Suicide Revisited
Elijah was afraid and ran for his life. When he came to Beersheba in Judah, he left his servant there, while he himself went a day’s journey into the wilderness. He came to a broom bush, sat down under it and prayed that he might die. “I have had enough, Lord,” he said. “Take my life; I am no better than my ancestors.” Then he lay down under the bush and fell asleep.
New Year’s Eve, circa 2011. I was with my big little brother Danny. I call him big because he’s 6’3” and weighs 200+ and some change. I call him little because he’s three years younger than me.
I’ll always consider him brother because he was present to me in a very challenging time in my life. I was there for him during a hard season of his life too.
“I just feel like Courtney is in trouble,” he said, ending a brief silence. I got chills. And my heart beat fast.
“I thought the exact same thing just now.”
We rushed out to Ashland in my maroon 240SX. Code named Dash. Even though the dash didn't work.
Danny and I always had equal parts humor and frustration trying to keep the dang plastic piece from falling off and cutting off the music. You had to keep your hand firmly yet gingerly pressed into the dash, in just the right way, otherwise, no tunes. No mobbing. No “I feel infinite” Perks of Being a Wallflower style moments.
The i5 southbound toward Ashland always brought a strange sense of calm over me. I loved going northbound; northbound led to my brother Zack, to my nephew Izaak, to being far from a hometown which was never a hometown. But going south only fifteen minutes brought me to a different southern Oregon. I left “the south” of Oregon, as it were, and found solace amongst the godless hippies even if I was only mildly born again.
The house was in the burbs. We had called Courtney’s cell a few times and heard nothing. We got a call back while on the i5 from an anonymous lady who had Courtney’s phone. She had asked why we called, and we told her we thought, for whatever reason, Courtney would need our help. This is what happens when you experience mental instability; when you come close to ending your own life, or when you are with someone as they ponder the same thing, the preciousness of everything becomes deeply evident. Intuitions are no longer dismissed; you understand these deep notions come from something outside of yourself.
She came outside being carried. By a dude, twice my size, maybe slightly larger than my big little bro. I was worried. With her came another lady. I could smell her anxiety even before she opened the door and said “please don’t tell my parents.”
Danny and I kept trading “holy crap” looks throughout the excursion to Courtney’s home. Funnily enough, he was in the back with the nervous girl, and Courtney was with me in the front. I’ve never seen little big Danny more scrunched in my whole life. Next to a young lady who was barely a hundred pounds, tops. Yet Courtney was super gone. Her mind had left the building. To her credit, she didn’t throw up much in quantity. But the quality of her aim? Right in and only in a glove department. Let’s just say it was an interesting cleaning task to undertake after we dropped her off.
What was weird about all of this, perhaps the strangest thing, is that he and I were sitting on our hands that night before, chomping on the bit to do something but unsure what it would be. Yet, nothing we thought of sounded any fun. But the moment someone was in trouble, the moment we suspected our friend’s dignity and well-being and very life was at risk? We knew what to do. We knew it was the right thing to do. We knew it was the only thing to do.
And it was due, in large part, to our experience and exposure to suicide.
I like where suicide is trending. Bizarre thing to say but let me explain.
Anyone can go. Anyone. I say that not to scare you or to scare me. Quite the opposite. Because this whole life is just a gracious gift from a good God, all the moments we share with other kids of God’s is a blessing we should never take for granted. So often we dwell on how we wish others were like that or less like this. I get it. I become frustrated with brothers and sisters, siblings by a biological dad or by a Father in heaven, just like anybody else. But if we really took stock of others, really let it sink in how wonderful and redemptive and flawed and complex and amazing the stories of those around us were? There would be far less suicide, and far more redemptive life saving.
And yet, suicide is still so, so awful.
I remember when Chester passed. By Chester I mean the guy who sang anthems of lament directly to a struggling, insecure, angsty teen. By Chester I mean the guy who sang about dark feelings to ensure those stuck in dark feelings wouldn’t feel alone. By Chester I mean the guy who I considered a close friend when my high school classmates were uninterested acquaintances at best.
I was house sitting at the time at a super nice spot in NE Portland. The well beyond six figures kind of neighborhood that’s nice to feel like a home if only for a week. I’m not bourg-y one iota but I'd be remiss to not borrow the lifestyle for a bit from time to time.
I was listening to all the songs.
“Somewhere I Belong,” “Numb,” “Given Up,” “Shadow of the Day,” “Papercut,” “Crawling.”
To be fair, I had already firmly established a “I’m too cool to listen to that nu metal band or other Hot Topic-y bands I used to like” rule. I was firmly listening to “real” hip hop, a lot of Sufjan Stevens, and only the occasional emo song. Mainly, just a dash of Brand New.
But the songs brought me back. Chester returned from the grave, his hand clutching my heart. I wept for him. For his family. For his bandmates. For all the fans like me who were so comforted by him confronting his demons who cursed us the way they cursed him.
