7 Months

8/16/18

Sometimes I just need to write, and I do not know why. I have an insatiable desire to create but an ever-waning desire to maintain. That reeks of discontentment, yet mainly, I feel whole. That internal conflict is most likely systemic of a deeper issue I have yet to stumble upon.

The bedrock of my soul is being uncovered daily, one handful of clay at a time, and I feel as though I am waking. I’m starting to learn who I am. I thought it might be frightening; however, when there is nothing left to do but examine the charred remains, digging becomes cathartic.

I have experienced being broken in the past; I wish I had been crushed. I am a creator, a re-builder, a re-inventor of broken things and broken dreams. Being shattered and burned to the ground seems to be preferred. When there is nothing left to rebuild and only the ashes remain, starting over from scratch becomes your only option. You cannot build on ashes; the debris must be cleared away.

As I write, I read what I have written, and sometimes the answers become clear. Sometimes they become muddled in the vortex of circular thought. But now, right here in this moment, it is clear: I suffer from a lack of gratitude for the things I have.

I have been taught my entire life that love and gratitude are actions. If I love what I have, if I’m grateful for the things and people in my life, I will work to maintain them—to maintain the relationships.

Be lonely; it’s okay. We were not made to be alone, but do not stay alone. Surround yourself with people who make you smile and laugh from your soul. Take some time for silent reflection—it will help you realign your values—but do not sit for so long that you become comfortable in isolation. Make the life you want; just remember it takes time. No matter your age, if you’re alive, you have time to try.

We rise, we fall, and we rise again. Rising again is the most important part. Sometimes we have to lose it all to see what we had—to see what matters. I’ve searched for a pattern, for meaning in the chaos, since I can remember. I still haven’t found one. I do not know the answers to life’s biggest questions, but I’ve learned what seems important to me. I’ve learned to try and see people where they are in their hearts. We’re all looking for something in this world, and it’s a world that mocks people for searching. But wouldn’t it be a little nicer if we acknowledged the search and helped one another look?

Spend time with people who make you forget you have a cell phone.

I don’t think about suicide anymore, not really. I think, however, it’s like alcoholism or drug addiction: once the idea is there and a plan is formed, the thought can never be fully removed. Bill Wilson wrote in Alcoholics Anonymous about having to move his bed downstairs one night because he was afraid he would jump out of his bedroom window. I get that. I get that very, very well.

I stopped climbing towers almost two years before I got out of the field. Everyone assumed it was because of my back injuries, and it was just easier to go along with that. The reality, however, was that I was dealing with the worst depression I had ever experienced, and I was afraid I was going to jump. I stopped carrying my pocket knife because I was afraid I would slit my wrists. I didn’t know what to do; I was terrified and had no idea how to say it out loud.

That period of depression was the death knell for my marriage. I don’t blame my ex-wife for this. It had to be absolute hell watching me implode and knowing she couldn’t stop it. I have no idea how I made it through. I hung on tightly to everything I could, grabbing desperately at anyone and anything I could get my hands on, trying to find a reason to live. Finally, it passed, but the underlying problems remained.

I would eventually return to drugs and alcohol to calm the screams in my head. This worked for some time, but not for very long. I finally ended up in the worst place I could have ever imagined. I was more or less intoxicated around the clock when my children were not home, and suffering miserable withdrawal when they were. No matter how much I drank or what I took, my head no longer slowed down. I was surrounded by people, more than ever before, yet I just felt alone. I felt dead inside, and I could no longer drink that away.

I had completely dismissed the possibility of there being a God. I had tried AA, treatment centers, willpower, church, therapy, and doctors, and I found them all wanting. I was ready to die.

Turns out some clichés have validity: it really is darkest before the dawn. During the last month or so that I drank, I started thinking how grateful I was to have people in my life for one reason alone: I hoped they would find the body so my children wouldn’t have to. I had resigned myself to dying soon. I wasn’t going to jump or do anything so overt, but I knew my body couldn’t take many more days like the ones I was going through. I rarely slept more than two hours. The night sweats were so bad I would have to wash the sheets and run a fan on the bed to dry it out. There were always traces of blood. I would wake up in the middle of the night and have to start drinking again just to have a chance at falling back to sleep. I was just ready for the end.

This is a cycle that started around age ten. Severe, almost crippling depression was covered by drugs, alcohol, sex, and any risky behavior I could work myself into—anything to make me feel alive, or at least to forget that I wasn’t. There were times of joy, certainly, but they grew more dependent on being chemically induced with each passing year.

People have hard opinions on alcohol, drugs, and antidepressants—on everything, if I’m being honest. I’m no different; however, my views might not be what you would expect. I give credit to those things for keeping me alive long enough to find another solution—specifically, to find a solution in places where I thought I had already looked.