My Deepest, Darkest Secret

During depression the world disappears. Language itself. One has nothing to say. For years I never thought I would talk about certain taboo topics, like my battle with depression and my suicide attempt at a very young age. I kept that secret locked up inside of me for over 15 years! And I felt that if I ever decided to come clean with it, I would only tell someone in complete confidence, like a therapist, just to get it off my chest. But then one day, about a year ago, I had an epiphany. I knew I wanted to get it off my chest, but realized that sharing it so privately with just one other person would only help me. I wanted to do greater good than that. The way I saw it, I wanted to help other people that felt like me - other people who had walked in similar shoes. So that is why I decided to share it with the world and post about it publicly on my blog.

Suicide is one of those taboo topics that nobody wants to talk about. We like to pretend that it doesn’t exist. However, taboo topics need a voice because if we can't talk about things, we can't learn. And if we can't learn, how will we ever grow? Silence is more deafening than any sound. So speak up and speak out! In celebration for tomorrow's (Oct 6) release of Frank Warren's new book PostSecret: Confessions on Life Death and God, I'm reposting a portion of a post I wrote roughly one year ago.

FACT: More than 32,000 suicides occur in the U.S. This is the equivalent of 89 suicides per day. That’s one suicide every 16 minutes! Many who attempt suicide never seek professional care. This is my story.

I was barely 12-years-old when I became suicidal. A calm had come over me. After feeling like I was suffocating for so long, I could finally breathe again. I was choosing to end it all and I was at peace with that decision. If you’ve ever been there, you can relate to the feeling. My first attempt was immediately after school. I felt the most effective method would be to shoot myself. There was only one problem - we never had a handgun or any other type of firearm in our house. So shooting myself was scratched off the list. I thought about hanging myself, but I couldn’t find any rope in the garage. I even thought about ODing on some pills. However, that seemed lame to me. With my luck, I would just end up with a sick stomach that would need pumped at the hospital. The main goal here was to succeed. If I failed, not only would I have to live with that failure, but I would have to live in general. My family, my friends and my entire school would find out how messed up I was. I couldn’t face that. I couldn’t face the amount of humiliation that would come with not only feeling like a failure in life, but also having a failed suicide attempt tied to myself as well. At the time, in my eyes, the measure of a true failure was one who even failed when trying to kill himself.

I had stepped off the bus and walked straight into my parent’s kitchen. My Mom often complained that she never had a good, sharp set of knives. So I decided if I were to slice my wrists, I would need to put some muscle in it. I was clueless as to which was the best way to do it – to slice vertically or horizontally. I figured I would do both, just to make sure. I took out a steak knife that I usually ate dinner with and began digging it into my flesh. A small freckle became the bullseye and I used it as my marked target to begin. I stabbed the tip in and ran the serrated edged of the blade along my 12-year-old skin. I cut into the inner side of both arms. Multiple times. In all directions. Halfway up to my elbows. When the blood began to pour, all I thought about was it staining the countertop. I didn’t want my Mom to be angry at me for making a mess. For whatever reason, it never dawned on me that a blood stained countertop would be the least of her worries if I were lying lifeless on the kitchen floor when she arrived home from work.

I couldn’t see that far ahead. I couldn’t look rationally at the situation. I couldn’t foresee into the future as to what the impact of my actions would be on those that loved me. I guess I figured they would grieve, but I couldn’t fathom the tremendous turmoil I would throw my family in. All the unanswered questions I would leave them with. The guilt, the sadness, the anger. I wasn’t aware how they would harbor these emotions for years to come. I was ignorant to the fact that with just a few more slices, I would change their world forever...and I would end mine forever. It was a selfish act. A permanent solution to what I realize now looking back, were only temporary problems. During your pre-teen years, everything seems like the end of the world.

I suppose this is around the time most people have some sort of religious or spiritual awaking in their life. I however, returned to the basics. Back to what gave me comfort growing up. I began to write again, but not with pen and paper this time. I set the notebook aside and began a virtual notebook. I began the very blog you read now.

...continue reading the full/original post from
9/5/08 - The Things I Can’t Speak About, Let Alone Write About