Suicide Songs: Intro

The last few weeks were an introduction to poetry and to myself. I started writing poetry because I was hopelessly depressed and I had no voice. I had no one to talk to. No one I trusted. I was alone. Alone in my pain. Poetry kept me alive. Poetry gave me life. Poetry gave structure to my chaos and confusion. I was mentally ill but wasn't sure. I didn't want to accept myself because I was afraid of what my family and church (i.e. everyone I knew) would do to me if they found out I was gay. So I tried to drown myself when I was 11. I started cutting myself when I was 15. I also stopped eating. I don't know how I would have survived without poetry. If I couldn't say everything I needed to say without actually saying it.

But as I mentioned in the mini-memoir, I did end up in a mental hospital when I was 16. It really was the best thing that could have happened to me. Even though the boy broke my heart and I let that screw up my most important friendship, I was no longer alone. There are so many people out there just like me. Suffering from the same depression and oppression. But that's where traditional therapy ends. It gives you the tools to overcome obstacles. It provides a system that reduces your risk of relapsing. But it can't make you forget. And I'll talk more about this next week.

For these next 7 days, I'm just going to share 7 stories. 7 completely different souls. 7 completely different circumstances. 7 same "solutions" to those 7 very different problems. Just 7 ways suicide happens in our society.

I Think I Love You: Part 1

I Don’t Want To Hear “I Love You”

Is there anything crazier than falling in love in a psychiatric hospital? I’m not sure if it was true love, but it was the first time I said “I love you” and meant it. Where else could I possibly find someone as broken as I am? I’ll never forget my stay at Canyon Ridge Hospital in Southern California my senior year of high school. How can I forget when I’m reminded every time I look at the scars on my wrists? 

When I used to tell the story of my first real relationship, the setting is “summer camp” and I conveniently avoid pronouns. Now I’m a senior in college in New York City and in a much better place in every way. I don’t feel like I have to lie anymore. Instead of arriving in a “school bus,” I arrived strapped down in an ambulance.

Maybe it was Cupid’s arrow or whatever drugs were dripping in my IV, but I fell in love with the first person who talked to me who wasn’t taking my vitals. I was sitting silently in a room with about five other boys who were laughing at whatever teenage boys draw on whiteboards to amuse themselves. 

Then one boy smiled at me and came over. He asked me if this was my first time in a “place like this.” I nodded. The next thing he asked was if I was gay or straight?

Coming Out as Bipolar