Courage

“The original definition of courage when it first came into the English language, from the Latin word ‘cor’, meaning ‘heart’, was to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart.”  – Brené Brown, TED Lecture, 2010

Some years ago I did what looked like a crazy thing.  Over a three year period, as I traveled the United States for my work as a trainer of therapists, I put out the word that I wanted to interview people who had attempted suicide, and specifically, people who, through their own hard work, and the assiduous care of others, reclaimed the qualities of balance, perspective, connectedness and happiness in their lives.  People who came back to life, literally from death’s door.

Partly, it came from my training as a researcher.  I was taught that if you wanted to understand a deep part of human experience, in this case psychological and emotional healing, it was essential to listen to and chronicle the stories of those who had truly been there; who had powerfully experienced it's entire arc. This is called participatory research and it’s less about statistics and more about “stepping into someone else’s shoes” in order to derive a true sense of what it’s like.

And, partly, it came from a quirky optimism I seem to have, that arose both in working with others, but also in my own life; a recognition that when we are pushed to the edge, up against the wall…really challenged by significant life issues, that that wall represents the edge of the box we are trapped in; the box we rummage around in that generates a lot of suffering for ourselves, and most often, for our loved ones.  So, bad news-good news.  The bad news is that we suffer, often caught in this box of limited perspective and constricted narratives.  The good news, is that when we are up against the edge, the inside wall, we are only a hairs-breath away from jumping out of the box altogether!

So, I traveled the country, sitting with people, in their homes or in nature, often for three, four, or five hours at a time, listening to and recording their stories, sometimes harrowing and unflinching in detail. But listening particularly to the parts of the story that detailed how people began to embrace life again, and humbly, little by little, came to believe again – in possibility, in others, and, blessedly, in themselves.   I discovered that these deeply personal stories, were also universal stories.  I learned that in listening without prejudice or fear, these stories shed much light on precisely how all of us can bring ourselves back to life…not only from the brink of life and death; not just in a suicidal context, but with regard to the dizzying array of other challenges all of us face in our lives.  Those I interviewed told their stories, with a full and open heart, both to help others, and so that one day, others wouldn’t have a story like that of their own to tell.  I was blown away by their courage. Still am.

A final note:  In writing Waking Up, Alive, it was not my intention to create another trend or another series of identities through which people can define themselves. In fact, it is my fervent hope that as we move further into the 21st Century, people will define themselves in terms of their strengths and their potential rather than their wounds. I have undertaken this work in order to break the silence to which so many—be they survivors of suicide attempts or the enormous number of people who secretly contemplate the act—have sentenced themselves, and to open communication between those who have attempted and those who haven’t. Ultimately, this book was written for everyone, for each person bears his or her share of pain, and everyone has felt stuck at one point or another in his or her life. I chose to write  Waking Up, Alive so that we may remember that there always exists a “yes” after what seems to be the final “no.”

I hope that in some small measure these words may alleviate suffering in the mysterious world in which we live.

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Ed - The Heart of the Attempt

“What I really wanted was a part of me to die. [All of] life didn’t stink, but that situation did, and it was a huge bruise that I had to heal and couldn’t. I didn't want to throw away the whole thing, but I did not know how to heal the bruise at the time. The only way I knew was to throw away the whole apple.”

Ed’s is a cautionary tale about our cultural heroes and who we need them to be. No one is uni-dimensional, but attempting to be so, can be life threatening. And, in itself, being gay is not a cause of suicide, but because of ignorance and societal pressures, the façade that one must create to hide in plain site, can be. Ed's is also a story of tremendous heart and courage as he returns to life, becomes a public figure and inspires others, but before that, we can see how lost he became in what I call the 'suicidal trance', and how deeply he plummeted.

"When John Lennon was murdered in 1980, it sounds strange, but that inspired me to…[realize] that maybe I have a talent. I thought, ‘If I can do one one-thousandth of what Lennon did, maybe I can accomplish something in this world.’ To my thinking, then, it seemed all the great ones—Lennon, Martin Luther King, Kennedy—they go out with a boom. Something about that turned me on. Something about how they went out and how they were loved afterwards. Maybe one day I’ll spring a hit on everyone and they’ll look back and realize that Gallagher just didn’t play football and physical things—that he had some kind of brain."

Secretly, Ed began to romance death…as a means for his truer self to be seen. As the disparity between his inner and more public selves grew, Ed became both more clandestine and impulsive. Early one morning, about three A.M., he stole into New York City to hire a prostitute. He was afraid of what he felt inside. He desperately wanted to affirm that he wasn’t gay.

"I was glad afterward. I was thinking, 'Wow, I can really do this. Maybe I’m not gay. Maybe my friends won’t suspect I am.' I was still playing the jockish part of my nature in public. [Privately], I said to myself, “Let me write these songs in secret.”

