When I was locked up at Lompoc, I thought many times of killing myself. I was in a very dark place. I hated myself so deeply that the weight of my decisions was crushing me. Shame and embarrassment had overwhelmed me. We all have doubts, but this was different. I was overwhelmed with doubt.
I had nothing to offer the world. All my weaknesses felt amplified, and any positive traits I have felt like they shrank, withered, and died — like a vine with too much sun and not enough water. My mind spun round and round, and I couldn’t justify why I should still be here in this world.
As I walked around the track over and over, racking up mile after mile in used shoes and used clothes, neither of which fit, my self-worth sank and sank. I contemplated killing myself. I felt like a net negative on the world. My greatest fear as a young man was that I would amount to nothing, just as people had predicted. Why, then, was I even here?
I thought of my wife and my daughter, two very strong women. I knew they would be sad if I died, but I believed that with time they would be okay — that they would live normal lives, and in a strange way even be unburdened by my inability to be worth much of anything.
My son, though. I thought of my boy, only eight years old at the time. I remembered how hard it was growing up without a father, without a positive male role model of any kind. Thinking back to all the things I had to learn the hard way about life — so ill-prepared, making every mistake because I had no guidance from any parent, let alone someone who could offer a little male intuition.
I couldn’t leave my son alone like that. What kind of person would I be if I left him? Because I knew — really knew, deep down in my guts, in my soul — how hard that is. And now I would be purposely doing that to another human being.
I couldn’t. And so I kept walking.
If you’re standing where I was standing, please talk to someone. In the U.S., you can call or text 988 any time to reach the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline. Your reason to stay is out there — sometimes it’s smaller, and closer, than you think.