I'm finally willing to try

I'm probably still doing it all wrong -- but, at least I'm doing it.

My life is a mess.

It has been, for a long time. I just haven’t been healthy enough to see it.

I don’t know why anybody would want to listen to me — I don’t know anything. That’s not me being down on myself; it’s just facts.

I have an Associate of Arts degree that took me seven years to complete, and really was just an excuse for me to take a bunch of music classes that I’ve done nothing with… and spend a bunch of years hanging around cute college girls that, I also did nothing with.

My memory is horrible.

Reading comprehension is virtually nil.

I have to read the same page over and over again, only to realize I still don’t know what it’s talking about. I try to rewrite what I’m reading into my own words, and sometimes it helps… but I almost never apply what I’m reading to real life… so…

I’ve been hospitalized twice in the last year for suicidal ideation. That’s two times in the span of 12 months that I’ve needed the highest-level professional help available, in order to keep myself from taking my own life. (Actually the two hospital stays were only about six months apart, but still.)

I’ve officially attempted suicide once. I don’t think I intend to ever try it again. I think the hospitalization helped.

But I still go into a panic attack just sending a text to make an appointment to see my bishop.

I still order DoorDash multiple times a week because the thought of cooking my own meals every day sends me into a spiral.

I’m still too afraid to step outside of my routine and take chances, and maybe try something new.

I’m convinced I’m going to do everything, catastrophically wrong.

And, the truth is…

I probably will. At first, at least.

But, knowing me, I’ll probably still be doing it wrong, the second, third, and fourth time around. Heck, there are probably some things I’ve been doing for 20 or 30 years, that I’m still doing wrong.

It’s kind of how I roll.

I’m probably doing this whole newsletter thing wrong… but I’m doing it, regardless.

And maybe that’s the point of this letter today:

It doesn’t matter how many times you get something wrong. What matters is whether or not you’re brave enough to do what you really want to do.

For a long time, I wasn’t brave enough. I see that now, so, so clearly.

(To my credit, mismanaged mental health can turn anybody into a full-fledged coward, for a time. My hospital stays seem to have helped with that, too… just not as much as the suicidal ideation. I guess that’s alright, though; of the two, suicide is the bigger immediate threat.)

I’m realizing, though, now that I’m home: my struggle has never been, “Am I smart enough?” Or am I strong enough; determined enough; kind enough; popular enough; generous enough; disciplined enough. I’ve got all that stuff inside.

But for decades, what I didn’t have enough of, was bravery.

Real, raw, unwavering, unflinching courage.

The pure willingness to live the lifestyle I really want to live… to be vulnerable… to be open to new experiences… to be able to admit when I’m doing something wrong, or when I’m afraid, or nervous, or anxious, or shy.

There have been moments, in recent years, that I have been very brave.

Moving to Lubbock. Going to Florida for a copywriter’s convention. Volunteering at the Buddy Holly Hall. Starting this newsletter. Taking solo road trips across the great state of Texas, never knowing where the day will take me, and having more fun than a person should be capable of having in such a short smount of time.

Calling the National Suicide Hotline, and allowing myself to receive the help I need.

But now, after two hospital stays… after working through decades of trauma, and pent-up emotion… after releasing a lifetime of shame, guilt, fear, judgment, and regret…

After finding the right combination of medications, therapies, and coping skills, for where I’m at in this phase of my life…

I come home and on Day One, I’m overwhelmed, and back to my old habits and routines.

I’m so afraid of the next step, all I wanna do is stay locked in my apartment, binging Netflix, ordering DoorDash, avoiding people, avoiding reality, avoiding taking responsibility for my future because I am one hundred percent convinced I’m going to do my future wrong, and I won’t know how to recover from the wrongness of it all.

My mind is clearer than it’s been since I was probably 16 years old.

I’ve unloaded more than 30 years’ worth of pent-up emotion: guilt, anger, shame, rejection, loneliness, fear, regret.

I’ve separated my identity from my mental illness — and I finally believe that I am greater than the sum of my parts, and that my life can have purpose and meaning.

And still, I’m afraid to take the next step.

Like, overwhelmingly, lock myself in my room, cry in the shower, hours long panic attacks, don’t let anybody see me in this mental state, afraid.

And I still have no idea why.

