This isn't about anything other than the person and his family...

Last night, amid all of the Twitter frenzy about Trumps tax avoidance, there was a story that, while not getting the same attention, was getting traction.  Brad Parscale, former Trump campaign manager was hospitalized for suicide attempt.  

https://www.cnn.com/2020/09/27/politics/brad-parscale-hospitalized/index.html

I have to admit, I struggled with whether or not to share the link.  I am in no way, shape or form, a Trump fan.  And my post about this is not about Trump or a commentary on his campaign.  I am not wanting to draw attempting to Trump or the man at the center of the story.  But in reality, it's just me, you and a half dozen bots reading this blog so I doubt it's going matter much.  

First of all, I grieve for Brad and his family. Being at this place in his life and then to have it plastered all over the Internet must be a nightmare.  Right now, he and his family need to focus on him and getting through this crisis.  He isn't even out of the hospital.  And now, 64 million of his closest friends know about this.  Instead of thinking of what brought him to this place, I cannot help but believe that he is thinking about damage control for his own reputation, let alone for that turd he worked for.  Of course, I am speculating but I do remember having to get a hold of a phone so that I could explain my absence from the office without raising too many eyebrows.  I imagine that Brad may be thinking the same.  

And the news is usually playing in the day room so its not like he isn't aware that the world knows about this.  

Right now, there are some on the left that are taking joy of kicking Brad while he is down and seeing this as an analogy for the Trump campaign.  And that is wrong.  This is not about Trump.  It's about Brad and his family.  

Leave him the fuck alone. 

At some point, I imagine that Brad will make a connection to Trump and losing his job as campaign manager this summer to his current mental health.  And that is a pretty fair connection.  We tend to wrap our self identity to our jobs and to fall so hard and so publicly will, without a doubt, have an impact.  But this isn't about politics.  Its about a human being hurting in a way that can destroy oneself.  

Be a decent person and stop talking about Brad.  Say a little prayer for him and his family. 

Welcome to the psych unit

My intent of this post is to simply share my experience and memorialize it.  Since there are about two people who have read my blog so far as well as several thousand Russian bots, I am just gonna tell it like it was.

As I set out that morning to do what I intended, it never dawned on me that I make not be able to do it and there would be aftermath.  If you are suicidal, you are not thinking clearly and the depression makes it nearly impossible to see past your nose.

After the several hours in the ER of being asked if I was still thinking of hurting myself and what insurance I had, I was finally taken into the psych unit.  This is where it just got weird and surreal for me.

When I was in college, I wanted to be a psychology major.  I wanted to help people and all of that crap.  So I got a job as a behavioral health tech in a psych unit of a medical hospital.  It was a really interesting gig where I assisted people receive electric shock therapy (fascinating and has a totally undeserved reputation), help move patients unable to help themselves, and tie people into beds who needed a shot in the ass.  And by shot in the ass, I mean a shot of thorazine or some other medication so they stopped trying to hurt me or others.

Really incredible experience but it helped me see that I didn't want to work in psychology.  A lot of the people in psych units as you likely are aware) experiences a horrific amount of trauma and I had a hard time letting that go.  And working with the kids was especially difficult.  But that is a story or another day. Anyway, I did that for 3 years until I got a degree in art.

So back to being moved into the psych ward as a patient.

Psych units are pretty drab places, not high of the hospitals list of places to invest in. They are typically pretty sparse so there isn't much for someone to hurt themselves with.  The hall is lined with furniture is huge so it can't be picked up and thrown.  But there are lots of copies of last weeks newspapers and Better Homes and Gardens.  As well, as a 2 year old copy of Sports Illustrated.

I was greeted by a young lady who took me into a small room to get vitals and run down the rules. As if the humiliation had not been enough that day, the hits just kept coming.  Why was it humiliating?  I couldn't tell you. The young lady was nice.  No one was bugging me.  But I was almost old enough to be her dad.  I had been in her very same position 30 years earlier.  I knew the drill. I just it was the realization that I was no different from anyone else that I had ever taken into a small room and gotten a set of vitals and asked if they were still thinking of hurting themselves.

It was now around 6 pm and I had not eaten all day.  Or had much to drink and since I had perspired several gallons so far that day, I was getting pretty dry. I asked for some water and she quickly got me a small tan pitcher filled with crushed ice and water and a styrofoam cup.  Once she gave me the water and the schedule, she asked if I wanted anything to eat and I said no and rolled over on my metal frame and thin layer of cotton, pretending to be a bed and mattress.  I then slept for the next 12 hours like I hadn't slept in years.

