Prepping my book for publishing on Amazon, I wrote an introduction. I made reference to a period of time when my manuscript was hidden under lock and key as I waited for that perfect time to present itself – that “right time” to step up and make a difference. While I waited, I learned of friends, family and community members struggling with their mental health. Further, I learned about victims taking their own lives – a tragic, yet very real consequence of mental illness. It made me sick to my fucking stomach to sit and watch all of this transpire. Frankly, I grew fucking disgusted with myself. What the hell was I waiting for?! I soon realized that this “right time” didn’t exist. It was nothing more than rationalized tolerance for my stigma in this disorder- and I wasn’t proud of it. I knew better.
For the record, I do want to qualify that by no means do I think that if I had published my book sooner, I could have prevented these deaths. But at least I could say I tried in my own way to make a difference. Honestly, my hope upon releasing my book is being able to make an impactful difference in the lives of people who find themselves on the dire edge of their suffering.
I just want to help someone take that critical one step back off that conceptual ledge in depression. I know what it’s like to be there, looking down, feeling hopeless in every aspect of life. It fucking hurts. So when I hear of someone stepping off that ledge, suicide, it makes me fucking sick. Part of it because I too stood on that ledge, but the other part, because I know of the power of hope. It only takes a pinch of hope to generate enough strength to take that one step back and begin a long, hard road to healing. I just want the killing to stop. Hope, that’s all it takes, just a little hope. That’s all I want out of my book is to give the message of hope to individuals suffering in depression. No more waiting. No more stigma. No more excuses. Its fucking time!