I’m not willing to move forward — but I’m not satisfied with giving up.

I’m stuck.

Paralyzed by fear of the unknown.

For thirty years, at least, the unknown has been dangerous and frightening to me. Especially since I got PTSD, twenty-three years ago.

The only time in my adult life I have felt safe and comfortable, has been in mental hospitals. I’m relatively safe in my apartment — but even here, my own dark thoughts still tend to consume me. Only in the security of a hospital setting, have I felt safe enough to peel back all the layers and get honest with myself and with others.

And I can’t spend the rest of my life, living in mental hospitals. I don’t think they even do that anymore. And, honestly, even if they did, I don’t think I’d be satisfied to spend the rest of my life in that setting. It clearly is what I needed, to get out from under my suicidal thoughts and my deep, dark depression.

But now that my mind is clear, I want more out of life than “just” a mental patient, or “just” a suicide survivor, or “just” a guy living a quiet life in Lubbock, Texas, just trying to escape the pain of living with such strong, overwhelming emotions, day after day after day.

I’m tired of feeling like I’m a slave to my own fear… my own anxiety… my own inability to cope with my emotions.

But it’s true.

Even after two hospital stays — even after learning to understand my suicidal tendencies, and hopefully rise above the desire to make another attempt — I still don’t know how to manage my emotions and my fear and anxiety in real time.

I’m no longer haunted by my past — but I’m still deathly afraid I’m going to ruin my future.

And I don’t know if there will ever be a time that I won’t feel the fear this intensely.

So, fear in and of itself, is not a sufficient reason for me not to pursue the life of my dreams… but I still don’t know how to navigate these fearful moments, in ways that lead to me making the right choice, and acting on that choice, to move closer to the lifestyle I really desire.

I don’t know how to do that. I’ve never learned. Nobody has ever taught me. That’s not an excuse, but maybe it can be an explanation?

Like… I legitimately don’t know any other way but the one way I’ve always known… and maybe that’s why, even after two hospital stays, I still don’t feel like I know what I’m doing? Maybe that’s why the fear is still so powerful, and so overwhelming, because even though I’ve released a lifetime of guilt, and shame, and jealousy, and anger, and regret, and remorse… maybe fear is not something that you can just let go of.

Maybe fear is something you have to go through… every time it rears its head.

Maybe there is no wishing away, or outgrowing, outsmarting, outmaneuvering, out-thinking, out-feeling, outplanning… avoiding… fear.

Maybe facing our fears is how we prove we’re willing to do what it takes to have the life we really want.

Maybe it’s not about smarts, or money, or skills, or discipline, or popularity, or any of it.

Maybe it all boils down to our willingness to confront our own fears.

And maybe that’s what I’m failing at.

Not the ability to face my fears — because the hospital has shown me that once I’m willing, I typically am able.

But maybe it all begins and ends, not with what we’re able to do… but with what we’re willing to do.

I’m not willing, in this moment, to make a phone call (or text, or email) to let the right people know that I’m really struggling and I need more help.

I just came home from the hospital a month ago! And I want everyone to think I’m doing well, now.

I want everyone to think I’m doing better.

I don’t want them to think I’m still not strong enough (or, in this case, brave enough) to handle life’s problems.

If people knew that I came home from the hospital and fell apart… I’d be so embarrassed.

I’d rather stay locked in my apartment, avoiding people, avoiding reality, avoiding my responsibilities, than let people know I don’t think I’m handling things correctly.

I don’t want other people to judge me. (And here I thought I’d released all of that, too.)

So…

I’m probably doing this all wrong.

And I’ll probably continue to do it all wrong — maybe for as long as I live. (Hopefully I’ll learn some things, at least, and maybe someday I’ll only get parts of it wrong.)

But I’m still doing it.

I’m not satisfied with the life I have… and I’m not willing to remain in a life that’s not satisfying… that’s not fulfilling… that’s not giving me meaning, purpose, and direction.

So I have to change. I have to try.

I have to be willing to really do something different.

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know where to begin.

I don’t know who to talk to, to get me to that next step.

But, maybe, somewhere, hopefully, buried underneath the fear, and the anxiety, and the self-isolating behavior, and the daily panic attacks…

Maybe…

Just maybe…

If I dig really deep into my soul…

I’m finally willing to try.

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