Before It's Too Late

I can relate to Grayson Murray’s tragic death because I also once tried to end it all

After Grayson Murray took his life last week, I saw countless tweets about taking the time to reach out to family and friends because you never know who is struggling. Those are important words, so I reached out to a few people. I should do a better job of staying in touch with them. It also made me reflect on the lowest point in my life and whether a text or a phone call would have helped on that day. My message is to the people who are struggling. 

I don't know what Murray was going through. I don't know the details of his depression and addiction. Quite frankly, that is none of my business. I do know what it feels like to want to take your own life. The news of Murray's suicide hit me differently than it did for most, I'd guess. That’s because it made me think back to the day I tried to take my own life–the desperation, the feeling of failure, and hating yourself so much that you wanted to end it all.

I was hesitant to write this article. In the aftermath of Murray’s death, the last thing I want to do is make this about my struggles. I also believe talking about mental health is vital and that I have something valuable to share about my struggles. I texted Michael Bamberger, my mentor, who wrote a book in which I was one of the main subjects. In it, I opened up about my mental health struggles. I asked him if it was OK to write about my struggles so soon after Murray's death.

"More than OK,” Bamberger replied. “Welcome." 

I attempted to take my own life about 15 years ago. I was 30, the same age as Grayson. I was in a Las Vegas hotel room, and I was drunk. I was determined to die, but when the window wouldn't open, I was too drunk to figure out another way to do it. For years, I had lied to others and myself that I was OK. I was anything but. The world crashed down on me that day. I'll never forget how I felt in that room–true desperation and panic that I have never felt nor will ever be able to put into words. It wasn’t panic because I wanted to die; it was panic that I couldn’t figure out how to. Living was the scary part. Too many nights of drinking, too many stupid decisions, too many hands of blackjack and too many women. It was all a diversion to cover up that I hated myself. It made me come off as selfish and a poor son, sibling and friend. 

I went to the lobby and called my mom. I don't remember what was said. I do remember waking up in a Las Vegas hospital room, unable to eat the ham sandwich I had been given without falling asleep. The staff had sedated me while my parents were flying in from Michigan. I would take a couple of bites before falling asleep, wake up, take a few more bites, and fall asleep again. I was alone in a hospital room. I had just blown up my life, and I couldn’t so much as take a bite from a ham sandwich. I still wanted to die. I was angry that I hadn’t found a way to do it. That feeling didn't go away for a long time. It was a mix of guilt for whom I had hurt, the shame of attempting suicide, and the embarrassment of it all. 

That day led me home, both figuratively and literally, to live with my parents, and to a psychologist who changed my life. 

I thought about that day when I got a text about Murray. I felt the anguish of knowing, in some small way, what he felt and how helpless that feeling was. I wish that on no one. I'm sad he felt there was no way out, but I also understand how it became too much. 

A text message or a call that day in Las Vegas wouldn't have helped me. I was too far gone. I would have told you I was with a beautiful woman and that we were drinking, gambling and having sex. "What could be wrong?" I would have said. All of those things were true, but I was also dying inside. It was too late for a concerned text or a call; I had been living a lie for years in saying I was OK. I would have lied that day, too. An argument at the pool was the final straw. I was in crisis. I headed to my hotel room, determined to end it all. 

If I could go back in time, I would go back way before Vegas. I would get help, real help. And I would be honest. See, I was going to a counselor, but it was to check off a box for the people in my life. I lied in those meetings, too. 

If I could go back in time, I would sit in my counselor's office and tell her I was dying inside. Tell her I hated myself and hated the things I did to cover up that feeling. I'd beg for help, any help, to make that feeling go away. I'd cry and scream more instead of bottling it all up inside. I'd set aside the Jack Daniels and tell my best friend I wasn't OK. 

I'd be as aware of my mental health as I am now. I would realize sleeping in and not caring about the things you should aren’t far away from a very dark path that led me to that Las Vegas hotel room window. 

Grayson Murray, who was 30 when he took his life, said in his interview that it was OK not to be OK. I know as well as anyone that those words are great in theory but hard to practice.

It won't be easy. If anyone tries to tell you otherwise, they haven't been through it or are liars themselves. 

So my advice if you are struggling is to stop lying to everyone who asks. Take a deep breath and tell them the truth. I know it's hard. Tell them in a text, a voicemail or a phone call. Tell them you aren't OK and tell them you need to talk. Tell them you need help.

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