauma inflicted. I found myself drawn again to see what suicide looked like, to see what it felt like, to hear the sounds of those left behind… and to feel anger, the jealousy of Jacob’s success.
In the background, Jacob’s favorite music played. “When I’m Gone,” by 3 Doors Down was like Jacob’s theme song, yet no one recognized how the lyrics gave way to what he could not say. Immediately the lyrics drew me in and I also began to fall into their darkness. For months, that song followed me, daring me to play in the darkness, reminding me that evil lurks in hope of taking my soul.
Final Scream…
Sharon was not only a friend but also a co-worker. She notified me that she would be unable to make it to work and asked me to pick up her daughter Morgan . This act of kindness led to a conversation that would change me for the rest of my life. It was the day I learned about the “Final Scream.”
Sharon’s youngest daughter, Sheila, had been murdered. Morgan opened her heart to me, sharing her guilt and pain, a crippling weight for a young lady to endure. She told me about her and her brothers playing in the backyard and how she remembered hearing Sheila’s final scream. I heard the blame she placed upon herself, wishing she would have noticed the signs.
I was in shock. GOD placed me in her life to force me to see that life is precious.
Morgan shared, “My brothers and I went door to door searching for Sheila. The man who killed her came to the door with dirty pants and a shovel in his hand. We were so young that we didn’t realize he was the one—the one that killed her.” The image burned itself into Morgan’s mind. “Why won’t my mom talk to me about Sheila’s death? We feel like it’s our fault.”
A half-hour drive led to a heartfelt discussion with her mother Sharon. who was so entrenched in her own internal chaos that she was unable to see she had been pushing her children away emotionally. Her unintentional neglect placed a burden upon her children’s hearts.
Maria…
In May of 2019, I found myself without a job again, but with savings and a moonlight job as an adjunct professor. For the first time in my life I was not freaking out about money. Recently I’d reconnected with Maria on LinkedIn. A professor, Maria saw me, pushed me to be more than I was. She invited me to spend a week with her and her husband in Florida. I'm not a worldly individual, only having been on a plane once in my entire life, but I desired this adventure and welcomed it as a long overdue vacation.
Maria kept me out of my comfort zone, challenging me to take different routes, try new things and loving me like her own child. That week was amazing. We stayed up all night long, watching movies and sharing our hearts. Maria helped me to see that authority figures, such as professors, are people too. For most of my life, I’d been ashamed of the person I’d become, afraid to share that I was mentally unstable and a lesbian.
The first night at their house, I shared my shame with Maria. I shared my fascination with suicide and that I identified as a lesbian. She looked at me and smiled. She wasn't shocked. In fact, she accepted me for the person that I was. Our relationship deepened. I was able to share anything with her without fear or shame. That week not only changed my life but allowed me to overcome the burden, to remove the chains, to see that I am not what others think or say about me. I have a purpose and my journey should be shared with others.
That week unlocked the door of my dungeon of darkness and self-hatred that I called my existence. Maria gave me a gift I will forever be grateful for—the gift of life.
Kevin Hines…
Maria sent me to hear a guest speaker—an assignment, not a choice. Kevin Hines traveled the country sharing his trials and tribulations with suicide and how his spilt-second decision changed his life forever. He had jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge and survived… a miracle. The event was held at the university where I taught. I was proud to see some of my students in attendance, yet wondered if they were in need.
In my normal fashion, I sat in the back and fell into conversation with the woman next to me. She was saving a seat for her son, who had been showing signs of depression. She was praying for him to attend. I saw fear in her eyes. Speechless, I tried to comfort her, yet I was afraid to share my own darkness with her. How does one comfort a woman when knowing her son will not show up?
When I was in the darkness, no one could say anything to make me give up those familiar feelings of self-hatred. I could look at them with a smile, while still dreaming of ending it all. I did not allow anyone to destroy the fairytale of falsehood I had created in my mind. I was stubborn and bullheaded. No one could ever love a failure such as myself. They spewed words, meaningful to them but only lies to me.
As Kevin took the stage, I sat with my arms folded, uncomfortable. I was confronted by someone who knew my lies. As he spoke, I realized I had something to say, that my journey could help others. I realized that, like Kevin, I was meant to share my story, to share the lessons discovered as I walk my path.
Mary…
Saturday May 16, 2020, around 7:00 a.m. I learned that the young lady renting my downstairs apartment, Mary, had taken her own life. I was shaken. Emotionally numb. Tears streamed down my face in disbelief. This event brought suicide full circle for me—forcing me to see how my family and friends would have reacted if I had successfully killed myself all those years earlier.
Her boyfriend was beside himself from finding her body. There was this strange overcast feeling, a sense of being lost. There was no visitation for Mary. I found myself with no closure, no final goodbye. Like an endless bad dream, Mary’s decision to take her own life not only affected her loved ones. I witnessed anger from both sides, blame and legal ramifications. It appeared that everyone forgot about the young lady who died. What about Mary?
The day after Jordan moved, I found the garbage cans full of Mary’s belongings, those items that neither family wanted, placing a surreal vision in my head. The remnants of Mary’s life had been thrown out with the trash—things she held dear just rubbish to those who loved her. For the first time, I felt no anger or jealousy over her success in finding death when I could not.
Rough Day…
They say God does not give us more than we can handle, however sometimes we are shaken to our core.
For the past 22 years Joan has been my accountant. She knows both of my ex-wives and all of my bad business decisions. One morning she texted me to call her on my way to work. She was crying. Her oldest daughter, son-in-law, and three grandchildren had been killed in a car accident.
My heart sank. I went numb. All I could do was sit in my car, hear her words, and feel her pain. Yet again death spoke to me to share its message. It required my attention and asked that I suit up and show up to love her, stand with her, support her and most of all to be her friend.
My heart continues to break for Joan. I find myself looking at her as if for the first time. I admire her strength as she stands alone, even though she is surrounded by a crowd. Joan is thinking of her daughter and following her wishes, a far cry from any of the other deaths I have encountered. This time it’s not about the money, it’s about doing what’s right. Joan knows that all the money in the world will not bring her family back and that keeping someone alive to save her own broken heart will not lead to a peaceful existence for her or her daughter.
Joan is grace and strength personified. I am blessed to call her my friend, and I am a better person for knowing her.
Why share my journey?
Life is hard. Most of the time we don’t see how things in our lives happen for a reason. People are placed in our lives to teach us lessons, to help us appreciate where we are, who we are, and what we have. They are there to help us find gratitude and forgiveness, not just to say we forgive ourselves and others, but to realize that we all have our own stories which can help others to understand. For the most part, our stories are unoriginal. Our struggles are universal. Fears, shame, and pain are found within all of us.
I share my journey to help those of you who are struggling to see that our higher power does not give up on us. In fact, it continuously places us in situations until we open our minds to see our value, to see that our purpose is grand and that no one has to stand alone. With each death came clarity and understanding. The dark emotions have finally been overshadowed by peace and acceptance.
Most of the time the dead are forgotten when we fight to place blame or procure material goods. Nothing can bring back the lost—but the anger and blame will push away the living, creating a void.
We are here until our time is up. We are not our possessions. We are here on loan. The best gift I have ever received was the gift to listen and to choose to see what is right in front of me. Everything happens for a reason. Why are you here? What message have you been called to share?
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Scars to Stars
Volume 2 September 2022
If you would like to support The Realize Foundations efforts in suicide prevention, If you would like to support The Realize Foundations efforts in suicide prevention, click "Get In Touch" to purchase a book from Amazon. All proceeds go to the charity for suicide prevention.