In honor of Suicide Prevention Month, we recently heard from a woman who has experienced brushes with suicide as a Wife, a Mom, and a Sister.  Tonight, we get to hear from Jay.  Jay has not only experienced suicide loss as a young child but he, himself, is a suicide attempt survivor. 

I will give you a fair warning that Jay’s story is cringy and it is incredibly uncomfortable to read.  For one, he endured abuse as a child.  That abuse catapulted him into feelings of inadequacy and into a lifelong battle with depression and anxiety.  And, who wants to read about that, right?  That’s the problem though, my friends.  There are literally thousands of young adults that could tell a story similar to Jay’s.  Uncomfortable or not, their stories need to be heard if we hope to remove the stigma surrounding mental illness and suicide.

Suicide is now thought to be the 2nd leading cause of death for Americans between the ages of 10 and 34.  To say that we have a mental health crisis among adolescents and young adults in the US is a gross understatement.  In 2017, suicide claimed the lives of 6,241 individuals between the ages of 15 and 24.  That alarming number does NOT even include the thousands upon thousands of young men and women that attempt suicide and survive to tell their story….  like Jay. 

Thank you, Jay, for being brave enough to so publicly share your painful story.  Please know how incredibly happy I am that you are HERE to advocate for others like yourself.

XO – Jennifer

Surviving Suicide & Finding Hope – Writer:  Jay W. 

My story starts when I was five years old on a warm July night.  My mom woke me up saying there was an accident, but that everything would be ok.  I was wrapped in my blanket and scooped up before being hurried into the car and taken to my Aunt’s house.  It was so late at night I remember just kind of dozing back off until daybreak.

It wasn’t long after waking up I realized that my uncle, Bryon Stevenson, had taken his life the evening prior.  I couldn’t comprehend at my young age, the thought of someone ending their own heartbeat.

I think about the darkness and the hopelessness that he must have felt.  The loneliness, or the heartbreak… the stress of not feeling good enough.

Fast forward ten years. It is almost a month before my 16th birthday.  In the years leading up, I’d been physically and mentally abused by a “man” who was supposed to, at the time, be my protector and my provider.  Most of what was provided were doses of being called “a little faggot,” and being choked out.

The “friends” I chose to hang with at school didn’t understand me in the slightest.  My mom was so busy and so stressed.  Most of my family didn’t see the signs of my depression and anxiety taking over due to my willingness to play the clown to get a smile, or a laugh… something I did in an attempt to put me back in touch with the goodness of humanity.  But I couldn’t feel it or find it for real.

After a few weeks of running the scenario in my head, I decided my family would be better off without me disappointing them with my mistakes.  One night I had gotten ahold of some benzodiazepines from an older friend who thought I was just trying to sell them for money.  I swallowed a couple handfuls of my concoction along with some of the nastiest vodka I had ever ingested.  I got into bed when I started to see my world start swirling together and I told myself, “it’s almost over.”  I laid back and wrapped myself in my blankets, with hopes of never waking up again. 

The next thing I remember is in fact waking up.... face down in more vomit then I knew any human could expel.  My bed, my floor, and my walls were covered in bloody vomit. 

Instead of knocking out and drowning in my own bile as planned, somehow, I ended up off my back and face down on my bedroom floor.  I remember being able to play it off like I’d caught a bad bug after cleaning an insane amount of the nastiest mess I had ever seen.  I told my mom what I thought was a solid lie and got myself into the clear. All the while thinking, “You’re such a screw up, you can’t even kill yourself right.”

The thought of taking my soul away from this place didn’t evade me.  Each moment at school, as well as when I spent time with friends and family, all I thought about was how they were burdened by my mere existence.

A few months later I decided it was time to try again.  Christmas night, 2002, I was clutching a brand-new pack or razorblades from the local grocery store I worked at.  I’d taken up self-mutilation as an attempt to alleviate some of my inner hatred, as well as an extremely unhealthy coping mechanism when it came to being depressed.

That night while my family slumbered away in their food comas, I sat on the floor of my room listening to some CDs I had gotten for the holiday as gifts.  I was writing a note for my little brothers and just soaking up the calm energy that was all about the place.  I opened the case of razor blades and put a small slit on the back of my ankle, the adrenaline always hyped me up from the rush of pain.

I flipped over my left arm with a fresh razor in my right, and placed it to my skin.  At that very moment a song called “Timberwolves in New Jersey” by Taking Back Sunday came out of my speakers.  I can’t explain it really, but I was hit with this insanely heavy brick of emotion.  Every face of my family and those few people I called friends rushed into my head.  The lyrics and the groove resonated inside my chest.  Before I knew it, I was a naked, sobbing, mess of a teenager, rocking on my bedroom floor, holding myself by my knees and just overwhelmed with a feeling that I hadn’t felt in probably 8 years.

Hope. I was filled with HOPE.

In one of my darkest hours, the cosmos reached down and shed me just enough light to see through to another path.  To this day, I still have no idea what exactly came over me or what compelled me to try to fight through another day.  Now, looking down at my child while they sleep, or reading messages from mixed up humans just trying to make it through each day, tells me the universe had something in store for me that I couldn’t comprehend at the time.

I’m not a religious man, but I have my spiritual/cosmic beliefs.  I truly feel like my purpose on this rock is to show others that no matter how hopeless, no matter how far down the rabbit hole you go, you can always make it back.

I live each day hoping that I can help my little ones learn more about loving others.  I try to spread a message of hope, acceptance, and togetherness through music.  I try to make everyone around me feel loved because so many of us feel truly worthless.  It took years of rebuilding, therapy, and support from real friends and family to get where I am now.  I would also be lying if I said that depression and anxiety aren’t still relevant in my life.  I am just lucky enough to have surrounded myself with a solid support system and I stay vocal about my struggles with folks I trust.  Not everyone has it that easy.  In fact, most suffer in silence, trying to make others happy while they die inside.

Look out for your friends and loved ones.  My support team and I do “homie check-ins” where we take turns messaging each other to see if there is anything we can do for one another. 

I now live my days to help some mixed up kid see that if they don’t succumb to the darkness, they can blind the world with their light. 

Thank you for allowing me to share a bit of my story and to try to bring awareness.  Thank you to anyone who reads my words and can find some inspiration or solace. 

-Jay W.

National Hotline for Suicide Prevention: 1-800-273-8255 or Text HELP to 741741