The Banta Blog

My name is Kyle, and I’ve thought about suicide nearly every day since I learned what it was when I was probably 12 or 13 years old, and I’ve dealt with feeling extreme depression for 20 years. Sorry for the blunt start, but I promise there’s a deeper point to this post. I think we have a huge problem in our society in that a lot of people, especially men and boys, still find it too scary or unacceptable or weak to acknowledge and admit their mental struggles. And most find it even harder to tell someone else about it or ask for help.

This really stood out to me recently when judging for Directing Change CA and their annual film contest. The contest invites middle and high school students to create films about suicide prevention and mental health. In the 15 submissions that I was blessed to judge (all of them so, so good), there were only 3 that included young men on the team. And I’ll be honest, this scared the hell out of me. It’s the second leading cause of death for our youth/young adults, and while suicide attempts are 1.33 times more likely for women (which is a problem we need to focus on as well), suicide rates are nearly 4 times higher for men. It’s clear this is a problem that we need to address. (source)

If you want to skip past my story and read what I think needs to change and how we can start, click here.

If you want to just read an AI summary of this post (since I know it’s a really long one), click here.

My story

So I’ll start off sharing some of my story and struggle with suicide in hopes that it encourages someone else to be a little less afraid of sharing their story or seeking help. And I’ll preface this by saying that it’s not a battle that’s behind me, but one I still fight every day (but you damn well believe I fight it, with the intention to win). If at any time reading this, you’re not feeling OK or feel like a danger to yourself, PLEASE reach out to someone, anyone, whether its a friend or family member or a professional or the Suicide Prevention Hotline at 988. 

The first thing I can pinpoint to something being off in my mental health was that around 4th grade I would randomly start crying for no reason that I could think of. And no one around me could really figure it out either. I used to be a really talkative kid, to the point I can remember my parents saying that nothing would keep me quiet when I was little. I pretty quickly pulled back around this time and stopped talking much and became quiet, reserved and shy. I started to feel that I couldn’t be liked (and definitely not loved) and that no one would have a reason to inherently be my friend, at least not just for being me. So I made friends by being a chameleon, doing whatever I could to “fit in.” But inside my own head and heart, I mostly still just felt pain and unworthiness. I never felt like anyone would have a reason to like me unless I gave them one, and I definitely didn’t feel like I was good enough to just go up to people to make friends.

When Suicide showed Up

Around 7th or 8th grade was the first time I can remember learning about and grasping the concept of suicide. And I think, in an attempt to gain some control over the pain I felt, I grabbed onto the idea that there was something I could do to escape. This has stuck with me and I’ve been in a constant dance with it ever since. There are times when I’m leading that dance, but there’s also a lot of times when I’m not leading. I never felt like I could show anyone this dance though. I feared it was just another reason that I wouldn’t be likable, and I already had enough of those so adding one as big as this to the list would be a death blow to my desire to not have to be alone. It’s funny (if you take a sadistic view of the word “funny”), one of the things I most wanted was to not feel alone, but the vicious cycle in my mind made me feel like I had to isolate and be alone or risk being abandoned and thus alone (some crazy circular logic).

So I just faked it in public. I don’t know how well I faked it, but there’s a good chance that if we’ve ever crossed paths, if I walked past you in a hallway in school or partied with you in college or played sports or games with you, that what I showed on the outside (hopefully a smile or a laugh) was far from what I felt on the inside. And there’s a very high chance that on that day, I thought about suicide.

On the outside I might not have seemed isolated. I’ve always known I have a loving family around me (and I’m super blessed and grateful for that, don’t think that I don’t know this) and have been lucky enough to have had friends around me. But I never let anyone see what was inside me (why would they stick around if I did?). Instead I just came up with a bunch of unhealthy coping mechanisms so that I could keep up my charade on the outside by either numbing/escaping my mind or doing the opposite, making myself feel as much internal pain as possible.

I’ve felt for much of this time that I deserved every bit of pain this world had to offer and often tried to self-sabotage myself to make sure I felt it. If I wasn’t feeling it, something felt wrong. And I’ve always put myself down, a lot. Usually under the guise of self-deprecating humor, as I thought I could cover it up or make it better with “laughter”, but really I truly believed the things I’d tell myself: that I’m not a good person, that I’m not a lovable human, that I really do deserve the world’s pain and that God specifically had singled me out to suffer like this.

