Let's Talk About Men's Mental Health
You can't be strong all the time
My newsletter muses about mental health and life, shares fiction too out there for primetime, and contemplations about whatever the fuck I want. Read more on my About page or, you know…
I never thought I would ever contemplate suicide in my lifetime. Seriously, never. Sure, I’m more sensitive and emotional than most men, and I get anxious and depressed far more often than most men, but, I’ve always managed to overcome these depressive spells. I've always reminded myself that this life is worth living. That it’s beautiful and special and there’s so much left for me to do and experience in this world.
Cut to October 2022
I’m on the freeway driving to North Hollywood to see a local play I was invited to review and I’m… losing it.
I’m hysterical, on the brink of hyperventilating as I cry my eyes out. My chest feels like it’s being crushed, and my throat constricted as if I were being strangled.
Why am I acting like this?
Because for the first time in my life, I thought, “What if I just end it?”
I pictured scenarios of how I would do it: putting a gun to my head or jumping off a cliff.
I didn’t like those options. They were loud and violent and messy. I wanted something quiet. “Pills,” I thought. “Take a fuckload of pills.”
That option almost brought a smile to my face. Almost. The second I pictured myself chugging a handful of pills was the second I remembered my childhood friend, Osito — that’s the alias I’ll use out of respect for his family — someone I grew to see like a little brother who took his own life in 2020.
I picture Osito’s childlike and innocent face at thirteen years old and I… squeal and sob even more than I already was as I hit the gas and push the car to eighty miles an hour.
“I can’t do it,” I scream, suddenly scared shit of even contemplating suicide. “I can’t take my own life!”
“But,” I think a bit later as I decrease my speed to sixty miles an hour. “I can’t keep going either. I’m tired. Tired of fighting. Of grinding. Of being strong all the time in the face of adversity.”
What I’m tired of
I’ll be honest, compared to the rest of the world, I’ve been blessed with a good and privileged life. My dad wasn’t an alcoholic, my mom never abandoned or ridiculed me, and my sister and I never really hated each other’s guts. If there was a time when I truly experienced something horrible and traumatic, it was my time with my ex. But see, I wasn’t the victim but the “bad guy,” something I take full accountability and responsibility for. But that’s a different story.
Nevertheless, I’ve had it good. Life hasn’t fucked me over and dealt me blows of unnecessary trauma and adversity day after day. Nope. I’ve had to seek out adversity on my own by chasing and manifesting my dream of making a full-time living as an author.
That journey started back in 2018. From 2018-2020 I learned how to write and edit a book. In 2021, I learned and failed — quite badly — how to self-publish a novel. 2022 was the year of finding the “perfect agent” to traditionally publish my first full-length book.
If there’s a quote that perfectly encapsulates my journey from 2018-2022 it’s this one:
“Ever Tried. Ever Failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” ― Samuel Beckett
I tried to make it as a self-published author and failed. I learned from my mistakes, formed a better plan, sent out queries to find the “perfect agent” and failed. Again and again and again.
Each rejection from the “perfect agent” would knock me down to the floor but I’d always get back up, ready to try again, fail again, and fail better. But… with each rejection, the time to get myself back up would slowly stretch longer and longer and longer until it all came crashing down on that one October night and I said…
…I’m tired. Tired of fighting. Of grinding. Of being strong all the time in the face of adversity.
Acting strong
When I parked my car outside the theater in North Hollywood, I was still a hysterical mess. I felt like a failure who’s wasted five years of his life, a fool for trying to chase my dream as an author, and a loser that’ll never amount to anything.
I looked at the time: half an hour until the play started. I groaned and debated whether or not I should show up to write the review in my mental state. “I have to,” I concluded. “This is work. And I made a promise. Be strong.”
I don’t leave my car until I get my shit together. Until I’m calm and the red from my crying eyes fades. Once that happens, I enter the outskirts of the theater, smile and shake hands with the young woman that invited me there, and I play my part: acting strong on the outside but on the verge of another nervous breakdown on the inside.
Letting it out on my own
After I saw the play, I felt a little better. Happier. The whole ride back home, I didn’t have another suicidal thought and I felt as if that was the end of it.
I was wrong.
A few days later, when I have the house to myself, I think about it again: ending it. I picture chugging a handful of pills and not feeling anything. I don’t smile but rather, I feel a great wave of serenity overtake me.
I think of Robin Williams, Anthony Bourdain, Chester Bennington, and my childhood friend Osito. “I get it,” I whisper to myself. “I get why they did it.”
Robin. Anthony. Chester. Osito. They were tired of the pain and the suffering of going on. Ending it is a means of escape that feels like the right call.