I went out to the day room and met my new housemates.  It was a large room with big ugly chairs around the walls and tables in the center.  There was a television up near the ceiling tuned to some home remodeling show. There were about 12 people in the room of various ages.  I was not the oldest nor the youngest.  I found a seat against a wall and began to soak it all in.

After a moment, a young latino man sat down next to me.  He introduced himself as Melvin.  I shook his hand and immediately got nervous.  Why?  I have no idea.  He was a bit rough and had a tattoo under his left eye.  I guess because I really don't run in circles with folks that have facial tattoos.  I was much bigger than Melvin and its not like the psych unit is a type of fight club.  I guess it was just the fact that someone approached me out of the blue.

Melvin asked me why I was there and I kind of grunted that I had a heated discussion with the SWAT team.  That immediately got his attention.

"No shit?"  I think I knew that throwing the SWAT team in there might get a good reaction and Melvin did not disappoint.  "What happened?"  By then, a large woman walked to the center of the room and said good morning.

"I am nurse Helen and I want to go over a few things for our new folks.  We start every day by discussing our goals for the day, get vitals, and then we go to breakfast and begin groups.  We do not spend the day in bed, we need to see you and we need to see you participating.  Your involvement, or lack thereof, will be shared with your physician."

Well, she seems pleasant.  

Everyone then went around the room saying a goal they had for the day.  For most, it was attending a group or speaking with their doctor.  I found it to be condescending.  Just say something that they want to hear.  She got to me and asked what my goal was for the day. I looked at her blankly and said I had no idea.  She looked at her clipboard and then back at me.  "You just got here last night?  We can skip you for today.  But be ready to share a goal for tomorrow."

Tomorrow?  Oh hell no.  I better be gone by noon today.  

She then moved on to Melvin, still sitting next to me who gave a goal of talking to his social worker.  After she finished going around the room, everyone got up and began filing out.  I didn't know what was going on so I stay seated.  Melvin had begun walking towards the door, turned and asked me if I wanted to get breakfast.

Not too sure that I am gonna see an omelette or carving station but what the hell, so I got up and followed.

Ok, more later.  I recently learned that someone else is actually reading these who, I do not believe to be a Russian bot so welcome to my head.

Back on the slide...

Sometimes the loneliness is crippling.  Sometimes, it hurts getting out of bed because I have lost hope.  I am learning that my work colleagues are not who they appeared to be.  And that is killing me.  I made a mistake by trusting them.  I made a mistake by letting my guard down.

So now I begin the slide once again.  The all too familiar slide into depression.  And what makes it worse is that my wife has little to no compassion or patience for this.  But get ready for this, you may want to sit down for it... she is a therapist.

Every time I open up and tell her what is happening and how I am feeling, she assumes that she has to fix it.  I work remote most of the week and I hate it.  Yes, lots of people would give anything to work from home and I was one of those people until I did.  And I learned that I enjoy the routine of going into the office, of seeing colleagues, of enjoying a laugh.  Now, it's just me and the dogs.  When I shared this with my wife she insisted that I needed to snap out of it and that I am so lucky to be able to do this.  I agree that I am fortunate that my employer allows me to do this since I am so far from the office.  But I have been doing this for a year now and it just plain sucks.  It's difficult to collaborate and hear about the quick conversations that happen in passing about a project.  She minimizes how I feel and that just makes it worse.

So the slide just accelerates.

I admitted to her how lonely I am.  I am turning 50 next month and I have no friends.  I never minded not having friends but its beginning to bother me.  I have my family and that's it.  I have no guy friends to go have a beer with and watch football with.

I am feeling things that I haven't felt in awhile.  But I am no longer oblivious to the reality of killing myself.  It would shatter my children.  I cannot do that to them.  I know I can't.  That is what really sucks.  I can't get away from this.  I cannot stop this train, I have to ride it out.  While that may be a good thing, I cannot shake the hurt that I feel about my wife minimizing all of this.  I am crushed.  I just want to go to sleep and never wake up. But I have to face her.

This post is a lot of rambling and not making too much sense.  But since no one reads theses, that ok. Someday I will re-read these and wonder what the fuck I was thinking.

Today is not that day.

