Between Blue Lines

Is it Selfish...

...to want to end your life? Many philosophers have suggested yes. But I'm not sure that matters in the moment of deep emotional affliction. Yet it has often been the very thing that kept me from crossing the line from one life to the next. If that belief helps you stay alive then it serves a holy purpose, but what happens when the guilt isn't enough to keep you going? What happens when the threat of hell and judgement isn't sufficient to override the dark cravings of death? If you're reading this then you've probably lived long enough to know that life gets problematic. Messy. Occasionally the mess becomes overwhelming. It becomes too much to process; to carry.

I Remember...

...the blue lines across my wrists left behind by the pen used to simulate what I wished were blood-red streaks. The pain of hopelessness screamed at me as I pulled the knife down, just a few inches from my arteries, to cut the bread a customer had ordered moments before.

I was less than a month into my graduate studies in psychology and I was already struggling to catch up. I had moved to Virginia six months before that, after leaving a job that had left me completely burned out and believing that I had failed at the only thing that I loved and was good at. Shame showed his jagged teeth as he smiled victoriously, delighted that I was spiraling into a depressive freefall.

Life had reached a place of pure meaninglessness and every little thing drove me to the point of craving the relief of perpetual sleep.

I returned home from a long, agonizing day of work, grabbed my messenger bag, and started walking towards a nearby coffee shop. With each step, I heard the echoing words in my mind, “everything is pointless...I just want to die.” Years of ministry and psychology training told me that this was problem. A REAL problem.

“Are You Safe?”

...my therapist questioned after answering my impulsive call. “Can you tell me right now that you are going to be OK?”

Time snagged on a nearby tree, causing the moments that followed to feel like an hour. I knew the answer to that question… “Which hospital should I go to?” I responded, as I spun on my heels to race back to my jeep, about to commit to what would become one of the most pivotal weeks of my life.

I called my friend Kale as anxiety and fear tried to rip my foot from the gas pedal that was propelling me to get help, and he helped make sure that I made it to that time of transformation. I looked down at the blue ink on my arm and for a moment remembered the importance of what lay beneath them; the living flesh between them

Six Days...

...of intensive care, group therapies, med changes, and emotional processing followed and it felt overwhelming.

Though the therapy sessions were, without a doubt, essential to my healing and revived passions that had long been dead, it was the community of people that really made that time something special. The community of fellow patients who locked arms with me to get through the week, and the community of people outside the hospital who came rushing to my aid.

I was privileged to hear the beautiful stories of those who were there struggling with me. Men and women who chose to cling to life despite the hardships that had befallen them. I was also surprised by how many calls I received from those in the outside world. I was forced to face the truth that regardless of what I felt deep inside; I was loved and valued.

The week seemed long at the time but, in the end, those six days were well worth it to get to experience the years that followed.

Four Years...

...have passed since I walked through those sliding doors to security and help. I recovered my faltering grades (and since graduated!), kicked a looming drinking habit, found a love for photography and graphic design, acquired a stable job, bought a car, and I now live in a loving community and have my own place. Ya know, "stable adult things!"

When I reflect on this past few years of wondrous experiences, meaningful relationships, and exquisite manifestations of love... I can’t help but think “man, I could have missed all this.”

Had I not made that hard decision to be vulnerable, to get help, I would have never seen my niece smile, seen pictures of my godson’s fifth birthday, spend a week with one of my students exploring Kansas City, reengage with old friends, flown to Texas, danced at multiple weddings, created bizarre pictures with Photoshop, or been advocate for those who suffer from the same mental illness as I do.

I discovered that I existed, and that that was a beautiful reality—and, furthermore, it was up to me to form and shape that existence into whatever I wished it to be; to unfold and develop my essence.

"Life...

...is not a problem to be solved,” as Kierkegaard once said, “but a reality to be experienced.” I sat on the stoop of despair and decay; the door to death unlocked and waiting to be opened. But there was another way. There was a way to live life and though it has been anything but easy, it has most definitely been worth it.

I realized that I didn’t want to lose. I didn’t want to lose to the darkness and succumb to its will. But neither did I want to live a life subjugated to depression and mental illness. Somewhere, somehow I found the desire to experience life; to be me.

So to you, reader, I offer this challenge. It is easy to quit. I understand why you might want to, but let implore you that every day is a gift. And here, on this Earth, is a chance for you to bloom with life and to be ever more a free human.

Today I celebrate my continuation of life, and I have from henceforth set aside February 26th as a sort of second birthday—as a reminder that there is freedom and a world of adventure at our fingertips, if we are just brave enough to just reach out and take hold of it. I hope that you can find a reason to survive outside the guilt of leaving survivors, but rather that you can learn to live for yourself. To love the energy that flows in you and quickens your flesh to live, to move, and to breath.