Ed began to study songwriting formally and it bore unexpected side effects. As he received encouragement from his teachers, he stretched beyond the cloak of  'Big Ed'.  Combining visits to music classes with explorations in Manhattan, Ed ventured into Greenwich Village, specifically the West Village, where the gay community lived in high concentration. It was there he had his first encounter with the life he’d so surreptitiously fantasized about for over a decade.

"I was curious, but I acted disinterested. Very guarded, very intrigued. I’d start to hang out more frequently, still not even entering one of the gay bars—just walking past; looking in but acting nonchalant. I did that many times—eat by myself, walk past a bar, going to Washington Square. Finally one evening, I said, “Fuck, man, I’m twenty-seven years old! I can do what I want!” and after having a bite to eat, and getting a little bit tanked—not too much, but I feel good—I go into this bar—I won’t tell you the name of it—and I feel different. I can talk with guys and feel good about it. I can be myself ! I was gonna leave, but this guy asked me to his place. I’m thinking, “He’s really good looking, and I say to him, “I never really did this stuff before.” He said, “It’s okay, I’ll help you—I’ll show you.” He was coming on to me, I know, but he was also nice, not pushy. I’d never even kissed a guy, let alone done anything else. I felt so comfortable to be myself. I had a real nice time. It also helped I was a little tanked!"

That night, Ed embraced his longing for a man, and for a few precious hours he felt whole. Yet at some deeper level, the binary construction of his psyche, the sharp division of self that he’d been living with for so many years, became inflamed. Driving home the next day, Ed was consumed with fear.

"I started thinking, “Now what? You can’t go back to your old lifestyle! How can I look my friends in the eye, my friends who think I’m straight as an arrow? You never told anyone and then just because you walk down Greenwich Village, you get involved with someone!”

The intensity of his self-flagellation increased, and Ed, alone more than ever, grew frightened and more savage with himself.

"Then I started thinking of AIDS, of which I knew next to nothing. “Was I careful? Was I not? What did you do! You stepped into this new world and then you get AIDS! You’re gonna kill anybody you come near.” I remember going to work and not wanting to breathe near anyone.”

One might think that Ed’s first encounter caused his suicide attempt. It didn’t. One must look deeper.  The now longstanding pattern of hiding, secreting himself away with no support, no friend or mentor to offer perspective, created a fault-line so deep, that he couldn’t withstand the internal pressure.

“I never had an experience opening up to anyone and I couldn’t do it now.”

THE HEART OF THE ATTEMPT

What drives someone, in these final moments, to carry out his or her plan rather than interrupt it? What is the nature of the momentum that continues one forward, often despite consider- able obstacles? The answer to these questions lies in at least one of the following desires:

    • To escape a dilemma that feels inescapable

    • To gain control of uncontrollable confusion

    • To send a message when all others means of communication have failed

There’s a dam in upstate New York near the small town where Ed had been a high school all-star and hero. He drove to the top knowing that in its seventy year history, none of the forty people who jumped from it had survived. Ed couldn’t imagine living life as a gay man, nor could he endure one more day of the vicious and corrosive self-hatred which was consuming him. He paused for a half-hour or so, then tumbled.

Someone witnessed the fall…a medical student, taking a walk nearby.  When he reached Ed at the bottom, Ed asked:

“Did I do it?”

“Yes,” the young man replied.

“Am I gonna die?”

“I don’t think so,” he said.

“Shit.”

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Ed

Ed:

Most of the problems started when I was fourteen. My dad’s business started going downhill. He had emphysema and he’d smoke all the time. I was preoccupied with him, because I never knew how long he was gonna live. I was six-feet-four and 170 pounds. I started to get all these sexual feelings. They were homosexual feelings.

In adolescence, it’s common for one’s self-esteem to be shaky, but Ed’s problems were compounded. Searching for some validation as ‘normal’, amidst considerable internal doubts, Ed took the advice of friends and teachers and tried out for football. By his senior year, he grew to an imposing six-feet-five, 233-pound eighteen-year-old, relieved to be winning the approval of family and friends and happy that he could excel at the most popular sport in town. As Ed’s popularity soared,  the adulation provided the opportunity for him to hide—in plain sight.

I thought, “What is this shit!” When I’d fantasize, the gay stuff would come up. I’d like it [but] I’d be scared at the same time, and I’d say to God, “Please don’t let anybody find out.”

I can’t appreciate enough how forthright and unflinchingly honest Ed was during the many hours we spoke. Ed is a large man, but one would be mistaken to attribute the effect of his presence to size alone. Rather, it’s the breath of his spirit, the passion with which he approaches nearly everything in life. He speaks graphically. Holding a listener in the powerful beam of his attention, he says precisely what he feels to be true. He may apologize later for startling one’s sensibilities, but he will not dilute or sidestep the facts of his life.

There is so much in his story that is illustrative of being caught in suicide’s dangerous cross-currents. This part vividly portrays how people begin to withdraw, hide in plain site, as I mentioned, and create a mask or façade to prevent others from seeing in and sensing the deeper, more tender, authentic aspects of one’s makeup.

