Content warning: this column discusses suicide and suicidal ideation.
by Thomas Lee
On this day, 11 years ago, you helped save my life. Thank you.
I just sent this text to three friends, as I have every January 12 for more than a decade. We all have fateful days in our lives that anchor our being, days that provide perspective to just how much we have grown — or fallen off track.
It was a Saturday morning in 2013 and I was in pretty rough shape. Work had stressed me to the point of burnout. And a woman whom I had been dating was ghosting me.
To this day, I can’t exactly explain why Ashley affected me so much. Yes, she was beautiful. But she was also a train wreck, a woman the cognitive side of my brain identified as pure poison. She was heroin, providing me with fleeting moments of pure ecstasy and prolonged periods of crushing withdrawal.
That morning, I was in serious withdrawal and I really needed a fix. I futilely glanced at my phone. Nothing. No text. No email. No Facebook message.
The plan was to meet my friend Amy for brunch. As I was driving to the diner, it happened. The moment I almost let go.
My brain grew foggy as if I was half asleep. I started to flashback to my life: playing board games with my sister as a child, winning an acting award in high school, kissing my girlfriend in college, and my first reporting job in Seattle. It all came and went.
I had my foot on the gas, passing through intersection after intersection. If one of the lights was red and I went through it …well, that would be just fine with me.
Amazingly (perhaps the intervention of a higher power?), every light turned green as I drove through.
I told Amy what happened. She looked alarmed.
“Please Tom,” she said. “I want you to check into the hospital. I’m scared for you.”
I knew she was right. I was scaring myself.
Once I returned home, I called my two best friends Jenna and Erin. I needed to apologize, for being such a burden to them.
“I just want you to know that whatever happens to me, it’s not your fault,” I said.
“Oh my God Tom, you’re really scaring me,” Erin said. “You should go to the hospital.”
“I will,” I said. “But later. I’m so tired. I need to sleep.”
“No, you should go now,” she insisted. “I’ll take you. I’m coming over now.”
“I need to sleep,” I said. “Then I’ll go.”
I hung up and immediately fell asleep. An hour later, I woke up. There were several calls and texts from Erin and Jenna.
“We’re downstairs in the lobby,” Erin texted. “Call us when you wake up.”
Sure enough, they were downstairs, just sitting there. After our phone call, Erin said she didn’t know what else to do. So she called Jenna and they drove to my building. They had no plan, other than hope I really was taking a nap and would soon emerge from my apartment.
Erin and Jenna took me out to dinner. And then drove me to the hospital, where I stayed in the mental health unit for a weekend.
Looking back more than a year later, I still can’t believe I came that close to the edge.
“How did I let it get that far?” I ask myself.
No matter. I’m still alive, thanks to the love and support of three friends.
I vowed every January 12 from here on out, I will express my gratitude to them. And to remind myself that I can never lose control again. I need to live.
If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide, you can text or call the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline at 988.
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