The other just weird thing about it is that a small part of me, very small, was relieved for him. He didn’t have to face the pain anymore. He didn’t have to cry anymore. He didn’t have to pretend to be ok when he just wasn’t anymore.
That’s what no one who’s ever felt that low will ever understand. Suicide is, above all, irrational. Illogical. Incomprehensible.
The fact that, even if you’ve endured all the trauma, all the loss, all the ACEs (adverse childhood experiences), you invariably feel pathetic for wanting to quit breathing.
“You’re a loser, a failure, a nobody, a lost cause, a waste of space.”
The power at hand keeping you down is beyond your own power to overcome.
But before I launch into a full blown soapbox preaching sermon, I do want to whisper this to you if any of this is hitting you in the big and bad feels:
You are not alone. You will never be alone. And if you want me to hear a blessing to you this day, a blessing from a guy who needed a blessing too when he thought about ending it all, here is my instagram and Facebook. Don’t hesitate to message. Don’t think you’re pathetic. Don’t think I won’t understand.
IG: obiwancalobi
Facebook: Caleb
I’ll say it again; you’re not alone. I feel it with you. God does too.
I don’t agree with the Catholic Church that those who end their own lives go to hell. I’m not even saying they go to Heaven, per se, but I think that theological concept is wildly unhealthy with what we now know about mental health. I just don’t agree with a definitive, potential anxiety producing theological statement that might push people closer to the very act you’re shaming them into feeling. This feels like another blog for another time.
God gets despair. Sadness. Lament. Hurt. Trauma. Grief. Loss.
He feels them deeper for us than we feel them for ourselves. He feels for others deeper than we could ever feel for them.
This wasn’t what I was taught about Him though.
“God helps those who help themselves.”
“God doesn’t cry over broken fingernails.”
“I just think it’s such a selfish act. Like do they even think about how their act affects others?”
This kind of rhetoric pushes people closer to the brink. This kind of talk appears cerebrally intelligent yet is deeply emotionally unintelligent. This kind of interpretation of God’s heart posture toward those struggling with suicidal thoughts is actually straight from the pit of Hell.
Every encounter of Jesus delivering people from a demon is, by extension, Jesus delivering people from mental illness. Every time He physically healed ailment He also reinstated dignity, value, and identity over the mental instability of repeated sin. Every rebuke and critique of Jesus launched at the Pharisees and Saduccees was, in part, His anger over them misleading the people to believe things which brought confusion at best and made them “twice the sons of Hell” at worst.
The first century context of His life was far from the politically correct context of our own. Sometimes He did seem to speak shame over others. He once called Peter Satan. And He showed frustration all the time at His disciples when they didn’t understand His teachings.
But even just a glance at any account of His toward a lower status citizen of His era points to His deep “knowing” and understanding of their plight. The first label He ever got, according to the OT, after all, was the God “who sees.”
Yet mental health is only recently trending on the pulpit. Emotional health’s connection to spiritual health has only gained traction within the past decade. Self-care, probably only a decade back, would be considered “selfish.”
For other decades, the past few generations, likely for the parents and parents’ parents of whoever is reading this, having mental health struggles was compared to morally sinning. Anxiety, worry, doubt, depression… gave you a label and status that a “whore” might have or that a drug addict might have (I’m not condoning those labels either. I loathe labels actually. Another blog, another time).
We are still unpacking the baggage of those who came before us. We are still undoing the bad theology our good or ill intentioned parents inadvertently received and gave to us. We are still grasping how many people don’t follow Jesus because they weren’t taught the actual Jesus.
The whole point of my blog is in this sentiment. The thesis of my entire life is that God is better than we could ever conceive, more understanding than we’ve ever been told, more gracious than even the most heart wrenching Brennan Manning book about grace.
The crux of the Gospel is the year of the Lord’s favor. Good news for the poor. In fact, His first beatitude is blessing the poor in the spirit.
If this God doesn’t have a heart toward the struggles of mental and emotional health, the mentally and emotionally poor among us, why on earth is He given the label, Love?
I liked her. Texting was infrequent, vibing was mixed-leaning-good, and flirting wasn’t quite present. Because millennials who are attracted to each other just don’t say nice things to each other for fear of… love? So many blog ideas, so little time.
I was at a concert at Revolution Hall. I got a response after a day of nothing. Not a ton of intrigue, but a dash of “excited to hear from you.” I was psyched. Phew. My vibes of her “not really into you” vibes of me were trending the other way. Thank goodness.
Two days later, my premonition proved correct. “Sorry guy. But you’re super, super nice. I’m sure you’ll find someone.” I get that sentiment, and it’s nice, but any guy or lady reading this, please, please don’t send something like that when turning them down. A simple “I’m not interested. Sorry. Good luck to you out there,” suffices better.
I swore off Linkin Park but I knew Chester would be a good person to call. Cue “Shadow of the Day.” It has a muted, blank quality to it, accurately describing the intensity and numbness of rich depression coupled with heavy heartache.
Half an hour later and seven more songs along the same lines, and the thoughts came back. I was better than this. It’s just a girl, right? Who cares? You will find another one, right?