My Closest Call

I’m very much not proud to admit that while I partied a lot in college, it never really came from a place of fun (as much as I tried to make it seem like it did). I drank until I blacked out… a lot… and I usually wasn’t very social doing it even though I’d be surrounded by other people doing so. I’d be on the outskirts thinking about the drinks nullifying my mind for a few hours, not thinking about enjoying the people around me.

Then when I was 20, I came the closest I’ve come to actually taking my own life. I hesitate to call it a suicide attempt, because even that makes me feel like I’m stealing valor and makes me feel like a bad person. Injured and unable to participate in the start of the football season, I stayed home alone on the night of our season-opening scrimmage, the first night most students were back on campus.

While everyone was out celebrating the start of a new school year, I sat in my room at my desk. I had a bottle of painkillers from a knee surgery, a case of beer and a pen and paper. I sat down to write. I had a plan. I’d drink until my suicide note was finished, wash down whatever pills I had left and had no intention of waking up. Somehow, I drank so much that it saved me that night (which didn’t make it any easier in the days that followed, knowing that’s what I had to thank for waking up).

I wrote the note, and it took hours (and really didn’t make much sense, as it was just a messy dumping of emotions that I’d never let out). And I kept drinking, and drinking, the whole time. When I finished writing, I can barely remember crawling out my window to have one last beer, read my note and take a last look at the night sky. And then I blacked out and passed out. And by the grace of God, I never got around to taking those pills. How fucked up is it that my problem with binge drinking at the time saved my life that day? Thankfully, I got my drinking under control after college, but it wouldn’t be the only time a vice saved me in the short term, even though in the long-term it held me back and kept me down.

Life After An Attempt

Waking up the next morning, the hangover didn’t compare at all to the sick feeling I had over what I had almost done, and the feeling that I couldn’t even do that right. I held on to that note and read it often for years before I finally got the courage to burn it. Days only felt tougher after that, having all of that on my conscience. So I found another unhealthy way to escape and “survive” (but certainly not thrive): I started smoking cannabis pretty much all day every day.

It became the only way I knew to get any relief from my own head. It became a way to shut my thoughts off and let something else have control of my mind for a little while. It eventually became a huge part of my life to where it was the only way to not feel suicidal…for a very short time. And it’s lasted for years, despite attempts to quit that were usually short-lived. Even now, though I’m on a good streak right now, it’s a struggle to not fall back to escaping with weed, especially when my mind gets really sideways and spirals downward.

It’s been another thing I’ve given credit for saving my life (and I do think shutting my mind off during some of those darkest of times after that night kept me from attempting again). But it didn’t solve any of my problems, it just pushed them into the future and kept me stuck. I would have to confront this all eventually. So again, how fucked up is it that something that’s clearly a problem is something I’ve credited with keeping me alive? It doesn’t feel good to admit I’ve had this messed up way of thinking.

The only “healthy” activity that I’ve ever attributed to saving my life has been discovering surfing in the year after my close call. Surfing definitely did save my life. It became one of the only places and times where I’ve been able to shut my mind off, because I had to focus so much on what I was doing in the dynamism of the ocean (and I was, and still kind of am, a kook who’s so bad at it that it takes all of my concentration). It gave me something to always look forward to. No matter what, there is always another wave coming, whether it’s in that session or it’s thousands of miles off-shore, there is always another ride on the way and it could be my best one yet. The power and humbling ability of the ocean has had an immense impact in helping me to get out of my own head. I put quotes around “healthy” because there’s a degree to which my love and addiction to surfing can be unhealthy, when I make it out to be the end-all be-all of my survival. Because I need to have more than just that in my life (and I know that I do). But it has still been and I hope continues to be a huge ray of light that fuels me to keep looking forward.

But getting high certainly wasn’t a lasting solution at all (no surprise there, really). The thoughts never stopped, the deep holes of depression continued, the feeling that I was worse than the worst and entirely unworthy of breathing oxygen that could go to someone worth more never left. It still really hasn’t. It’s been present throughout my adult life, despite the outside view that I’ve been able to function and “succeed” (whatever the hell “success” even means).

On a day I should have loved, getting to spend New Year’s Day of 2020 watching my beloved Badgers in the Rose Bowl, I actually ended up ending the day spending the night in suicide hold after the authorities were rightfully (and thankfully) called because I was out of control and suicidal. After this, I felt like I wasn’t getting anywhere and I wasn’t sure if I would ever overcome this. The same problems that had always been plaguing me were still plaguing me (and those around me). To be honest, this only made me feel worse, and I didn’t really truly commit to working this problem out even after this for multiple years. Despite having done tons of therapy before and after this, and trying different medications, I don’t think inside I felt like anything would ever change or that it would be possible that I would ever not feel this way.

