The Promise

Mom, I’m NOT okay. I don’t want to live anymore. I’m going to the ER.

-Those are the words no mother wants to hear from their son’s mouth. Yet, those are the words that my mother was hearing from the other side of the phone.

You see, years ago I made a promise to my mother that if I was ever to the point of being suicidal, she would be the first to know. It’s a call I was dreading to make, but a promise is a promise.

I don’t exactly remember her reaction, I was much too numb by that point. I had just spent the last 12 hours working a night shift, making tires. I spent most of the night working through bouts of crying and hiding behind the machinery out of shame. My work partner, Al is my best friend and by that time we had worked aside each other for over 10 years.

That night I found myself researching DNRs on my break times. (Having a Do-Not-Resuscitate (DNR) order means a doctor has written a medical order instructing healthcare providers not to perform CPR if your heart or breathing stops, allowing for a natural death rather than aggressive life-sustaining measures like chest compressions or electric shock.) That was so out of character from who I used to be. I didn’t recognize myself anymore, and that scared me. Those are the events that led me to realize that I had reached a critically dangerous place in my mental health. As work ended, Al and I clocked out together, and he followed me to the turnstile gate. As I began to walk to my car, he stopped me and asked me if I was going to be okay.

My chest tightened. My voice didn’t want to cooperate. I remember staring at the pavement because I couldn’t look him in the eyes. I had held it together all night. I couldn’t hold it together anymore. “No. No, I am not okay. If I don’t get help today, I am not going live any longer.”

Al said “You need to go to the ER, now.” I told him I needed to go home first. He said, “look, I am going to trust you, only if you promise me that you will go to the ER as soon as you get what you need from your house, or else I am driving you there myself.” So I promised.

I got to my house, and things are a bit of a blur from there. I do remember that I broke down to my separated wife at the time, and told her that I didn’t want to live anymore. I remember upholding the promise to my mom, and making that call. I remember waiting in the hospital for what seemed like forever (it was bad timing because covid hadn’t been around for too long and had taken up a lot of the hospital’s resources).

While in the hospital I remember they took bloodwork, and asked if I had an active plan to end my life. I had passive thoughts, but more than anything else I just wished I could go to sleep and never wake up again. After being questioned I told them I didn’t want to hurt anyone else. They made sure I was supervised at all times because they didn’t want me to find something in the examination room to harm myself with. They had me talk to a psychiatrist through a tablet.

Finally they found a crisis center with room for me to go to, which happened to be right across the street. They had a police officer take me to his SUV. He said he was supposed to handcuff me to insure I was no threat to anyone else. He asked me a few questions and said he could tell I wasn’t going to be any trouble and said being escorted was already humiliating enough, so he didn’t.

Once inside the crisis center, the staff told me to write down several important contacts from my phone, that I wouldn’t be allowed to keep it, because they need to control my environment. It could be an abusive spouse on the other end or someone that could make my mental stability worse. Then they took all my belongings, and had me lock them up in tamper-proof bags.

My entire time in the crisis center blurred together. Initially, I was brought to a room where I was on suicide watch. I would be there for 5 days. They told me to look at it as a mini-vacation from life. These five days were spent in a recliner with a pillow and light blanket with 100% supervision aside from time in the bathroom. The television stayed on, but the content was also moderated… mostly the Discovery Channel, but when Shark Week started playing, they would change it to something else. I believe there were 5 of us there. We were brought meds and meals with a plastic spoon, because anything else was too dangerous to be trusted to have. I was also set up to talk with an in-house therapist daily.

After 5 days, they deemed me safe enough to share a room with someone and have access to communal areas. My roommate was homeless, and facing his own set of problems. The two of us shared a bathroom and shower. I don’t think we ever really spoke to each other, despite living together for a week. There was scheduled times to go to therapy, get your meals, get your meds, and make limited phone calls. They had an activity room, for drawing, coloring, or watching TV. The males were housed on one side and females on the other. Every few days we were allowed to listen to uplifting music, supervised. Slowly… the numbness subsided. I looked forward to calling my family and hearing their voices. I missed my kids and longed to see them. I started looking forward to listening to music again. Slowly… my feelings were returning, but there was confusion in what I felt, like my emotions blurred together. There was no separation.

Time and therapy were needed for me to heal. I learned to stay grounded. I learned what coping mechanisms worked best for me. I learned to open up. I learned the importance of relief. But most importantly I learned asking for help is NOT a weakness.

Finally I was deemed safe enough to be released. In order to be released, I had to already have had therapy appointments set up, I had to make an emergency safety plan in case things started getting bad for me again, I had to talk about what coping mechanisms I had learned and found to work for me, and explain what things helped and what things made my mental states worse. Most, if not all this information was added to my safety plan.

Here are some things I learned about myself.

1. I kept things balled up inside me. No release. I thought I could just continue willing and powering my way through things. I learned the hard way that strength isn’t silent endurance. It’s release. It’s conversation. It’s admitting you’re not okay before you collapse.
2. My kids are my reason for living. Should things get bad again, my focus should remain on them. I need them just as much as they need me.
3. Those who know me know I am a very musical person. BUT, music is a double-edged sword. If I listened to something uplifting it did wonders! If I listened to something sad or melancholy, it could make things worse quickly. So music is a coping mechanism and a trigger for me, depending on the circumstances.
4. As much as I disliked talking to people, especially about my problems. Therapy was an important part of my mental wellbeing and recovery. I had to learn how to open up, how to recognize if I was falling back into darkness, and relearn what relief felt like.
5. Once I got out, I realized I was still getting bills, I was going to get a temporary disability check, but it was going to be delayed. There were a lot of things that needed my attention. I could quickly see how something like this could turn into a treacherous and repetitive cycle if someone weren’t careful.

Now… I’m not going to say things were Instagram perfect after my release. I still had passive thoughts, but they were easily dismissed and contained. I still had work to do in and outside of therapy. It wasn’t always easy, but now I had the tools to face things as they came.

It still saddens me to think that there was a short period of time where I was not there for my kids, but I also know that at the time I couldn’t have been any help to them, because I was already no help to myself.

Many years later I had the opportunity to attend Applied Suicide Intervention Skills Training (ASIST) through The National Action Alliance for Suicide Prevention. I can step up and be the same lifeline I once needed myself, if the need ever arises. I’m stronger now. Not invincible. Not immune. But no one is. Through training, through therapy, through loving others, I am more equipped to face adversity than I have ever been before.

I made that original promise so long ago to call if things ever got dark.
Today, I uphold a different promise… to be the voice that answers when someone else makes that call.

Trauma teaches us that healing is not about forgetting; It’s about embracing our scars.

-Dr. Christine Courtois

I am immensely grateful for all of the help I received. I am grateful Al was there and could steer me past my clouded judgement. I am thankful that my mom had the foresight to make such a promise, as tough of a subject as it was. I am thankful for everyone who checked up on me. I am thankful for my work group who all pitched in and bought me a gift after returning to work. I was, and still am blessed to have such a support system. I realize how lucky I am in that regards, as I know many people don’t have that luxury. It’s changed the way I look at things. It’s changed the way I see people.

Everyday, I aspire to be the change I want to see in the world.