This is a hard post to write at this point in my life. Not because it’s too traumatic or triggering; I’m relatively open about my struggle. But rather, it’s because I don’t feel like I can capture the exact thoughts and depth of emotions I was facing when I was going through it, like I’d hoped to. Suicide really does warp your brain in ways that are uncontrollable AND unrecognizable. A lot of this post feels awfully stupid to me because it’s hard to imagine thinking the thoughts, and believing them, unless you’re actively in it or have gone through it to the same extent. But, the goal of this post is to openly and honestly review my suicidal brain. Because it’s still not talked about enough and it does get better, as hard as it is to believe. 

I never really liked standup. In middle school and high school, my only real standup listening was to Gabriel Iglesias, who hadn’t scratched the itch then and still doesn’t now. When I was 23, I first watched Dmitri Martin, and it was the first time I laughed at a standup routine. Dmitri was my first favorite, and now I have a few I enjoy watching like Taylor Tomlinson, Shane Gillis, or Nate Bargatze. But my favorite of all time is Norm MacDonald.

Norm’s humor is that of watching Season 1 of The Office. Although Norm has passed, and his best routines had been done before my own time of listening to comedy, I still found him and his humor perfect for my ears. The joke that really hooked me was his joke on suicide when he made fun of those who would say, “I don’t understand it” after somebody had committed suicide. He would say, “What do you mean you don’t understand it? You live in a Cotton-Candy house or something?” Here’s one of the times he did the joke. 

Norm’s humor definitely had me hooked. His joke on being a deeply closeted gay man is top-tier comedy (Watch him get Larry King in that link, but also watch him get Conan just as good). (P.S. Those are the only links in this post, hope it’s easier to follow than the last.)

While the specific suicide joke that Norm often made was funny, it was also deeply compelling and actually substantially honest. Two things most suicidal people probably need the most: being compelled and real honesty. Norm’s joke did not shy away from admitting that life probably doesn’t get better, and most people have decent reasons for becoming suicidal or attempting, even if others live in Cotton-Candy houses. 

One of the main reasons for my continued suicidality up to 27 is the amount I owe on student loans from Multnomah University (You don’t become a pastor to get rich after all, right? Looking at you, Micahn.). And one of the problems I regularly had from those I communicated with was their insistence that I would figure it out, claw my way out of debt, own a house, and be happy with what I would have, eventually. But I could do the math. The out-of-debt dream and owning a house ability would have to be well into my 40’s or 50’s. And at that, catching up was in today’s monetary terms; it assumed the $250k house I was eyeing in 2019 wouldn’t rise beyond the additional $250k it has risen since. I could catch up to the housing market at 45 if it never moved up again. How does that feel for hope?

And that’s not to say that most people weren’t trying and doing their best to help, to be positive, as they absolutely were. And, this post isn’t about student loans or my plan to (never) pay them back (thanks for paying with your taxes, one day, Trumpers). But I regularly knew what I wanted to hear and needed to hear: “Life fucking sucks, and your situation is fucked.” That sounds even worse for hope, but honestly, it is exactly what I was deeply craving. I was desperate for someone to acknowledge that my circumstances were beyond repair and not in the “Life’s not about money” kind of way (although it’s obviously not) (maybe not obvious). 

I never really got that until I was sitting inside an inpatient Mental Health Hospital. And only from one person and one conversation, not even from a staff member, but the only other person I identified as normal (LOL, as if anyone is normal who winds up there, or anyone in general). 

When I had the conversation about the fucked-ness of my life, and someone agreed and had no advice, I felt like I breathed for the first time in years, even though the suicidality over my whole life was based around different circumstances. The refresh was astounding when somebody agreed my life was fucked, and I could spin my wheels to fix it, but probably wouldn’t solve much. For the first time since my suicidality had grown to its worst due to finances, I had validation of the responsibility to solve my problems, the amount of victim I was and wasn’t, and the fact that the problems would likely not improve to the material desires I had for my life. All three of those points of validation were equally important. I get to solve my own problems, I am a victim (but not as much as I hoped), and even if I tried my damnedest I would need a whole lot of luck to see growth where I wanted.  