Even now I question it, and only recently do I feel like I’m finally committed internally to beating this (whatever that means). And even with that commitment, I still suffer from the random pop-up thoughts that maybe I should end it, maybe I should just yank the wheel and hit that tree, or drive off that bridge. I don’t know how to stop those from coming up, and maybe I never will. It’s part of the ongoing struggle that I fight with every day. I often feel in despair that nothing will ever change and that there is no hope for me. I know it’s a thought I need to change.

And that’s what I wake up every day trying to do. Because despite all of this, and despite still not being where I want to be, I have to continue to battle to find hope and I have to find reasons and ways to not give in to my own mind when I know it’s wrong. And I’m going to continue, and I will survive, and hopefully one day I will get a grasp on this. But until then, I can only vow to never give up this fight.

Things Need to Change

And that’s my long-winded story and dance with suicide and depression (sorry for the length, I wanted to cover it all, to show its OK to bare it to the world, and I hope that someone else might relate and not feel so alone). The song hasn’t stopped playing yet, and the dance continues, but we don’t have to be on the ballroom floor by ourselves. We lose 132 lives to suicide every day in the US and there were 1.7 million suicide attempts in 2021. It’s very clear that if you struggle with it, YOU ARE NOT ALONE. Organizations like Directing Change are doing their part to take away some of the stigma starting with our youth, but there is always more to be done. So how do we make a dent in these stats? And why do we have such a disparity in those who could use some help and support and those who actually reach out and receive it?

Obviously, this is a problem across genders and all humans deserve the support they need and shouldn’t ever hesitate to ask. I’m going to focus on the men, though, because it’s the experience that I’m more personally familiar with. And like I said, I was alarmed by the lack of boys participating in this contest, because based on my experience, I’d guess that there are a lot of middle and high school boys who feel the same way, but are being held back by their minds from actually opening up and seeking support.

Why are we Here?

Why is it so hard for men, young and old, to acknowledge that they feel things and that their feelings impact them? We live in a society where men expect themselves and other men to be stoic and strong, providers who are independent and not reliant on others. Most of the time I think we know deep down that no one gets through this life alone, and that we can still be strong while having emotions.

One of the things I’ve wrestled with a lot is the difference between feeling weak and being perceived as weak. No one wants to feel weak, but even less so does any man want to be seen as weak by others. And I think that holds a lot of people back because we feel that our depression or suicidal thoughts are a weakness, a problem with ourselves, but on top of that, we feel like we can’t let that show because then we’ll also be seen as weak by others. And that’s even worse. It led to a lot of internal emotional isolation for me, and I suspect many others.

And in isolation, we’re never able to get the support we need to break this cycle of thought. Some of this fear is maybe warranted, because it’s common for other men to shy away or try to ignore another’s feelings (it’s the same cycle within them, if they acknowledge your feelings then they have to acknowledge that they themselves have some feelings, and in the same conditioning, they’ll have to feel that weakness). But often these are all perceptions we have in our head that don’t end up as reality when we truly show ourselves.

We have to do a better job of showing this, of making it known that it’s OK to ask for help, it’s OK to struggle, it’s OK to feel weak and that this doesn’t make you weak, it doesn’t make you lack manliness, and it doesn’t mean that people won’t be there to support you if you ask. We have to be open ourselves so that others can know they can be, too. And when someone does open up, we have to be willing to look at ourselves and suppress our own fears of vulnerability and be there to support them instead of shying away from them to avoid our own feelings.

What Can We Do?

Here are a few notes that I think might help with how to approach these things. Note that these are all personal to me, and you might feel a different approach might help you. Do everything you can to not stop seeking what works for you.

• As I mentioned before, it was really pivotal to me to see other men who I respected open up about their struggles and gave me confidence that it would be OK if I did the same. In my case it was people I didn’t even know (podcasters) that gave me the strength to really start confronting these issues. Having an example to look for to feel less alone, and that things could get better, is an immense ray of hope. It’s hard to feel like you’re letting someone down, whether it’s friends or family, by admitting to them you don’t feel great and aren’t loving life (we feel like we’ll make them seem like they aren’t good enough to make us happy). If you have a friend that’s willing to open up, make sure you’re first and foremost there to listen and support (asking how to support them if you can). 
  