What hurts today may not hurt tomorrow

When I was a kid, I would fall off my bike and rip up my knee. Sometimes it was me being a smartass and other times, it was a friend not looking where he was going and running into me. Hurt like a bitch. Sometimes it was a small one, about the size of a quarter and other times, it was the size of several dollar bills laid along the side of my leg and thigh. The road rash had caught up with me once again. If it was during the school year, I had to figure out a way to put my pants on without letting the fabric rub against the area until the scab was strong enough to protect the raw patch. But if it was summer, I could let it air out until the area dried up and scabbed over. But in either case, after a day or two, it would dry up and feel better. A week or two later, I could proudly look at the new scar with great admiration for myself that I survived such a harrowing experience.

Well, as we grow up, the experiences grow with us and so does the road rash. Today, my road rash looks quite different from when I was a kid. It doesn’t appear as raw skin, bleeding profusely. It can appear very differently or not even appear at all. Sometimes my hurt is self inflicted from being careless and other times, it was something out of my control. But in either case, it hurts. The hard part is remembering that much like a skinned knee, the hurt that I am feeling as a 49 year old guy will go away.

The bills will get paid. The fighting will stop. The bullshit at work will go away. I am not for one second suggesting that all of these things will go away easily. Bills go to collection and cars are repossesed. Divorces happen. People get fired. Not suggesting that things don’t get worse, for one second.

But I am saying that at some point, the rain and the clouds will part and the sun will come out. It has to. Even if it’s a brief bit of sunshine, it does come out. At some point, the road rash will scab over, regardless of how bad it is. I have to remind myself of that one quite often. This too, shall pass. 

Below is a link to a really good article about losing sight of this. Our distorted thinking makes it difficult to keep this in mind and we fall prey to black and white thinking. We start with the “always” and “never” and idealize a false reality by saying “if only“. https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/psych-unseen/201806/suicides-most-dangerous-cognitive-distortion 

Skinning our knee hurts. Losing a job is horrible. Being humiliated by our bosses is demoralizing. Being part of a failing marriage is heartbreaking. Facing a legal crisis can be overwhelming. But at some point, just like the clouds, it blows over and its in the past. Do not let these moments define you.

And then someday, you can look back and remind yourself of how much stronger you are for making it through that storm.

If you wanna talk...

After I threw the weapon out of the car window, I got out and walked towards the swarm of SWAT guys with their guns pointed at me.  I guess so they could shoot me in case I tried to shoot myself.

Anyway, the offer that I had been talking to kept yelling at me to stop and turn around with my arms up in the air.  I wasn't in the mood to take his instructions since I knew that this wasn't going to end with me going home.  I walked towards him and he kept asking me to slow down and keep my arms up where everyone could see them.  I had sunglasses on and the tears and sweat was making it hard to see.

The female officer who I spoke with on the phone met me halfway between my car and the SWAT truck.  She said that for the safety of the officers, they had to put me in handcuffs and put me in the back of a squad car.  So I guess the one positive out of all of this was that I finally was able to answer to these stupid quizzes on Facebook that I had, in fact, been in the back of a cop car.

I am a big guy and cop cars are not exactly designed for comfort for the large man.  Alright, small guys, too.  You ain't rolling in style in the back of a squad car.  I was kind of laying on the seat as I could get my legs in otherwise.  As I mentioned on an earlier post, it was really hot that day and the black plastic seat nearly left me with third degree burns.  But I was glad to no longer have a dozen guns pointed on me.

As the car went through the parking lot, I saw more squad cars than I had ever seen in my life.  Honestly, never seen anything like it.  There were probably a dozen cop cars.  I was exhausted and wasn't all that pleased at the turnout for me so I put my head down on the seat for the rest of the ride.  I think there was only one officer in the car and he didn't say a word to me.

We arrived at a local hospital and I was led out of the car into an exam room.  Of course, the two dozen people in the waiting room had the good fortune to see the police bring a large man in handcuffs through the ER.  I am sure they were excited to see something like that and I was sooo happy to be part of their big day.

They kept me in handcuffs while I was in the exam room.  I said that they were really uncomfortable and the officer said that they were necessary for their safety as well as mine.  My patience was wearing very thin at that point and I began to remind him that I had been very cooperative and this was getting pretty ridiculous.  Before he could respond, a nurse walked in and began taking vitals and asking what brought me in.

After the nurse finished, she pulled the officer into the hall and spoke.  When they finished, he said he would take the cuffs off as long as I remained cooperative.  While I was relieved, I wasn't ready to fall at his feet in gratitude.  He took them off and I began to enjoy blood flow to my hands again.  He then stepped back into the hallway, making certain that he was able to see me at all times.  I simply sat there with my head in my hands, wishing that I had had the balls to do what I had set out to do.

