01: Slippers
The first installment of the "semi-colon" series.
“semi-colon” contains a discussion of mental health struggles. It may not be appropriate for younger readers or those sensitive to candid descriptions of suicidal ideation or other depressive symptoms.
For those who have ever been terrified of being.
It was just before midnight on December 11, 2021 as I stood at my open window, ready to leave my house undetected and end my own life. For some reason, my slippers caught my attention. I don’t remember exactly when I got those UGG slippers, but they had somehow become my safety blanket. I wore them to school every day and at home every night. I even once went on a hike with my feet nestled in their deteriorating fur lining. They looked pretty terrible. Their brown leather was worn and the once fluffy lining compressed from years of overuse. The left sole was worn out and the back of the right slipper looked overdue for a trip to the cobbler. They were a sad sight.
The reason I wore those slippers exclusively was simple – I could not stand shoelaces. I would arrive late to intramural basketball games and stay in my car as I convinced myself I could play a game with basketball shoes on. I do not have a concrete reason why, but I genuinely could not bear to wear shoes with laces. In retrospect, it was obviously a component of my detiorating psychological condition. My mind just wouldn’t allow it – it caused the same mental reaction as physically stepping on legos with every step. I always turned to my slippers to save the day. The slippers were a bandaid to one of my many mental delusions.
The slippers provided an easy fix to this one problem. I made the whole slipper thing a joke amongst my peers. I would laughingly claim “every day is pajama day” when questioned about my shoes of choice on a warm day. I convinced myself it was just something eccentric I did. In reality, this was one of the many times I tricked myself and others that I was fine. I could usually present a good face to the outside world, but inside I was left to embrace the numbness that came with my deepening depression.
As I turned from my window, I dropped my pen on the floor and saw the suicide note I had just written on my bedside table. As I had continued to form a relationship with my suicidal ideation over the past six months, I had written four different versions of it. On the third note, earlier in the fall, my pen ran out of ink. I decided maybe that was a sign and went to bed that fall evening. In the morning I decided to carry on a little longer, as I had each time I was close to suicide before.
This night was different. I had been at a party and just hours before had all of the energy and excitement in the world. When I got home, it all came crashing down. I had printed out Kurt Cobain’s suicide note for a school project. As I read it that night in my room my broken mind felt an eerie attraction to it. My pain was intolerable. Suicide felt like my only hope for some twisted form of salvation.
The December air was cool on my face standing in the open window. I do not remember how long I stood there. Time was nothing more than a measure of my pain, so I tried to ignore it when I could. I had been unable to get into my dad’s gun safe earlier in the day, so I would just slam my car into a highway pillar at top speed. That was the only way I could see to escape the pain.
I wish I could write about a profound reason that stopped me from committing suicide on the 11th of December. A blinding flash of light or a voice from above. But there was no singular thought that compelled me to stay. Somehow the sight of my trusty slippers broke the siren song of suicidal ideation just long enough for me to reconsider. I do not really know why.
What I do know is that I closed the window and walked six strides across the hall to my parents' bedroom. They were the hardest steps of my life. I counted them to distract myself from the pain. I still didn’t know why I should choose to live. Later, when I was crying on my mother’s shoulders, pleading to be admitted to the hospital, I still couldn’t comprehend a reason to live. At that point, I truly didn’t have an answer – but there was a little part of me that was ready to search for the why. Searching for why I should live.
Clad in a thick, cream-colored L.L. Bean sweater, plaid flannel pajama pants, and my ancient slippers I opened my creaky bedroom door. I went to my parents' room and in a loud whisper asked “Dad, can I talk to you?” Out in the hall I told him “I need you to take me somewhere.” He would later tell me I said this in a totally normal voice, though at the time I felt like I was shouting.
“Where do you need to go?” he replied. He was clearly a little confused and a little irritated by the request.
“I need you to take me somewhere,” I repeated. “I want to kill myself. I tried to get one of your guns today. I want to kill myself so much, and I don’t know why.” By the second sentence I was crying and by the end of the third I was trembling with despair. It was real now. I had said it out loud, and it was real. My dad quickly came to hug me as I wept, and within moments my mom was in the hall with us as well.
I remember how my mom looked at me in the dark hallway. The look of fear and shock in her eyes would be a common theme for nurses, doctors, and therapists I saw for the next few weeks. But her eyes were different, they were riddled with the despair of a mother seeing her child in danger. We walked downstairs together, my dad holding my tense shoulders as we descended each steep step. In my dad’s blue-walled office, I wept into my mother's shoulder – just as I had done as a baby eighteen years ago. Speaking the feeling outloud made me self-aware of my pain. I hoped for some sort of immediate healing through my words – but none came. “Please help me. Please make it stop. Please take me to the hospital.” The words came out of my mouth like a playlist on repeat.
It was the first time I had cried in a long time. I was still numb and I think I was crying for them as much as for myself. Before that night, I was terrified to open up to my parents or anyone close to me. I didn’t have a concrete reason for being hesitant to tell anyone about my constant suicidal ideation, but I had plenty of abstract ones - guilt, embarrassment, shame. The usual suspects.
I had become terrifyingly comfortable with the idea of suicide. The thoughts themselves had taken on a life of their own, convincing me this was a battle I had to fight alone. I think I was also scared to tell anybody because when I did, it all became real. I do not think I had totally accepted my emotions as real, even despite having written a handful of notes. I did not realize it at the time, but admitting to others my suffering was the only way to give myself a chance.
I do not remember how long we sat there in the study. I just remember the sound of my mom and I both crying while she stroked my hair and told me it was going to be okay. My dad was making phone calls, trying to figure out what to do. Somehow it was decided that we should go to the emergency room at Atrium. We hugged as a group and my mom said a tearful prayer over me. Then my dad and I stepped out into the early morning of December 12th to drive to the hospital. As the door closed behind us, I reached for my dad and he gave me a long, hard hug on our front porch. Neither of us fully appreciated the journey that lay before us.
My mom found this picture on our Ring Security camera the next day.
“Slippers” is the first in a planned series about my journey of pain, diagnosis and healing. To automatically receive the next installment, please subscribe to my substack by clicking here. Help me, and so many others, de-stigmatize mental health and consider sharing. “Detector” will be released next week.
For those struggling with their own mental health, please talk to a friend, a parent, a teacher, or anyone you know cares about you. If you are in immediate crisis, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255. - William
William, we have never met but I have just read your story. My brother just lost his 25 year old son on Dec. 12, 2021 to suicide. Even after one month, it still remains a complete shock to everyone who knew Thomas Jenkins. No one saw or understood the severity of his depression. Thomas wrote 33 letters to his family and friends. I am so proud of you for walking into your parent's bedroom and asking for help. Although Thomas is no longer with us, your story will be such a blessing to my brother and to so many others, helping them understand the struggles of depression. My brother often says if he can just help one person find The Light, it is all he hopes for. I am so thankful for your slippers and that you have found the strength to share your journey. Your writing is brilliant and powerful. God bless you!
Your words were so hard and easy to read all the same. Bless you for sharing your story and thank goodness you are here to tell your story. You are worthy and you are needed more than you know in this world.