Write it in blood if you must

This piece is an intimate guide through the landscape of suicidal despair — written by someone who has walked that path and survived it. I write not to shock, but to accompany: to show that even in the deepest darkness, there is a way through. With unflinching honesty, I describe years of living with suicidal thoughts, the paradox of endurance, and the quiet grace of surrender that eventually led to healing. It’s a letter to anyone who has ever felt the pull of oblivion, reminding them that they are not alone, and that their presence still matters deeply in this world.

My reader, my beloved, will you trust me on this journey through the darkest parts of hell? Will you let me hold your hand as we travel? Will you believe me when I tell you that I have walked these paths hundreds of times; that I know every twist and turn and can point out every lose rock? That there is a way through.

You don't have to carry the weight because I can take it all for us; I have measured it one tear at a time.

Have you thought of taking your life before? Do you have someone you lost? Are you worried that someone you care about may no longer be here tomorrow?

Here's my hand, take a deep breath and follow.

There have been so many mornings when I woke begging to fall back asleep forever and never wake up again. I didn't believe in God but I prayed please please please don't make me face another day. The pain seemed too great. Paralyzing, crushing, like I was swimming under it. Then I would turn off the alarm and splash cold water on my face and go on with my day. Children, work, marriage, chores, hobbies. Distracting, dissociating, disowning, avoiding, hiding, pretending, pleasing, performing, succeeding.

Thousands of mornings.

My mind would go back to fantasizing about taking my life dozens, maybe hundreds of times per day. I would think about hanging, choking, cutting, falling, crashing, jumping into traffic, slipping off a cliff. I would ponder which artery would be easiest to cut or how I could numb myself to actually be able to sever the flesh.

I would worry about the logistics of finding my body. Who? When? Where? What would be the clean up like?

I would think of how to make it seem like an accident so my wife could get life insurance.

My favorite fantasy was drowning. I would think about going to the Bay and swimming out as far as my muscles could take me, then taking a big breath and diving down as far deep as I could. Popping my ears on the way down until I could not hold my breath any longer and then exhaling all the air that was left in my lungs. Surrender. Too far, too deep. Too late.

I would wonder what my climbing partners would think if they knew how much I wanted to die. Fourth day up El Cap, hands like claws, fingers not able to open or fully close. No number of ibuprofen pills enough to numb the soreness of every muscle. Still placing every cam with precision and confidence.

Depending.

I was so good at not giving myself what I so badly desired.

My biggest strength and my biggest weakness. One and the same.

I would fantasize what would the people in my life say once they heard the news of my passing. I would picture them cry and lament that they didn't know what demons I was hiding. I would think about how they would remember me. If they would remember me. If they would regret anything.

I would think about David Foster Wallace and his quote: no moment by itself is unbearable.

I would think well suicide is always an option: I can always do it later.

I would think of Hemingway, both fucking triggers at once. Jack London and his Martin Eden, so aware, so prophetic, still helpless.

I would think of Kurt Cobain, Elliott Smith and Lane Stanley, soul brothers in authenticity, sensitivity and public bleeding: misunderstood, judged and abandoned.

I would think of Aiste, my first girlfriend, then a dear friend, gone by her own hand.

I would think of the callers to SFSP where I volunteered for hundreds of hours. Listening, offering my fragile presence, secretly knowing the weight. Wondering who's here for who.

And then years of watching my mind play these suicidal patterns over and over again. Not really buying into them any more but unable to stop them.

And then finally stillness. Surrender. The rhythm of breath and heart. Not too far, not too deep, not too late.

Exhaustion. Giving up. Saying fuck it.

Finding relief in fuck it.

Being saved by fuck it.

Choosing the truth, the vulnerability, the grief, the holding. The other that's no longer a fantasy.

My reader, my beloved, you are not alone.

Your darkness is not too big for the world to see.

You belong. You matter. You are beautiful.

You are loved.

Your voice, your knowing and your vision are needed here.

Write it in blood if you have to because it's the truth.