I’m not quite sure when my suicidality started, but 6th grade was the first time it became known to my family and friends. I was bullied consistently and eventually sent the person an email response stating I would kill myself if it didn’t stop. When that was shared with their friends, one of them knew they had to share it with an adult at the school. I walked into the counselor’s office to see printouts of my email, which sparked deep tears and extreme denial of suicidal thoughts at all. My parents were called, I left school for the day, and ended the day with a stern talk about being too young to have a girlfriend (a small side part of the email stating I would end my life as a 12-year-old). I wouldn’t go on to receive counseling until I was 23, nor admit to myself that I was depressed and had been suicidal for a long, long time. 

It took me years of time to see that the girl who shared my emails with the school counselor was loving me deeply, as a human, and that those who failed to love me properly in moments of suicidal desire had been loving me too. They just didn’t know how to do it best. And it was after that moment that I began wearing my Christian mask in an attempt to persuade everyone I was fine and to receive love for who I was.

I’ve since learned that when you mask, love is only received by the mask you wear; whether that love is well-intentioned or not, and it is not love received by you for who you actually are. And, too, that persuading people you’re fine is pointless because they don’t matter. 

The suicidal thoughts never left my mind from that moment. From 6th to 11th grade, I routinely considered and made plans for a pain-free, chosen death. Most of the time, the planning never felt like I would follow through but just the backup plan if I continued to ruin my reputation and relationships; both of which were exasperated by trying to prove I was going to be a Pastor-Worthy christian. The honesty I found in desperation at 27 wasn’t given, and my suicidal jokes back then (objectively hilarious) were always met with harsh resistance to never joke about it or to not talk about those types of things so they didn’t become a worse problem. Stuff it in and it’ll go away. Except, that instead grew the likelihood of an impulsive suicide rather than a “13-Reasons Why” type of one. At 12-18, it was impossible for me to discern why I was thinking this way, and it wasn’t until I was in counseling for the first time at 23 that I learned most people don’t give heavy consideration to suicide, even once or twice. 

When I arrived at Multnomah Biblical Seminary in 2015, I was immediately placed on the suicide watchlist, thanks to myself. As a Freshman in college for the first time (post-2015 at least) you often have to take multiple tests of yourself to determine where you are at mentally, physically, financially, and with long-term goals and plans. I scored the highest possible score on suicidality and suicidal thinking. This prompted a mandatory meeting with the mental health team to discuss why I was so sad and considering ending my life. But, I wasn’t considering it, I didn’t think, but that was just the mask I had cemented on. I had regularly said and believed, “If I ever stop believing in God, I’ll kill myself because what meaning would life have?”. (Thank god for finding Fyodor Dostoevsky at 27, whose writing gave me a new and balanced perspective.) I hadn’t even read Nietzsche, once, before I was espousing life being pointless without God and that any level of suffering was grounds for removing yourself from life. 

The mental health team reviewed that answer as being acceptable and never again followed up. God was big enough to save me, forever. But he wasn’t, and only one person at Multnomah challenged that belief, trying to convince me life had inherent value if God wasn’t real. I wisely wrote them off as not being a “real Christian” if they believed that, because how could you be a true Christian and believe “if” God wasn’t real, life had meaning? For a Multnomah Fundamentalist (gross), that was probably the correct Biblical view, as God is the only thing that could make life have any value at all. I’ve progressed in some of my views these days to align closer to Dostoevsky and that person at Multnomah.

But back then, I knew if my faith was ever to disappear, so would I. 

While the mental health team at Multnomah was no longer worried, I did spark fear in my friends, and my beloved Professor Jay, at least a few times. The Multnomah Soccer Team I walked onto, walked with me through the most numbing single incident my life had experienced to that point. (Side Point: That team was predominantly not Christian, and they loved me, a human, the best they could as humans. Not like Jesus. Thank you guys.) The numbing was evident to the team and my dormitory friend groups; my entire disposition and demeanor had changed, and it didn’t come back in full, ever. I like to hate Multnomah, and they deserve a lot, especially 2010 and going forward, but I was loved well by most everyone who attended and I connected with. While I never made it obvious with my words that suicide was becoming an attractive option, those who could tell made sure to keep showing up for me. Thank you, too. 

When I began skipping about 40% of my classes in 2017, Jay forced me to meet with him and he called out my bullshit when I ho-hummed about why I was absent so often. I think Jay saw my depression and tried to be honest about it, but I had not yet accepted that I was depressed. My life circumstantially improved from 2015 to 2017 and was continuing to do so, how could I be depressed? His words fell on deaf ears, and he was willing to let me weasel out of his accountability, likely because accountability only works when the accountable actually want it. Jay’s profound wisdom with what he was doing in the Pastoral program and his guidance to The Cure is likely what planted the seeds that my recurring suicidality was never really based on my life circumstances. However, the circumstances can and would exasperate the problem. 

I only changed my attendance problem with class and began to spend more intentional time with others so that I could appear fine. As someone considering suicide and being depressed when known for being something different, honesty is difficult to give others even when it’s most needed to be received from them. Jay offered the honesty I needed, but I couldn’t visualize the truth of it due to my mask and the improvements I believed I was honestly making; life hadn’t fully kicked me in the teeth yet and changed my perspective. The mask of not being myself was well crafted and well placed, similar to most Christians; nearly impossible to detect unless having once worn one yourself, now removed.

When 2019 rolled around, and I mentioned for the first time to my wife that I was deeply depressed and considering suicide, it also felt circumstantial. I was experiencing the weight of college debt for the first time, working as a custodian, and losing my dream of pastoring as it was becoming clear it would not be an option. My marriage was not in an amazing place and was moments away from the final collapse. I had not talked with my closest friends for an extended time, and I felt like I had lost the college friends I still had. Portland was lonely; my dreams were not happening, nor on the way to happening; my marriage was on the final rung before it fell apart, and it felt like I was regularly forced to affirm the Christianity and biblical answers I detested and could not agree with. 

It was after this moment, telling my wife about how I felt, that I began to seek counseling and help for the first time. I attended counseling consistently, took meds as directed, and continued working on the shitty behaviors that plagued my life and marriage. I continually verbalized from 2019-2023 that counseling did not feel like it was helpful and that I was making virtually no progress in how I felt internally, even as my personal problems improved objectively. I believed, and still do, that I was being fully honest and authentic about my experience. Jordan Peterson (sorry, libs) provided some of the best explanations for this on a Joe Rogan podcast when he discussed the Israelites leaving Egypt and wandering in the desert for 40 years. He said, paraphrased:

 “Immense suffering is not followed by thriving. It is always followed by the desert, an unknown of where life is going, and a painful wandering of survival.” 

As my faith dwindled to nothing over this period (it had begun much earlier), my marriage finished collapsing and ended, and I began living on my own. The desert was where I found myself wandering now. My circumstances had rapidly declined, but many of the problems with my mental health actually seemed to improve. The desert of life, after feeling that I had been squashed by life, pushed suicidality to a new level, even if my mental health had large improvements. 

January of 2024 was when the desert truly bore down on me. The freedom from my failed marriage didn’t give me the hope it does now; the slog of life continued at an excruciatingly slow and monotonous pace, and the Nietzsche-like thought of “any suffering being grounds for removal from life” was now a reality I accepted because I no longer loved God (or instead I admitted finally that if I did, I was doing most, if not all of it, wrong). The turmoil of losing your faith and its community, even as you now stand away gladly, still hurts. And that faith-losing pain is a nearly identical feeling to that of losing your marriage, even if you know it is the best decision for you. You don’t get over your spouse in an instant, even if you can pinpoint how wrong the relationship was for you and it would’ve continued to be. Similarly, you may get over God quickly, but you don’t stop missing the good and love experienced nor learn how intertwined your coping and thinking were based upon that foundation. 

After my son and I took our annual sledding trip to Mt. Hood, I chose to end my life the very next day at the end of January 2024. I began procuring materials, and my responses to those offering to help became distinctly cold. I would often make it clear that death offered the escape I wanted and that I wouldn’t worry about its effects on my friends, family, or son; because I would be dead. I was rude at work to many people who helped the most, and I commonly expressed my circumstances and the pointlessness of trying to improve them.

I wanted to be dead, and most people close to me knew it. 

I am incredibly grateful that in the moments before I would begin to follow through, I was directed a final time to find help and was willing to take it. In many ways, I was crying out for help by expressing my feelings. But lucky for me, I was too good at intellectually debating why help would be non-beneficial, especially following years of seemingly-failed therapy sessions. It was really one last moment before I was about to do it, that I recognized l was already giving up, so I may as well give up what I thought I knew and try to remedy myself. Even if circumstances continually worsened, I could not give a shit about life anymore, just as I would be doing if I committed suicide. (And at worst, I could just finish my plan the moment I left inpatient treatment). I took that perspective with me to the hospital as I sought treatment for attempting suicide:  Life really doesn’t fucking matter. And even if God is real, it also doesn’t really matter because each god-figure in almost all religions, in some way, attests that life is not the point but rather what happens after is. 

