I have a secret. I guess everyone has secrets but not everyone chooses to tell them, which, I guess is why they stay secrets. Sometimes secrets aren't told because of an oath that was taken. Sometimes they aren't told because they involve a special surprise usually resulting in a gift of some kind. Then, other times, which is most likely the majority, secrets aren't told because they are rooted in a cavernous pit of shame and fear. They cling to us. Deceiving us. Enslaving us to their desperate attempts to fight the only thing that will heal and break the bondage that we have so carelessly allowed to take hold. My secret doesn't involve an oath. It doesn't even involve a special surprise. It involves a cavernous pit of shame and fear that I needed God to rescue me from. It was His rescue that destroyed the bondage that enslaved me, set me free and transformed my secret into my story.
Growing up in the church meant Sunday School and felt boards. It meant youth group, true love waits, girls, and continuous conversation about Jesus and the Gospel. To be honest, I understood the Gospel but I didn't really care. Jesus was a nice addition to the life I already had going on. To me, church was where I hung out with my friends and flirted with cute girls behind my parent's backs. I was what you would call a hypocrite, a luke-warm Christian. Using the same hands I used to worship God to then turn around and touch the girls I so desperately wanted attention from. High School came and went and nothing really ever changed. Then came college and my great escape from Ohio to California.
I decided to attend a private Christian university and was eager to begin my life as an independent college student. As the years passed, I began to live a double life. I was a complete hypocrite. I praised Jesus and spoke of my dedication and love for Him and His church but when nobody was looking I lived in complete disobedience to Him. This disobedience led to my cheating on my girlfriend of almost four years and after coming clean about my actions resulted in the loss of that relationship. Depression sank in and I turned to other things for comfort. I tried mentoring high school boys so that pride could fill me up and I could claim that I changed their lives. It failed. I tried numbing my feelings with alcohol and drugs. That failed. I tried girl after girl, relationship after relationship only for them to end up failing and leave me completely devoid of satisfaction. I was on a constant search for something, ANYthing to give my life substance. Life had become a tedious task of maintaining my image and maintaining my desires. It was exhausting and I wanted rest.
I wanted Hope.
My solution quickly became a bottle of extra strength painkillers and a bottle of whisky. My perverted image of hope looked like death and I decided to gulp it down as best I could. Immediately after writing my letter to explain my circumstances to those who I knew would care, I felt an overwhelming sense of regret and guilt. I felt a prodding to call someone and tell them what I had done. I callously called my brother and after some time of his begging me to go to the hospital, I decided that I would listen. I still remember walking into the hospital and telling the admitting nurses why I was there, "I don't want to live. I took a bunch of pills and alcohol because I thought it would help." Her eyes widened and quickly brought me into the back. After multiple questions from the Doctor, they determined that it was too late to pump my stomach and we would have to wait it out to get my initial toxicology report. At this point my brother, who had sped through the ridiculous California traffic, walked in and joined me in my curtained off room. Hours passed and the Doctor came back with the report from the initial toxicology report. His words to me were, "the levels in your liver are drastically above anything near what they should be and there isn't much we can do at this point." I asked him what that meant and he said we would just have to wait and see. I looked at my brother and with everything within me tried to hold back the tears.
This was it. This was the day I died.
This was the moment where my perverted image of hope collided with the Truth I had lived in spite of my entire life. The moment where I cried out to the Lord and begged Him to take control of my life. I was too tired of trying to control everything in my life and I knew that my only hope, my only option was to surrender to Jesus.
"God, if you will let me live, I will serve you. I will live for you. Just please, take over my life."
Those were the hopeful words uttered as I relinquished all control and all power over to the King. MY KING.
I fell asleep and somehow my brother (who was curled up next to me in what had to be the most uncomfortable chair ever constructed) did too. We woke up a couple hours later to the doctor giving me another report, "it looks like your levels have dropped significantly and your liver will have some scarring." I was so thankful for these words but God wasn't finished yet pouring out His grace. Hours later, the doctor would notify me that my toxin levels had dropped completely and I would have no problems with my liver.
This is my secret.
I tried to take my life. This is my story. By the grace of God, He saved me.
This has taken a lot of bravery to share my story and my hope is that by sharing this story that those of you who are fighting will find hope and peace in Christ. Suicide isn't hope. Jesus is.
Please! If you are struggling and you don’t know who to turn to:
In the U.S. – Call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255) or the National Hopeline Network at 1-800-SUICIDE (1-800-784-2433). These toll-free crisis hotlines offer 24-hour suicide prevention and support. Your call is free and confidential.
Outside the U.S. – Visit IASP or Suicide.org to find a helpline in your country.
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