In my Deep Well of Depression, I felt trapped. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide from this disorder. I was a prisoner. Naked and vulnerable, I felt defenseless to its exploitation. My disorder had become my master.
In my darkest moments, the master had convinced me of some fucking terrible things. The most painful was that I was failing my family. The feeling that I was failing my children crushed me. My master had convinced me that my family was better off without me and I knew deep down that, without them, my life would be meaningless. My master tried to drown me in my disorder, and it took everything I had to stay afloat. It hurt so much. I just wanted the torment to stop. I just wanted it all to fucking stop. In such a desperate frame of mind, suicidal thinking is inevitable.
Suicide was a recurring thought – “the solution” according to my master – over the many months leading up to the time I finally reached out for help. My master was convincing, but deep down, I fought back hard, leveraging all that I had to fight back with. The most effective defense was contemplating the potential consequences that ending my life would produce for my family.
These vivid images disturbed me beyond words. To leave my wife and children to spend the rest of their lives blaming themselves – tormented by unanswered questions as to why I would leave them in this world, turned my fucking stomach. The biggest leverage preventing me from doing the unthinkable was the thought of igniting something similar in any one of my children that could lead them down this tragic path.
I made the resolve: no matter how much the master tortured me, I wasn’t going to bring my family down with me. They were my last line of defense.