After maybe 20 minutes, another officer came in with the original one that brought me.  They were switching out or something.  This new guy could not have been more than 22, with blond hair and peach fuzz on his chin. He mentioned his name but I wasn't really listening.  The only thing I did hear was the threat of returning to handcuffs if I tried to leave.

This time, the young officer stayed in the room with me and attempted to make small talk.

It sure is hot out there.  That humidity is killer.  

Ah huh.

Since I was not really in the mood for small talk, there was a brief moment of silence.  And then he said this:

You know, if you wanna talk about what got you to this point, that's cool with me.  

I lifted my face from my hands and looked at him.  I was a bit bewildered by this statement and unsure of what to say.  Should I say something polite or tell him to shut the fuck up?  I opted for no response.

Well, I will be out in the hallway if you need anything.  

I had to hand it to him, he was much more polite than the previous cop.  But I had a hard time wrapping my head around the idea that some 20-something year old might have an inkling of where I am in my life.  While he was certainly well intentioned, it was not helpful at that moment.

Anyway, it was soon after this that my wife was brought into the room.  I am going to save that for the next post.  This post was more about me remembering the day and some of the surreal moments.  Again, this was an awful episode in my life and I cannot stress enough the importance of reaching out to someone if you are feeling that your only option is suicide.  Don't try to go it alone.

Loving Jesus doesn't cure depression...

This morning, I saw this article in my news feed and was struck by it, Megachurch pastor in Southern California known for his mental health advocacy died by suicide.

I am the son of a preacher and have my own opinions of those that serve in ministry. But it is a good reminder of the pain of depression.  He spoke for years about his struggle with depression and mental illness. For someone in his position to bring it out in the open is fantastic.  I have to hide behind an anonymous blog to do it so I admire this guy.

But the line in the article really struck a chord with me "Loving Jesus doesn't cure depression".  Truer words have never been spoken.

Often, I read some bullshit article about how going for a walk or getting coffee with a friend will help you out of depression and while that may be true for mild, periodic depression, you wouldnt suggest that for someone with cancer.  Someone that lost a job or a loved one, sure.  But someone struggling with serious mental illness, they need real help.

Talk to a doctor, a nurse, or a teacher.  Someone you trust, and I am not referring to the bartender.  Or call the Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-8255.  

Don't do this alone.  

Yeah, I'm still here...

Maybe he didn’t see me. Maybe he didn’t come looking for me. Maybe that cop car that went speeding through the lot didn’t see me or wasn’t even looking for me. 

It was just after noon and the temperature outside was flirting with 100. My fancy little hybrid car turned off after about 10 minutes and I may not have noticed. The radio shut off and the temp inside the car was quickly climbing.

I sat in the silence and watched a big black SUV pull into the lot and park at an angle about 200 feet from me. Several guys in black SWAT gear got out and immediately laid on the ground by the SUV in sniper positions and pointed their rifles at my car. Guess that the cop did see me and was looking for me.

Wait a second…did you just say a SWAT team just rolled up on you?

Yes, my friends, a SWAT team was called to blow my head off if I tried to kill myself. I shit you not. 

My iPhone began ringing and as I answered it, another large massive black SUV came and this time, it drove right up to my little car and touched its huge bumper to mine. Well, it sat much higher than my car so it was more like the grill filled the windshield of my little car. The driver got out and ran behind the SUV with a weapon and pointed it at me. Yeah, this is all getting a bit surreal at this point. I looked at the caller ID and knew that it was Theresa.

“You lied me to me. You said you weren’t tracing the call. You lied!” 
“What do you mean, Chris. No, I didn’t. What’s going on? What’s going on?! “ 
“Well, I got a half a dozen guys pointing guns at me right now!” 

As I said that, another SUV, a police car and a large SWAT vehicle. You know, the ones you see on NCIS or some other crime shows. About 4 guys piled out of that and took up sniper positions all around it. There were now about a dozen guys pointing guns at me as if they were about to try to take Mosul and Fallujah. How the hell did all of this happen? I just wanted to rid myself all of all of this pain and hurt and now I am staring at a scene where I would expect Denzel Washington to get out of a squad car, grab a bullhorn and begin telling me that he is the negotiator that is going to work through this with me. I guess that shit they do in the movies is legit. Except someone else started yelling at me with a bull horn.

