11: Light
11: Light
The eleventh 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 missed the light.
Depression made me forgetful. I forgot math homework and friends’ birthdays. I would forget my Wellbutrin even when my mom put it at my place with a note at breakfast. But more importantly, depression caused me to forget the love of the most important people in my life.
Sometimes, I thought I was some form of god, sent to earth to check out what life was all about. In these moments I thought I had everything figured out. I thought life was pointless and everyone danced around acting like it was not. My mind found beauty in a meaningless existence. It meant I could quite literally do whatever I wanted.
I rarely considered killing myself during such periods. I was more focused on, say, learning how to solve a Rubik’s cube with my eyes closed. Or binge drinking. Or using my superior understanding of the world to win a three-game college football parlay.
I never thought about how my destructive actions would affect the people I love. In some ways, this mindset could be amazing – increased energy, happiness, and more creativity than I knew what to do with. But these episodes of abundant energy made me forget how my behavior could impact the people I love. Acting with no regard for the future, other people, or even reality made me a dangerous person who dented friendships and damaged an important relationship.
My mental health does not serve as an excuse for such actions. Rather, it helps explain my previous behavior. An explanation, but never an excuse.
After a few days of hyperactivity, I would wake up next to a scrambled cube of colors. It was up to my depressed mind to unscramble the mess I had made over the past few sleepless nights. At school, I tried to compliment my friends and impress my teachers in discussions. This played into the facade of being “fine" and having everyone’s last perception of me be positive.
When I wrote suicide notes, searched Google Maps for places to crash my car, or attempted to unlock the gun safe, I was not thinking about anything except my pain. I wanted to die. I felt like I needed to die. I did not think about who I would leave behind. Doing so only made me feel guilty, making my path to supposed salvation even more difficult. So I subconsciously ignored them.
I have heard people say suicide is a selfish act. I hate this idea. Suicide is the final symptom of a disease that makes its victims forget every single positive aspect of life, including the love of family and friends.
The standard line was that my 72 hours at Davidson Behavioral Center were “just” to keep me safe. But my stay there did more than that. Those three days reset my perspective on life. In last week’s post, Doors, I wrote about my realization that depression and suicidal ideation could intrude on anyone’s mind.
Realizing I was not alone was part of my reset. But the more important realization during my three days in tan scrubs was how much I loved my family and friends, and how much they cared about me. Re-discovering this love weakened the noise of self-hatred. I was not living for myself yet, but I was certainly living for them.
Under the broad porte-cochere outside of Davidson Behavioral Hospital, my parents and I embraced and then quickly hopped in the car. Blue’s Uber followed us down the long road. Eventually, her car turned left and ours turned right. The sight of a McDonald’s just before we got on I-77 reminded me of my hunger. I was probably too frustrated they were only serving the breakfast menu – an emotion that reminded me I was still in high school.
I still thought of the whole situation like I was a character in the movie – my favorite coping mechanism. I imagined a cinematic shot of my mom’s dark gray BMW, framed against the bright blue sky, driving down the cool winter highway while Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again '' played in the background. As I peered out the window I thought about how a darker use of Nelson's classic would be a rather poetic break in between chapters.
I talked with my parents, but my mind was stuck on Blue. She did not have anyone to tell her they were proud of her when she left. No one greeted her when she arrived at the motel. Who did she have to love?
My mom handed me a change of clothes. I changed into a fresh shirt immediately but had no interest in the Nikes. No one had any idea of my deep fear of shoelaces, so I silently stuck with my slippers.
Back on the highway, I looked at the concrete median separating the road. Had I not walked to my parents' room a few days before, my life might have ended on a stretch of road just like this. I thought about how I would surely regret crashing into the concrete just before it was too late.
From my dad’s iPhone, I queued up “The Last Waltz” by The Band. Richard Manual, the most underrated musician of his time, had always been there for me. “I Shall Be Released” played a few times until we reached the driveway.
At age 11, Caroline and Emily had an idea where their “Bubba” had been, but not the details. They rushed to hug me. Katie, home from college and aware of the entirety of the situation, wiped her eyes as I approached, baggy tan pants blowing in the wind.
These were my three reasons for living. Although my depression had forced me to dismiss their love in the fall, I felt it upon my return from Davidson. I hugged my reasons and continued to remember their love as my parents joined the embrace.
As the pack headed up the stairs and through the front door, my mom started to cry. I gave her a big hug in the foyer. She started to sob. Still holding her, she cried harder than I have ever seen another human cry. Seriously, she could not catch a breath. “Happy tears, Sweet boy. I am so proud of you,” she said, somehow taking a break from her weeping.
Looking over her shoulder I saw the Christmas tree. When I left it had been fully decorated. My parents had done it with the twins, while Katie was still in Chapel Hill and I was at a party. But now, the tree was bare and all the ornaments were in their boxes on the couch. The same couch where I had begged my parents to take me to the Emergency Room a few nights before.
“I was thinking we could re-decorate the tree tonight as a family,” my dad said. During our marathon stay in the Emergency Room, I had asked him why they decorated the tree without me. I had shown little interest in any family activities for months, but for some reason missing the annual Christmas, tradition had bothered me. Apparently, there were some things I still cared about.
