How I Know

This week brought the tragic news of the suicide of American comedic legend Robin Williams. Following the announcement of his death came a near immediate public debate on how we as a culture and as the Church view the act of suicide. I was so bothered by some of the commentary I saw (from multiple sources) referring to suicide as a "brave" or "strong" act committed by people who simply could not carry on that I wrote a response on my Facebook page.

This was the post as it appeared on my personal page:

"I'm extremely bothered by the commentary that suicide is either brave or a means to find peace. When someone's mind is so mixed up that they would consider ending their life, they last thing they need is a cheering section making suicide a viable option. I know, I've been in that place before. I've been the one who was used up and thrown aside, ready to get out of the pain anyway possible. We have no control over where the deceased ended up, but we can do something about making sure others aren't encouraged to join them before their time."

As happens far too often, people saw my words and read into it what they wished. They created an entire dialog that didn't exist, filling my page with the words they thought I would say instead of what was actually said. I was met with implications that I lack compassion and add to the "stigma" of mental illness, that I was anti-treatment, and that I was judgmental of the spiritual state of those struggling with illness. Clearly, none of these things were a part of my comments. I want to clarify here, at length, my intentions and why I feel the way I do about the subjects of depression and suicide.

Until this week, I had not shared publicly my experience with depression or thoughts of ending my life, but in light of the battle I saw going on, I felt impressed to come forward.

I have talked openly about my experience of being used and mistreated in a previous relationship. I have told of how my self-esteem plummeted, culminating in an eating disorder. I have even talked about how I was so low that I lost faith in the very existence of God. What I haven't talked about was the day I decided it just wasn't worth the pain anymore.

One afternoon, while home alone, I saw that none of my plans would work out. I was sure that I had a long, lonely life ahead and couldn't stand the thought of that. The easiest solution came with a bottle of prescription pain killers I had been given by a doctor. I took so many pills that I started vomiting uncontrollably. I remember lying on the bathroom floor, all alone. I remember thinking "I'd rather die alone now than live alone for the rest of my life." I still remember the cold bathroom tiles against my face, because that feeling was the only way I knew I was still alive. I was totally detached from what was going on.

I looked up through the bathroom door and saw a photo of my parents. In a brief moment of clarity, I thought of what it would do to them if they found me. So I peeled myself off the floor and decided to drive until I found somewhere to crash my car. "Surely it will hurt them less if it looks like an accident", I thought. In the middle of all of this, it was a very sad thought that sent me back home-"if I die, no one would come to my funeral." I had a vision of my family grieving alone over my body and no one there to comfort them. Even in my distress, I loved them and I didn't want them to hurt. They had been good to me. They had done nothing wrong to cause what was happening.

I returned home and told no one what I had done. I lied about what happened to the pills to cover my tracks.

I share this not to be controversial or edgy. I am sure some will write and say I should have stayed quiet. But I share it to let you know I do get it. I understand what it is to have NO HOPE. This is the reason I can't be quiet while some laud the decision to commit this heinous act or act as though it's a reasonable means to find peace.

There is nothing peaceful about suicide.

Lying on that floor my mind swirled over the twenty something years that had proceeded. My mind ached as I thought of missed opportunities and squandered time. I lay there feeling like I was being stabbed all over my body as the method I thought would be peaceful turned on me. How could something that breaks God's heart be peaceful? And what could break His heart like one of His children feeling like they just couldn't carry on?

This is what upset me about blogs and postings I saw. The concept that peace can be found is ludicrous. I suppose that platitude is supposed to be used to help mourners cope, but we have to realize who is watching. I was told that people in that state of mind don't care what others say, but if that were true then why do we read constantly of young people attempting suicide because "someone on Facebook said I should"?  I assure you, if I had been told by people I respected or my own family that it "takes a lot of strength to do this", the vision that sent me home wouldn't have looked the same.

I am not judge. I have said repeatedly (though it was often ignored) that I can't know what happens to the soul of a man who kills himself. To say that I do is to say that I fully understand grace, and I'm never going to claim that. I can't see that God would hold someone accountable for an act committed when they were not in a stable mindset. But because I don't know, that gives me even more drive to make sure nothing I say could be misconstrued as support of the decision. I make the comments I do because I love souls, even those that are tortured. I don't want even one to think that I support my walking this planet without them.

This is my prayer and my purpose in anything I have written on the subject: that we as the Church could find a way to have enough compassion and love that we learn how to just "be there" for those who hurt. That we would have honest and open dialogue. That people who are sick and struggling like I was (I never missed a church service, by the way, and no one knew what was going on) would feel comfortable enough to tell the truth about what they are going through and that we would help however we can, whether it be through prayer, support, or even helping to find help in the psychiatric community.

I pray most of all, that we would think before we speak, regardless of our position. I pray that we would neither encourage permanent choices nor condemn those admitting to such thoughts. I pray that we would encourage those who hurt that the strongest decision they could make is to keep getting up every day, pressing on believing that the best is yet to come!