“I get it,” I repeat one more time, basking in that wave of serenity until…
I picture my mom. My dad. My sister. And my best friend. I picture their reaction should I depart this world prematurely and their suffering hurts a thousand times more than the suffering of going on.
I take out my phone, start a voice recording, and break down and cry, letting out all of my thoughts and emotions about suicide as I fight to see the light and remain in this world.
You can’t be strong all the time
Five months have passed since my suicidal spell and — prior to me releasing this piece — I’ve only told two souls about my struggle. The first was a childhood friend from school I reconnected with near October. A pen pal, so to speak. And because she knew very little about me and because the majority of our conversations were through text, it was easy for me to open up in writing as I was recovering from my suicidal thoughts.
The second was my childhood best friend. I opened up to him a few weeks later, only with the aid of booze running through my veins, and went off on a tangent on men’s health and the role society has put on us — a protector and a provider — and the way we’re supposed to behave in the face of adversity: strong and calm.
I told my best friend that I’m ok with this role and this behavior. That I don’t mind being strong and I don’t mind taking up the mantle and being Batman nearly all day, every day but… I’m still human.
I still feel.
I still fall.
And when I fall, I need someone to take up the mantle. To be Batman (or Batwoman) Not forever. Not even for a year. But just for a while. Until I recuperate and I’m back to my best self.
Not alone
My brush with suicide is just one of many stories out there. I’m not alone. This statistic clearly shows that there’s a problem with men’s mental health today. At its core, the reason why so many men out there feel like ending it is because of the social stigma that expects men to be strong all the time and conceal their emotions all day, every day.
But, just as my story shows, you can’t be strong all the time. You can’t conceal your emotions all the time. Thankfully, my suicide spell hit me at a time in my life when I had prioritized my mental health and emotions. Where I would always stop what I’m doing and dedicate time to releasing my emotions and figuring out a way to find the light. Plus, I have an amazing family and best friend that kept me in this world.
If I didn’t have my amazing family and best friend, and if I didn’t prioritize my mental health, then I wouldn’t be here today, plain and simple.
I’m pretty sure my childhood friend, Osito, didn’t have, or at least, felt like he didn’t have any friends who saw and heard him. I wasn’t there for him in his time of need and not a day goes by I wish I should have reached out and let him know that he wasn’t alone. That I love and care for him and that if he needs to cry and scream at the world, do so. I’d rather have him cry on my shoulder than live in a world without him.
Osito’s life matters.
You matter, brother
You’re not a statistic, you’re a fucking human being that thinks and feels and falls. And if you feel like you’re falling, fall. Cry. Break down. Release each and every one of your emotions and know that it’s ok to be vulnerable and that’s it ok to lay down the mantle and not be strong, if only for a moment.
And if someone gives you shit for your moment of vulnerability, fuck them! Seriously, fuck them! I will not tolerate the intolerable.
Contemplating v. declaring
I mentioned the voice recording I made during my brush with suicide but I failed to mention the epiphany I had at the end which is:
I was far from declaring. I was contemplating which meant I was indecisive which meant that I still saw the light. That I still saw the beauty that this world has to offer.
If you’re reading this, there’s a chance you could be contemplating. That’s good. Yes, you read that right: that’s good. Contemplating means you’re hanging on and seeing the light. There’s hope. But… if it’s the latter, if you’ve declared… then we’ve got a fucking code red on our hands.
I’ve never been, nor do I ever hope to declare suicide. Because of my lack of experience or knowledge of that severe and dangerous state of mind, I’m not sure how I would proceed. With that said, if I were ever put in that state of mind or knew someone who declared suicide, I think the best course of action is to save them from themselves.
To put them in a stray jacket, send them to a caring hospital, and keep them there until they’re back together.
Final words
For what seems like the beginning of mankind, we’ve lived in a world governed by these rules:
The first rule of men’s mental health is: you do not talk about men’s mental health.
The second rule of men’s mental health is: you DO NOT talk about men’s mental health.
Let’s take a look at that statistic again:
These rules are killing us. They took my childhood friend and they nearly took me. Fuck, after my brush with suicide, you would think I would have made a complete transformation. That I would be kinder to myself and accept that I don’t have to be strong all the time. That I don’t have to work longer or harder to manifest my dream. And that it’s ok to reach out and ask others for help with anything.
But, I’m not. Granted, I’ve gotten better, and I’ve made improvements, but I still struggle to be kinder to myself. And I still insist that I have to do everything on my own. That I have to prove to myself that I have what it takes to accomplish my goals and dreams without anyone’s help.
But, God. That mindset is fucking exhausting.
I can’t be strong all the time.
You can’t.
So, why don’t we change those fucking rules, huh?
The first rule of men’s mental health is: let’s talk about men’s mental health.
The second rule of men’s mental health is: LET’S TALK about men’s mental health.
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