Today I picked up a pen and wrote my name on a sticky note to place on a suicide remembrance / suicide survivor board at The Chickasaw Nation Clinic.
It’s such a small thing, a name and a few words on a poster, surrounded by the names and words of strangers. But standing there, pen in hand, I realized something: there was a time I wasn’t sure I’d still be here to write anything at all.
A few years ago, I made a phone call I had been dreading. I told my mom, “I’m NOT okay. I don’t want to live anymore. I’m going to the ER.” I had promised her long before that if it ever got that dark, she would be the first to know. And a promise is a promise. (If you haven’t read that story, you can find it here: The Promise.)
That call, a best friend who wouldn’t let me walk to my car without asking if I was okay, and a lot of help from people who knew what they were doing are the reasons my name is on that board today.
Here’s what I wrote next to it:
“It took a lot of work, but I’m far better off now that I’m here, alive.“
– Jessie Figueroa
“You are loved. You are worthy.”
I chose those words because, in my darkest moment, I believed the opposite. I thought everyone, including me, would be better off if I were gone. I couldn’t see my own worth, and I couldn’t feel the love that was all around me.
Getting from there to here wasn’t quick, and it wasn’t easy. It took therapy, a safety plan, learning what helped and what hurt, and learning to say “I’m not okay” out loud. But the future came, and it held things I would have missed: my kids growing up, music that lifts me instead of pulls me down, friendships, and the chance to be there for someone else the way people were there for me. I’m not just alive. I’m living.
The second part wasn’t about me. It was for the next person who stops at that board on a hard day, and for anyone reading this right now. You are loved. You are worthy. Even if you can’t feel it today, it’s still true.
September is Suicide Prevention Awareness Month. Those boards aren’t just lists of names. Every name is a person who reached a moment where the pain felt bigger than the future, and somehow, through a phone call, a friend, a hospital bed, a therapist, a reason… I made it to the other side of that moment. Every name is proof that the moment isn’t the whole story.
I’m not going to pretend recovery is a straight line. It isn’t. I still have to use the tools I learned. I still have to be honest with the people around me when things start slipping. But I’m here. I’m a dad. I’m a friend. And today I got to leave something on that board for the next person who walks by it on a hard day.
If you’re that person, here’s what I want you to know:
Asking for help is NOT a weakness. It’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done.
Strength isn’t silent endurance. It’s saying out loud, “I’m not okay,” before you collapse.
You don’t have to make it through the whole rest of your life today. Just this moment. Then the next one.
And if you’re someone who loves a person who might be struggling, ask them. Directly. Al asked me at a turnstile gate at the end of a night shift, and it changed everything.
Years ago I promised to call if things ever got dark. Later, I promised to be the voice that answers when someone else makes that call. Today I added one more thing: my name, on a board, for anyone who needs to see that people make it through.
If you are struggling, you can call or text 988 (the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline) any time, day or night. Make the call. Keep the promise to yourself.