Sorry to leave you all hanging at the end of yesterday’s post.
Every so often, I write something that leaves me feeling so vulnerable that I suddenly know that to write a single word more will give me enough time to change my mind and delete the entire thing.
Usually I keep typing. I afford myself the luxury of changing my mind, and I delete whatever I was working on. Yesterday I couldn’t do that. I hadn’t planned on writing about that, and I don’t know why I needed to write it and post it, I just did.
Ugh. That was not a fun one to share.
Once my mind had cleared somewhat, I wrote the rest of the story which I planned to share today, but I think I’ll share that tomorrow instead. Today I want to talk about the very real truth behind yesterday’s post for a moment.
Five months ago, I very seriously came close to ending my own life.
A generally normal, rational, usually happy man.
I literally was counting down to the moment when it all would finally end for me. And I came very close to doing it. I had my seatbelt off, my hands positioned, and I was searching for the right place to send myself over the edge.
Nobody knew that before yesterday. It was one giant life fail that I planned to never tell another soul. But, you all know how I feel about that ugly disease called “Perfection,” and I’ll be damned before I ever let myself infect others with it again. I suppose that’s why I felt the need to share what I shared.
Or maybe I felt the need to share it so that today I could confront the bullies and demons and societal standards and religion that pushed me toward that moment. Forgive me if what I write today is not fluffy bunnies and butterflies. Forgive me for not being tender with the feelings of all.
But I almost killed myself.
And for what?
I almost killed myself because I was something other than straight.
There was no other reason.
I almost killed myself because I was afraid of being hated by the people who love me.
I almost killed myself because I was afraid of losing everything that was most important to me.
I almost killed myself because I knew that I couldn’t lie to myself or others any longer, and in that moment, death seemed like an easy and suitable alternative to facing the truth.
I almost killed myself because living was less appealing than not existing.
Isn’t that what it boils down to?
And in what functional world is living less desirable than not existing?
I suppose it’s in a world where the living still need a reason to stone the living.
Sure, we may not pick up bricks and bludgeon someone to death with them. But we pick up our own, very different bricks, and over years and decades we bludgeon people’s souls until there is nothing salvageable of them.
Just like we did thousands of years ago, we look for opportunities to determine others as less than we are, more evil than we are, and less valuable than we are. We seek out opportunities to punish them, hurt them, and even kill them.
A lot of stones are thrown at people who are anything other than straight.
Our words. Our jokes. Our demands. Our guilt-trips. Our hatred. Our religious declarations.
As humans, we have some strange primitive need to pick up rocks and chuck them at people.
None of us ever think the rock we throw is the one that actually kills a person.
And maybe it’s not. But as has always been the sad truth, when too many people throw too many rocks at someone, that person often doesn’t survive it.
Such was almost the case with me. I wasn’t ready to die because I was a bad person, or because I had horrible unbearable secrets, or because I had nothing left to live for.
I was ready to die because enough people had picked up enough rocks and thrown them over the years.
Continued on next page.