I started having these conflicting feelings. I started being attracted to some of my friends. Some were girls, but some were boys. It was all normal, but I didn’t know. I didn’t tell anybody. That’s when a lot of it started. I started getting [withdrawn]. I couldn’t speak in front of the class without turning into a radish.

Withdrawal may begin in small increments, and from the outside it may not be easy to detect: little things left unsaid, eyes that don’t look up to meet your gaze, a faraway expression. A loved one may seem preoccupied—it seems s/he is somewhere else—or for a moment she shows a flash of irritation or anger, sadness or frustration, and then it’s gone, buried in silence. Speaking to him, you might get the sense that your words aren’t heard—that they fall flat or seem not to impact—or his words seem slightly out of sync, absent of feeling, not about what’s really going on. Often, one spends considerable effort to make things appear okay:

“I was just trying so hard to pass for normal.”

The “Withdrawal” is an identifiable stage as one descends into feeling suicidal. It’s complex process, with two complementary mechanisms. It offers protection, a cloak in which one can disappear, take refuge from overwhelming stress. Clinicians who are specialists in the field of trauma understand this to be a natural response. In a sense, it is nature caring for itself. On the other hand, the withdrawal often becomes generalized—a habitual posture of retreat from the world, which insidiously becomes a lifestyle and then a trap.

I made all-county and then all-state. I had a pretty good year, but it also put a lot of pressure on me. I’d imagine people wondering: “Why doesn’t he have girlfriends?” I put all my energy into sports. Not wanting to face my inner feelings, pretending I was too busy to do other things with friends. I actually took a girl to the prom. I knew she liked me, and I did have attractions to certain women, but toward the end of that year, the guilt of it all started really hanging on me. “Oh shit, man, how is this ever gonna work out?”

Ed was offered numerous football scholarships and chose the University of Pittsburgh, one of the best teams in the country. Almost, but never quite, outrunning his fears and anxieties, he entered into a near-Faustian bargain with the world:

I can play football. I can do that. And I can pretend, but please don’t let them see underneath. Looming over me was the big question: “Are they gonna know I’m gay?” I tried to live up to the beer commercials. I can remember my dad and his friend’s saying-—“faggot” this or “faggot” that.

Ed entered the ultra masculine world of collegiate football, with its rabid fans, intrusive alumni, and its single-minded obsession with victory. He was a young Adonis—strong, carefree, and sexually attractive. He represented heroic America at its best, and he did his best to throw himself into the role.

I played the game. I got tanked up and fooled around with some of the co-eds, and I enjoyed it, and I’d say to myself, “This was okay. I must not be gay. I’m not a fag!” I really hated those words and I really hated feeling this. Underneath, I was just very lonely. I wasn’t preoccupied with it all the time, but a lot, because it clashed with what I thought I should be. I wanted to be so much like others. I started communicating less and less. I [was afraid] it was like dominoes: if I ever communicated even some of my intimate feelings, it would [all] unravel and people would hate me.

The pattern had been established. Ed projected only the thoughts and actions that supported his idea of what he wanted other people to see. Everything else was censored.

I hated myself in many ways because I didn’t like this—this double life I was trying to lead. I liked to write poetry I liked to write things like that and be sensitive, and whenever a damn teardrop hit me, I’d say, “You fucking chump! What are you feeling that way for?”

He was celebrated on campus as one of the better football players, and when Pitt won the national championship, he was invited by the New York Jets to their tryout camp. His prospects soared and friends and family were pulling for the Ed they thought they knew. The adulation and his inner torment built to a near equal pitch.

Never in my life had I known such uncontrolled fear. Did I tip anyone off as to how I was feeling? No, of course not! At six-feet-six and 240 pounds, could Big Ed admit to anyone, even himself, that he was going under? I mean, totally losing it, and only partially being aware of the fact?

Each day Ed battled to resist his urge to relieve the tension and tell someone. He would not permit himself to divulge his secret to friends, but he felt he was about to explode. Agitated and confused, Ed made an anonymous phone call late one night to the university crisis center.

I remember going to a phone booth, looking up the counseling center number, and talking a little bit, saying, “Hey, I don’t want you to know who I am, but there’s a little problem. I think I’m a little bit queer or something. “ We talked just a few minutes—I don’t even remember what was said—and then I hung up. I remember it felt so good just to say it. And that she didn’t know who I was and didn’t care that I was well known or not. It felt so good knowing that somebody somewhere knows a little bit about me, even if they don’t know my name. It felt like it popped this internal balloon, relieved the pressure just to talk about it. I felt pleasure for months after that, but I didn’t realize and look closely that this was the way to go—talking about it. I didn’t capitalize on it and use it as a learning experience. I went back to football—back to the same stuff, the same old thing...(to be continued...)

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