Suicide: Something to Talk About

For the last year I’ve wanted to write about suicide, but I’ve had concerns. This is isn’t stuff I want my parents reading. What horrors would this bring to our kids? Do I really want my nieces and nephews to know about the time I put a gun in my mouth? What good could it possibly do?

But I’ve been asking MMA fighters to share their stories, to be open and honest about their past – no matter how painful, no matter how embarrassing. I’d be a hypocrite if I couldn’t do the same.

Suicide isn’t something people talk about though. Some say it’s a sin, it’s selfish. It’s a shame. My mom can’t even say the word, just scrunches up her face when she says so-and-so passed.

I can’t help but think that’s part of the problem. Maybe if people talked about it, the struggling would know they’re not alone.

I wish I had words for those that have been affected by suicide, words to somehow lessen the sadness, but I don’t. Saying sorry is one step above the least you can do. Saying it’s a terrible situation I wish you weren’t dealing with is the same thing with a few more words. All I can hope for and try to express is don’t blame yourself. It’s the first reaction for many, but most suicides are surprises because no one talks about it.

I’ve spent over half my life hating myself. I wanted to end it all as early as junior high. I’d run razor blades across my skin, too cowardly to drag them deep. I drove my motorcycle to the limit, hoped for an oil spill to make it look like an accident. I splattered my heavy bag with blood from my torn knuckles, any physical pain to distract me from what was going on in my head.

No one ever knew. Not my parents, siblings, and definitely not my friends. Not one girlfriend. Maybe they thought I was a little too angry, too aggressive, but it went with me playing football, fighting, and metal music.

I was fine, just leave me alone.

What made it worse was not being able to understand what the hell was wrong with me. I should have been happy. I had to be crazy to even consider something so irrational. Especially for no good reason.

Finally, I broke down and saw a psychologist. It disgusted me how weak I was, that I couldn’t fix this on my own. I felt like a failure, a loser who couldn’t control his own brain.

In the very first session, the doctor helped me see there was a reason I was screwed up.  He said there were others like me, going through the same thing.

Hearing I wasn’t alone made all the difference. It gave me hope, made me hate myself a little less. I wasn’t a freak, wasn’t crazy. I was just following an incorrect belief of myself.

The psychologist gave me exercises to practice and showed me triggers to watch out for. Slowly, I began to change. Even when my first marriage ended, I did everything to stay positive. My younger brother gave me a few books that helped. I met Jen and we fell in love, the changes becoming permanent. We have two incredible children, and everyday I’m reminded how awful it would’ve been to have missed out on this life.

I still get angry and disappointed with myself, but there’s no chance I’ll ever reach for the gun again. It makes me sick to think of what I almost did, the pain I would’ve caused my parents.

My beautiful children wouldn’t exist.

That’s why I decided to write this. I want my son and daughter to read this when they’re older. I want them to know how grateful I am they’re on this planet. It won’t always be easy for them, and if genetics plays any part of this, they might end up having the same awful thoughts. I want them to know they can come to me with anything. Showing weakness and asking for help was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I’m here because of it.

If you’re dealing with something, talk. Pick up the phone. You’re not alone. There are people who can help.

There are many great help organizations out there, here’s a link to one of them. 1-800-273-8255

For those of you who’d rather watch the video instead of reading: