“Be kind; everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”- John Watson
TRIGGER WARNING: This article discusses suicide. If you have concerns for yourself or a loved one in the United States, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1–800–273-8255, or text the Crisis Text Line (text HOME to 741741). Both services are free and available 24 hours a day, seven days a week. All conversations are confidential. Dial 911 in an emergency.
My first exposure to suicide was as a teenager in a high school life science class. It was one of those days when the teacher did not want to teach or maybe he needed to catch up on grading some assignments, so he opted to play an old black and white movie, It’s a Wonderful Life, for the entire period. Most of my classmates quietly protested by taking naps or passing notes to each other. I was mesmerized by the movie from the beginning and watched it with the intensity reserved for experiencing something profoundly spiritual.
I felt an immediate deep connection to the protagonist, George Bailey. Like George, I wanted to do big things with my life and was full of grandiose aspirations, also known as youthful optimism. George proclaims, “I know what I’m gonna do tomorrow, and the next day, and the next year, and the year after that. I’m shakin’ the dust of this crummy little town off my feet and I’m gonna see the world. Italy, Greece, the Parthenon, the Colosseum. Then, I’m comin’ back here to go to college and see what they know. And then I’m gonna build things. I’m gonna build airfields, I’m gonna build skyscrapers a hundred stories high, I’m gonna build bridges a mile long…” For me, I was gonna escape smalltown Gainesville, Florida, gonna become a military officer, gonna see the world, gonna become a US Senator like JFK, and one day, gonna be the President of the United States. [Author’s note: Like Mellencamp sang in Pink Houses, “…just like everything else those old crazy dreams just kinda came and went.”]
What I could not understand was why George, a visionary like me, was going to throw it all away and take his own life. I thought to myself, “he must be weaker than me. Suicide is for the weak and selfish. George just needs to have more self-esteem. More self-confidence.” I will never forget there was a poster on the wall in that same classroom that read, “Get High On Life!” and pictured somebody snowboarding or surfing a big wave. The naive version of myself was like, “Hell yeah! All I need to not end up like George Bailey is self-motivation.” Then I got an ice-cold bucket of life dumped on my head.
My next encounters with suicide were real. I was in college at the US Naval Academy and I had two really different experiences there. One was seeing a fellow shipmate go through the crucible of indoctrination training and for whatever reason, he tried to take his own life. Maybe the military regimen was just too hard for him or maybe he could not bear the burden of telling his friends and family that he wanted to go home. I remember we had to take turns doing suicide watch outside his room until eventually he was processed out of the Navy and left for a civilian university. This reinforced my belief that suicide was the easy way out — a way for quitters to not have to face their choices. And then one day, one of my friends tried to take his own life. This guy was tough — he was an accomplished athlete, a rugby player, and had chosen to serve in the Marine Corps like me. Thank God his attempt was unsuccessful. My beliefs about who struggles with suicide were beginning to crumble.
In the military and even for several years after transitioning out, I did not give the topic of suicide much more thought. Then, abruptly, a classmate of mine who I had just seen at a reunion, killed himself. He was one of the most humorous, fun-loving, and physically tough men I had ever met. He was the kind of guy who made you have belly-splitting laughs and told spit-out-your-drink kind of jokes. He was so full of life. He had served in combat as a Marine Corps Officer like me, had gotten out and pursued an MBA like me, and had what appeared on the surface to be a successful professional and personal life like me. His sudden death was an awakening, if this could happen to him, then it could happen to anyone. It could even happen to me. Yet, I still somehow clung on to the false hope that my own mental toughness would be a forcefield against suicidal thoughts entering my mind.
I was wrong.
I have thought about killing myself on more than one occasion. These were not planning sessions or even intentional conversations with myself. They were not precipitated by some negative life event — divorce, job loss, loss of a child, or an unexpected death of a friend or family member. Even with #nofilter, my life had substance, success, and everything a person could want. Yet, I still ended up in the depths of depression. I fearfully found myself considering taking my own life as an option. I did not have any idea why I was thinking about this or why it entered my mind other than that I considered — in those darkest moments — that the world might be a better place without me. I was not considering it for selfish reasons or even to end my own pain and suffering. I simply did not believe I was good enough for the ones I loved. I was experiencing impostor syndrome on steroids. I did not hatch a plan, but I did research whether or not my life insurance policies would pay out if my death was deemed a suicide. In that moment, I knew I needed help.
The best thing I did was tell my wife. She took me out to a nice dinner and had a very necessary and direct conversation with me. She told me that she loved me and wanted me around for the long run, but most importantly she told me that I needed to tell my parents, my therapist, and a close friend or two. I did and the response was life-changing. I felt a deep and compassionate love from my parents and closest friends that I had not realized was there all along. I was most surprised by the “me too” responses from people who I thought were tough and had all their shit together and would never consider suicide. This not only helped me to feel less awkward about what I was going through, but it gave me some people who I felt safe with to share some of the hardest things there are to share. I have never felt so scared and vulnerable as I did when I told my parents that I had suicidal thoughts-not because I was nervous about how they would react, but because I did not want them to hurt or to worry about me. Now I am so glad that they and my friends know and check in with me.
I am sure it is no surprise that I am a huge Ted Lasso fan. I love the comedy. I love the drama. I love the witty banter. More than anything, I love how the writing and the acting flips up-side-down our notion of masculinity or male strength. In the military, sports teams, and even in some business cultures, classic machismo or what has come to be called bro culture is pervasive. Many of the male characters in Ted Lasso challenge the traditional concept of what it means to be a man. There is the self-absorbed prick, Jamie Tartt, learning to be a teammate who is literally willing to pass the ball. There is the gruff man’s man, Roy Kent, learning how to more effectively express his emotions including how to forgive others. And then there is the goofy and warmhearted coach, Ted Lasso, who uses humor to mask his pain and fear of abandonment. Ted learns the power of vulnerability as he publicly and privately confronts his struggles with anxiety and mental health, which Brené Brown made famous with her must-see TedTalk of the same name.
Yes, the most courageous thing we can do as men and women is tenderly bring to the surface and share the things we are most afraid to share with the people we love the most and who love us the most. And people we love the most, listen up! Please do not try to solve our suicide problem, do not try and fix us— just listen and love us and be with us when we need you.
The truth about suicide is that it does not discriminate. Suicide does not care how rich or poor you are, how much of a success or a failure you are, or how perfect or messy your life looks like on social media. In fact, Olympic medalists and decorated combat veterans are some of the people most susceptible to depression right after the ceremony is over and the ticker-tape parade has ended. Suicide does not care how tough you are or how tough you think you are. Physical toughness does not equate to mental health. And even mental toughness is no bulwark against suicidal thoughts. Suicide does not wait to show up in the middle of a crisis. It is lurking in the shadows waiting for you to feel boxed in, all alone, and like there are no better alternatives. And when you feel that way, even if it is just for a fleeting moment, reach out and tell someone you love. That is the strongest and most courageous thing you can do. And if you do not have anyone to reach out to, then reach out to me.
What I have learned since that high school class, when I had my first encounter with suicide, is the main message from It’s A Wonderful Life that I missed the first time. It is not about whether George Bailey is manly enough to keep from throwing away his own life. It’s about George seeing for himself how valuable his life truly is. Clarence the Angel says to George, “Strange, isn’t it? Each man’s life touches so many other lives. When he isn’t around he leaves an awful hole, doesn’t he?” Each life is valuable, each life is worth living, including my own. There are ripple effects of our small acts of kindness and daily interactions with people that are hard to fathom. We cannot fully measure, nor can we imagine the totality of the positive contributions of our own existence because we are too close to the action. However, a good friend or even a stranger can point out to you or reveal just how much what you did meant to them. And “no man is a failure who has friends.”