But in that space, in that moment, in that feeling, nothing else involved reality. True life was absent. Here again came the lie shouting so loud that all four other senses were gone.
“No one will love you. Nobody even cares about you. No one will miss you if you were gone.”
In my life, thankfully, tangible action toward the ‘s’ word had only occurred one time. This, optimistically, was not that one time. But the desire was definitely present, definitely strong, definitely deleting everything else in me.
Yet I had to call. I had to get outside of me, because there was no way I could get outside of me through me.
David is another feeling sort of guy like this guy. He was acquainted with the “all black and bland and blocked” sensation within. I gave him a ring and he answered.
With the voice of a loving person came a burst of the emotional dam. Lots of tears and angst and anger and despair came through. To be completely honest, talking with someone under this sort of mental attack and anguish is tiring work requiring a heap of empathy and a willingness to lose some sleep.
But David would not let me hang up alone. After the onslaught of pent up irritation subsided, he merely asked, in a 100% not Christianese posture, “may I pray for you?” I very reluctantly said yes.
He told me the truth. The good truth. The loving truth. The true truth. Which is what those struggling with suicidal thoughts need most of all. Which is what I told Danny years ago when he thought the same way. Which is what my mom told me years ago when I thought the same way. Which is what I told David only three months prior to him telling me.
Like I’ve said before in my Wounded Healer post, other Wounded Healers are needed to heal Wounded Feelers. There are many people who just don’t suffer with mental illness in much the same way of those who have gone the extra mile and described it using the word suicidal.
Yet, even then, this too is how God can come and speak the truth. Because of the fear around suicide, some legitimate and some cowardly, we often don’t have spaces to speak our deepest darkness to the most loving God. So terrified of the potential rejection of His bride, we hold onto that which God commands us to let go of. Yet, the rejection of the Bride of Christ toward those struggling with suicidal thoughts will definitely be a thing God will hold His bride accountable for at the Last Judgment.
No one is meant to endure depression alone. Sadness alone. Grief alone. Cancer alone. Etc. etc. etc. This we understand clearly from New Testament passages.
So why is suicide different? If we believe in the power of a redemptive, understanding, tender, compassionate, loving Abba Father, who we also believe to be the Almighty Creator of Heaven and Earth, why can’t He come to heal those in those places? Why wouldn’t He want to come heal those places?
The question is then, why are we often so silent on suicide. Are we too intimidated? Ill-equipped? Worried we will say the wrong things? From one recovering “suicide” to another, stressing about saying the right words proves that your heart is in the right place. It’s not the right words that need to be said; it is the right action of showing up for another, in a sloppy, sincere, authentic manner.
But are we superior? Convinced they should just try harder to feel better? Assume that if we have been through a lot and haven’t struggled with it why should they?
Three words; woe to you. Woe to you that the circumstances in your life you’ve overcome have led you to dispassion, not compassion. Led to callousness, not empathy. Given you a heart of stone rather than a heart of flesh. I pray your heart changes, but until it does, I pray you not spend time anywhere near those struggling. And if you joke, if you kid, if you intentionally speak a curse over others, specifically wishing or willing or screaming that someone kills themselves?
Woe.
To.
You.
The ‘s’ word came up yesterday. I practiced what I preached, last night.
It was the love and support and eyes and hearts of my friends that distracted me. Guided me. Freed me. Spoke the truth to me.
I don’t want to go into the specifics of why the thought came up. But I do want to write this and prove that even someone who encourages people to keep staying alive occasionally doesn’t want to keep staying alive. Don’t be ashamed of thinking of these things. Just be honest with those you love about what you are thinking.
We are never alone. No matter what. The compassion of Christ is available always, and particularly when it is needed the most. The myth is that God gives His followers a victorious life. The truth is that God gives us a redemptive life. A life of following Christ isn’t marked by an absence of pain but by always inviting Him into it. Christianity is not marked by repeated successes but about inviting God into repeated failures.
Where we bleed, Christ bleeds with us. By His wounds we are healed. Healed from our wounds, our pain, our darkness.
Jesus loves me, this I know. For the Bible tells me so.
If He can’t love me in this, if He can’t be in the words and hearts and eyes and arms of His followers, if God really cares about me and you and any who struggle with not wanting to be here anymore than I don’t want Him to be near me anymore.
Of this I am completely convinced; when we cry, God cries. When we hurt, God hurts. When we struggle and moan and complain and plan the way to cease breathing, He understands in a way no thing or no person could ever come close to.
Where we are, there He is. Nothing can separate us from His love. No scheme, no plot, no rejection, no failure, no lie. He is where we are because He was present at our inception.
Within the womb of our mothers, He was there. Within the chaos of mental illness, He is there. And wherever we go, and whatever we do, He is there with us. That’s why He is called Emmanuel.
I pray this over you and also over me. Jesus is reading these words as I write them. He is hearing our songs as we sing them. He is listening to your prayer as you pray them.
Keep coming back to Him. He will never let you go.