It’s now got to be over 100 in my car. I have Theresa on the phone, pleading with me to tell her whats going on. There are a dozen guys with weapons pointed at me. I have a massive SUV pulled up to the front of my car with its bumper over the hood of my car to make sure I didn’t try to drive away. And now I got someone yelling at me, to throw out my weapon. Yeah, this is going to end well.

Someone else started calling me so I finally thanked Theresa for lying to me and told her that I just wanted someone to talk to and now I have this mess and I hung up so that I could take the other call.

“What?!”
“Chris, my name is Detective James and I am going to help you through this.” 

Holy shit, they really do say that in these situations. This time, it was clear that Detective James was a female officer and her tone was a bit more…well, pleasant isn’t quite the word, but we’ll go with that, for lack of a better word.

“I haven’t done anything wrong. I have a gun and the Republicans say that I can have that so I haven’t done anything illegal.” 

Honestly, I do not know why I had to throw in a little bit of politics there but I remember clearly saying that. I think it may have had to do with the absurdity of the situation. Someone that wants to shoot themselves being met with more guns. If you can figure that one out, let me know because I would love for someone to explain it to me.

 The detective quickly agreed that I had done nothing illegal but added she wanted to help me through this so that no one gets hurt.

“Well, let’s start by getting all of the guns pointed away from me.” 
“Chris, we need to get that gun away from you first. Do you still have the gun?” 

At this moment, you might be inclined to think that someone in this situation would be terrified. That the sight of all of those guns pointing at you might be a bit intimidating. You might also think that everything would be a blur. Well, I am here to tell you that time has a way of standing still in these moments. It did for me, anyway. Normally, when I see a cop, I immediately drop my speed and try to get a seat belt on, as nonchalantly as possible. Regardless of where the officer is, whether he/she is driving directly behind me or parking at a McDonalds, I tend to feel some sort of anxiety that I have don’t something wrong. However, fear nor intimidation were present at that moment. I was furious. Some nut case can walk around a shopping center with their gun out or some idiot can eat a burrito while their God given right to carry an AR-15 is safe but I can’t sit with a gun in a parking lot without having a SWAT team present?! But I digress.

The air inside of the car was barely breathable. My black, long sleeved shirt was soaked with sweat and my eyes were burning from sweat pouring into them. The detective on the phone repeated the question if I still had the gun. I had made it 47 years without ever shooting a gun and my first attempt was looking to try shooting my way out of this mess didn’t seem like a very feasible option. Tom Cruise, I ain’t. So as tense and stressful as the situation was, I realized that I didn’t have too many options. By now, I was livid with the entire situation and I just wanted it all to go away. This was a bad idea that had gone horribly wrong and I just wanted to forget that it happened and move on with my day. I was angry at the guys standing in front of me, pointing weapons at me. I was angry at Theresa for lying to me. I was angry at the detective on the phone that wouldn’t leave me alone. I just wanted it all to go away. 

“Chris, are you there? Do you still have the gun? Talk to me, Chris.” 

Jumping out of the car and yelling at these guys didn’t seem to be a good idea but I didn’t really know what else to do and I was just getting more and more pissed about it. 

“Yeah, I’m still here.”
“Chris, we need to get that gun. Is it still loaded? Can you empty the chamber?” 

I have to remind you that I had never fired a gun prior to this moment so I had no idea what that meant, to ‘empty a chamber’ although I had an idea of what was being asked. And I had played with the gun enough by then to know how to remove the magazine. I started to think that the only this was gonna go away was if I just did what I was being asked and maybe they would leave me alone. 

“There’s nothing in it. I removed the magazine and it’s no longer loaded.” 
“OK, that’s great, Chris. Now I need you to roll the window down and throw the magazine out of the car. Can you do that for me, Chris?” 

I was just plain hot and pissed off at this point and wanted this over. I wanted to go home and pretend none of this happened. But that didn’t look too likely. And then my phone lit up and my wife was calling me.

Fuck 

Ok, enough for today. Writing all of this stuff brings me back to that day and sometimes I get too much into my head and that is rarely a good thing. The point of this post was to A) tell my story and B) remind you that once you begin setting wheels in motion, they can take on a life of their own and you can lose control pretty quickly. If you are hurting and feeling desperate, find someone that can help you. I would strongly recommend a call to 911 or the Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-8255.

But whatever you do, just know that a nap or a drink or a hit from a bong isn’t going to make things better.

Don’t do this on your own.

Find someone that can and will help you.

Don’t wait.