As I looked at our tree I gave my dad a little smile, but, I could not help but think about Blue. She did not have a tree to decorate for Christmas. Nor anyone to spend the holiday with.
We spent the next few hours in the family room, chatting about the current drama in fifth grade, Katie’s approaching semester abroad in Budapest, and the Carolina Panthers’ quarterback debacle. At some point, I produced the mini-toothbrush from my waistband. The twins, not understanding the concept of the rounded handle, thought this dental tool was the funniest thing in the world.
I had one night at home and needed a COVID test before my venture to HopeWay, so my mom and I were off to the pharmacy. As we sat in the car awaiting the rapid PCR result, I played several of my favorite songs for my mom. This may sound odd, but they were just words to me. “This one is better if you just print out the lyrics,” I told her as we listened to Bob Dylan’s “Desolation Row.”
Songs can be eerily deceiving in their true meaning. In terms of depression, the tune of one's life often does not reflect the lyrics of their mind. Reading the words, without the melody, has always been one of my hobbies.
My angel of a mother continued to reassure me how much she loved me on the ride back home. I played her more songs – probably trying to distract both of us from my approaching departure. After reaching the top of our steep driveway, there was a pause when my mom turned off the engine. Remember my mom crying in the doorway? Yeah, it was my turn. My eyes became rivers of sorrow, pain, and enough hope to keep going.
She patted me on the back until I broke my cry and looked at my mom, “I need to help people. I need to. This can help people,” I mumbled through my weeping breaths. It did not have a name yet, but that was the moment that “semi-colon” was spoken into existence. For the second week in a row, my eyes are watering as I write this post.
“You will help so many people, sweetie,” my mom said with gentle eyes, reaching over to hug me in reassurance. After gathering myself, I went inside to pack with my dad.
In my room, the couch in the corner had been made into a bed. “I know it’s probably not necessary,” my dad said from the doorway, “but we’re having a sleepover tonight.” While the immediate risk of self-harm had abated, no one was taking any chances by leaving me alone on my 24-hour stay at home, which suited me just fine.
I went into the closet to begin packing for my next thirty days at HopeWay. I told myself this was just a movie, and my dad and I were picking out the wardrobe. Shirts, pants, and gym clothes all went into my oversized duffel bag.
“Shoes,” my dad exclaimed before we closed the bags. “We forgot the shoes.”
Little did he know, that was very much on purpose. But still, he packed two pairs of running shoes.
“I smell Emily’s cookies,” I said. She had become quite the little baker in recent months. As the warm smell consumed the house, I zipped up my luggage, hopped down the stairs, and prepared for a sibling movie night. My sisters allowed me to pick any film from the Christmas genre, so I went with the timeless classic “Christmas Vacation.” Mildly inappropriate for 5th graders, but I thought I would be doing them a disservice as an older brother if I did not watch it with them before middle school.
As I dunked my cookies in milk and watched Chevy Chase pick out a ridiculously oversized Christmas tree, I thought about watching the other “Vacation” movies with my sisters in the future. I was thinking about the future. How odd. In the fall, I would only think about the pain of yesterday, the numbness of today, and the anxiety of tomorrow. But now, realizing there was a possibility I could be content with life – I thought about watching movies with my sisters in a few months.
As we watched our family movie, my mind began to race. I tried to count every single light on the Griswold’s roof. Before I knew it I was counting with a very intense set of rules – pausing on the multiples of seven, repeating multiples of three exactly four times, but always skipping over multiples of five. My mind told me I needed to reach 100 using this strategy or else something very bad would happen. I would later learn obsessive-compulsive tendencies and mania are often best friends. The need to count with a specific technique became an indicator of a potential manic episode.
As I walked over to refill my milk glass under the watchful gaze of my dad, I saw Winston run through the yard from the window. This sounds like a Keanu Reeves action movie, but a manic episode was on the way, less than 24 hours before going to HopeWay. I knew Winnie was not there – both of our dogs were sitting on the couch. I rejoined them and finished the movie, counting things on screen over the next hour.
With the movie over and our dinner of sushi ordered, it was time to decorate the (recently un-decorated) tree. My dad was proud that he had put 1,500 lights on this year, and my brain immediately began trying to count each glow coming from the tall, narrow tree. My mom said a Christmas prayer and I went to the ottoman to pick out the ceremonial first ornament. With a smile, I picked out a bright blue snowflake from the plastic container and hung it at the very top of the tree.
“Light” is the eleventh in a planned series about my journey of pain, diagnosis, and healing. To join the over 3,000 followers of semi-colon and automatically receive the next installment please subscribe:
For those struggling with their own mental health, please talk to a friend, parent, teacher, coach, family member, or anyone you know who cares about you. If you are in immediate crisis, please use the buttons below to text the Crisis Text Line or call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.
Thank you for sharing your story so poignantly, William. It's a gift to our world. As a suicide survivor, your honesty helps me understand something of where my Dad was when that "final symptom of his disease" took his life. May God continue to bless you on this journey.
Once again you have so vividly given us insight into your ideation in this illness. We are proud of you for your concern and compassion for Blue. You are a blessing to so many! Mimi and I love you! G’Dad