Sometimes, it is not the big events that drive you toward insanity, but it is the little things that ultimately cause you to do the irreversible. It can start as a small thought or action, which grows bigger and bigger the more you dwell upon it. With time, the snowball turns into an avalanche, and it has become far too big to overcome without intervention.
For me, Sunday, December 14th, 2014 was the culmination of all those little things. To say the very least, things had not been going well. Mentally drained and exhausted, I had taken a leave of absence from my final year of college, was seeing several therapists and psychologists who were experimenting with a few medications to boot. But that day, I was feeling pretty good. Living in New Jersey at the time, I was returning to Pennsylvania to play in the playoff round of my indoor ultimate frisbee league that I had joined with a teammate of mine. There wasn’t a reason for me to feel depressed at all. In fact, I was excited!
As I drove down, however, a dark thought crept into my mind. Instead of ignoring it, I began to entertain it, and the cycle revved up. One thing lead to another, and before I knew it I was in utter despair. I was tired of failure, tired of my weaknesses and tired of fighting. When it came time to drive back up after our game was over, I was totally fed up and considered ending it all. I decided that I would drive to the bridge spanning the Delaware River between PA and NJ, pull over to the side of the road and jump off. It would be quick (at least that’s what I hoped).
The drive there usually only took about 20 or 30 minutes, but this time it felt like an eternity. I was getting frantic calls and texts imploring me to stop what I was doing, that I was loved and that my action would ruin what I left behind. But in those moments I didn’t care. That’s why I have described such emotions as prideful and selfish, because I was only thinking of myself and how these things would affect me and me alone. I just wanted my emotional pain and torment to stop, and at that time that was my only potential way out.
I finally reached the bridge and pulled over the shoulder square over the middle of the span. The drop to the freezing water below would have meant almost certain death. At one point, I had only one foot still on the bridge, another hovering over the river, while my therapist and a family friend over the phone did all in their power to stop me. With one more step, it would all be over, and so would the anguish of my soul that had been torturing me for over six months.
But in the end, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. In my mind at the time, I thought I lost heart. Looking back though, I have absolute confidence that the Spirit was reeling me back onto the road. He wasn’t going to let me carry out my actions, and right then I stood convicted of what grievous sins I was carrying out. I had offended my friends by making them worry, offended my family for denying their love, and offending God by throwing the gift of life back into his face. Once I jumped, there would be no way for me to reverse the damage and ruin I would have brought. I needed to come back to my senses.
I made my way back into my car and drove to a rest area to settle down. But my colleagues on the phone were (rightfully) not going to take any chances. The police were called and I had no choice but to come along with them to the hospital for evaluation. The first day there I was placed into a bright room with a large window and no doors so that I could be observed. My only company was a nurse who checked in on me every once in a while, a doctor to evaluate me, my family, and a friend from college who lived nearby. Ironically, it felt even lonelier than when I wasn’t there.
The following night I was moved to an inpatient mental ward closer to home in Monmouth County, New Jersey. My body was thoroughly examined for any objects that I could use to hurt myself before I was placed into a room with again no door and a bathroom with only a flap as a partition. For the next four days that’s where I was: waking up when they told me, slept when they told me, ate when I was scheduled to, attended the mandatory meetings, took antidepressants, and was evaluated by doctors before they felt comfortable enough to released me that Friday. I wish that experience on no one.
After my release, I didn’t know what would happen next. Would I be stuck in this pattern? Would they need to commit me more permanently for my own safety? Would I ever be able to live a normal life following such a harrowing experience? Can I live alone, work a good job, and be independent? Would I even return to school? The events of that week cast all of that into doubt.
By the grace of God, none of that is in doubt five years later. I returned to college the following spring and graduated in May of 2015. Today, I live on my own apartment in Philadelphia, working for a large and reputable company and involved in the life of my local church. While I still have struggles and even some lapses in those struggles, I have not gone down into the depths that I did at that time. To say that I have come a long way is a massive understatement. A large credit is due to the support and love of my family and friends, the prayers of my church, and the hand of the Lord.
I wanted to write this on the fifth anniversary of that day as an encouragement to those who have been down the same road I have. Never would I have imagined that I would be where I am right now, and if you been in a similar spot as me, please know that it’s never too late to turn it around. No matter how dark it may get, there is always hope, and that hope can be found in placing our trust and faith in the One who will wipe our tears away and lift our heads high. With Him there is all the reason to not only live but thrive and walk with joy!
The story is still being written, and five years later God has shown that He is not done with me yet.
Joy In The Mourning 