• One of the most frustrating parts of dealing with these thoughts is when someone tries to fix it for you or put pressure on you to fix it. It comes from a place of love usually, they want what’s best for you. But often, it’s more important and impactful to just be there. In my case, it usually only makes me feel worse when people point out all the things I have going for me and that I should be grateful for. Because I know I have a lot of good things and I truly am grateful for them, but that doesn’t change the underlying feeling and usually exacerbates it in a “yeah I know I’ve got all this and I’m still not able to feel OK, so maybe nothing will ever help” way. Maybe I’m just broken and beyond repair. I don’t want to feel broken.
  
• Find even just one or two friends or family who you can be vulnerable with and show “weakness” to, and allow them to do the same back to you and provide the support you’re looking for yourself. Slowly that will spread out like wildfire (where the beauty of new life, like plants, can spring to life afterwards). And don’t feel less than or broken if you have to seek professional help. That might be the most important step you can take. There is absolutely no shame in it, despite how shameful and weak it feels. There is only strength in being brave enough to do what so many are afraid of.

It’s so important that we stop the spread of despair in our society, and in our young men in particular. Many of these men will be building the future of our world. What happens if we lose too many of them? Where will we find ourselves if we let these problems persist and fester, hidden by our fears and cloaked by our collective desire to never feel weak?

As I mentioned before, there are many great organizations working on this, like Directing Change which I have to thank immensely for the work they do and for allowing me to partake as a judge. While it is scary to see the lack of male participation, it is truly inspiring to see the way our youth of all genders are able to finally use their insane creative talent to speak about heavy topics like this. They do it so well, and they have such a depth of feeling and an amazing ability to use film to tell their stories. I hope that it is a small shifting of the tides and that we are able to keep going.

My battle won’t stop until it’s “won” and I hope you all can find a similar resolve and that we can all, together, support each other in building a happier, more connected world. I have faith in each and every one of you and my dream is of the day where these honest conversations are no longer feared, but cherished as real and authentic. It won’t be easy and likely won’t happen fast, but I’ll do my part and I know you’re all more than capable of doing yours.

PS: This took a long time to write, and its probably wayyyy too long and maybe doesn’t flow the best. I had to type through a lot of tears. I hope this is helpful to someone else. I know even just writing it was helpful and cathartic for me. Never hesitate to reach out to me if you feel the need to. I will always try to support my fellow humans.

Resources:

American Foundation for Suicide Prevention

Directing Change CA

CDC Resources

National Institute of Mental Health

Suicide Prevention Resource Center

TLDR AI Summary:

My name is Kyle, and for as long as I can remember, since around 12 or 13 years old, I’ve been haunted by suicidal thoughts and a constant, extreme depression. Despite having loved ones around me, I felt unlovable, unable to make real connections unless I contorted myself to “fit in.” Inwardly, I was in deep pain and believed I deserved to suffer. Suicide first materialized as a potential escape from that suffering during my middle school years. When I got to college, I coped by turning to unhealthy habits like partying hard and smoking constantly to get high and numb myself and stop the thoughts of suicide.

My closest brush with death came at age 20 when, depressed and isolated one night, I drank heavily while I wrote a suicide note intending to overdose on pills after the letter was written. I blacked out and passed out from the alcohol and luckily didn’t take those pills. In the following year, I found a rare healthy respite in surfing which forced me to stay present, although it was merely a temporary reprieve from the persistent depression.

The struggle never left, though, and on New Year’s Day 2020 I landed under a suicide hold after a major breakdown. It still took a few more years to truly face this demon. Only very recently have I felt a true commitment to overcoming this lifelong battle, despite the invasive suicidal thoughts that still frequently occur.

Stigmas and societal masculinity pressures cause so many men, particularly young males, to suffer in silence with mental health issues. The perceived fears of weakness and emasculation by admitting to depression or suicidal thoughts creates isolation. I advocate for opening up to even just one trusted friend, listening without judgment, and not being afraid of professional support.

My ultimate goal is inspiring more openness and candor in discussions around male mental health. Too many young lives are being lost to these issues that persist and fester when hidden behind societal pressures. I dream of the day when these conversations are no longer feared or considered weak, but cherished as vulnerable, authentic and lifesaving.