After beginning my voluntary attendance of inpatient treatment (it’s not voluntary, very much so “Go quietly or go kicking and screaming”), I realized it was up to me to get out of it what I needed. It would not have been found if I had not sought it. The hospital was not really that great at its job and offered little actual help. I saw or went outside for less than 15 minutes over a full seven days, I only had one therapy session, and only because I represented a different person than normal who was placed there. Still, I sought it.

I read, led the discussions in groups, and tried my hardest to get everything out of each coloring page I did. Crime and Punishment, and its raw honesty on death, led me to read more of Fyodor Dostoevsky after I left. And that explains why my suicidality didn’t die at the hospital or for another couple of months after. I still had not answered the questions my mask couldn’t. But, the hospital did fully let me embrace my view of not giving a shit, which I am grateful for:

How can your friends and family know you’re crazy without you starting not to care what others think? It’s a nice tool for removing anxiety. 

Dostoevsky, my now favorite author and the one who aligns with my view of life, was found in Crime and Punishment at the Mental Health Hospital. A very odd book to let suicidal and mentally unstable people read. And it wasn’t that book that changed my perspective on life, but it is what led me to begin finding my actual own thoughts that still aligned with my Nietzsche worldview, and was verbalized in The Brothers Karamazov:

Per Ivan to Alyosha, Dostoevsky writes, “Love life more than the meaning of it.”

That does answer the questions my mask searched for, and it’s a godless view. Life should be less focused on its existential meaning and more focused on experiencing it fully. The view was learned in theory and examined in practice for the rest of 2024 as I both started and lost the most loving relationship of my life, embraced the things I love about life; while lacking circumstances to provide them continually, and began to pursue my interests in career and recreation honestly. 

Loving life more than the meaning of it is a forced embrace of acceptance, respect, and joy for the bad and good. It’s about viewing the desert as a necessary experience to enjoy the Promised Land, seeing heartbreak as the only reason enjoying love is possible, and attempting to do what you want because you want it. It’s looking less at the screen of images procured by the camera at tourist attractions and actually marveling at the attraction and experience itself (Hence why I try to take more pictures, ironically. I miss a lot of good ones because I forget to do so when I’m embracing the experience.) In many ways, life is about putting David Crowder’s “Undignified” into practice for real, even if it isn’t for God. 

I think this blog is one shitty part of my now lifelong attempt at being Undignified, proving to myself that anxiety and shame are gone, and trying to love life more than the meaning of it. For the first time in my life I know I’m myself, fully. And for the first time, I’m confident and content in myself and my circumstances, even as many of them continue to decline.

I don’t believe that the suicidality was based on my circumstances, especially not anymore, and I did believe it was circumstantial at the time. Something in my thinking was wrong. The circumstances that caused the spiral into larger suicidal desires or attempts had consistently changed throughout my life, a life that believed extreme suicidal thinking was normal and common. I’m becoming more positive about the exact drive behind suicide for my entire life, as I now know it had to do with not being content, not believing in myself, and not being honest with who I am to myself; allowing anxiety and existential thinking to remove the true me. I had a predisposition to suicide due to my mental anguish of the dishonesty in my heart from my welded-on mask, but could stuff it down or provide myself with enough comfort to keep the gun away from my head so long as my life circumstance wasn’t in a downward Boeing dive of its own. 

Life does get better, but maybe not circumstantially. As part of the largest demographic of people who commit suicide or attempt; young men, (and the ones historically the most underserved), I finally understand the other side of it.

Life is worth living, even though it’s mostly unenjoyable. And nothing really gives it worth.

Hell, even if Jesus is correct and real, our time on earth is short compared to after it. But, if you are suicidal, it takes a lot of time and honesty to recognize the value of it as being your own fucked up experience.

Your brain will be cold to you in ways you would never be to someone else and most people won’t understand it, because they live in Cotton-Candy houses like Norm MacDonald joked. 

“Life is like a Hen House Ladder; shitty and short.”  (Paul Giamatti, The Holdovers, 2023)

Stay alive even if it sucks. Your experience is the only thing that makes a unique you and the only thing that brings value and meaning to life. And I only say that as someone who is not going through it anymore and knows how impossible it is to understand, in the moment of most needing to hear it.

Jesus might not love you, but somebody does.