Suicide

I attempted suicide in 2003. I came pretty close a second time in 2006.

If I am being honest—and I have never told anyone about this—I think about it pretty much every day.

Maybe I am overstating things a bit. Most days I don’t think about it at all. But when things get tough, when the fear and anxiety get unmanageable, that is inevitably where my brain goes. I certainly don’t romanticize it, but if I would be lying if that isn’t often the first solution I think of—just check out and get away from all these problems.

What problems? Now, I am probably one of those for whom people would find my suicide difficult to understand. I have a loving, almost perfect marriage of 25 years. I have 7 wonderful cats. I am reasonably wealthy. And I am medium famous, too. I live in South Carolina where the weather is awesome and the vibe is decidedly laid-back. I can tell you from someone who has gotten pretty close to doing it—nobody knows the reason why, not even the people closest to that person. It is an intensely personal and private matter.

I have had two close friends commit suicide in the last five years, as well as a few acquaintances. A local guy who once confided in me that he was bipolar—he was very guarded about it, and didn’t want anyone to know. I asked him what medication he was on, if he was on a mood stabilizer or an antipsychotic, and he said he got off those medications (because of the side effects, allegedly), and went on Wellbutrin instead. That is a bit like taking a psoriasis medication for high blood pressure. I knew that was trouble, but I didn’t press him on it, and a year later, he was dead. Shot himself with his parents’ shotgun in their garage on a hot summer day. The landscaper found him. I went to the memorial service. It was a tough one. Not one person in that entire church knew what he was going through—except for me. There was a lot of blame to go around for that one, including the handful of people I knew who were trying to convince him that he did not have a mental illness. But nobody, including me, knew the exact reason why. There was no explanation.

A very, very good friend of mine killed himself in 2019. The story is long, but here are the bullet points. His wife cheated on him in absolutely horrific fashion, and he learned about it on an absolutely horrific day. Got engaged a few years later and she cheated on him and laughed about it. By this point he had transitioned away from Wall Street and was doing real estate full-time, and developed paranoid delusions about going bankrupt and his partners stealing from him. It was not difficult to connect the dots on how he arrived at this mental state. After being betrayed twice, he didn’t trust anybody. This went on for a few years. I talked to him frequently, and I urged him to see a psychiatrist. He eventually did, but refused to take the medication. He had been threatening suicide for a while, and at the point that his threats became credible, I pleaded with his then-girlfriend to get him hospitalized. She instead took him back to the psychiatrist, who gave him a clean bill of health, and two weeks later he was suspended from his back porch by his neck. This time, I did know the exact reason why. And there I was, in another memorial service (which was disgracefully poorly attended), and the only person in the room who had any idea what was going on was me. Talk about survivors’ guilt. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of him. He left behind three children, the oldest of which had unkind things to say about him at the service.

There are others. A former Lehman colleague, divorced, by all accounts an alcoholic, and living alone. A young guy in his early thirties who lived through two hedge funds blowing up in succession. And a contemporary of mine, one of the smartest, funniest people I have ever met, who may have been worth half a billion dollars, ended his life for no apparent reason. I know that he had a difficult divorce, but that is all I know. He had a pained expression when I asked him about it, from a man who could find humor in every situation.

After having a front or second-row seat to these deaths, I noticed one common thread: their deaths profoundly affected thousands of people. Their immediate families, of course, including parents, brothers, sisters, wives, children, cousins, and distant family. Their co-workers, which in a place like Lehman could number in the hundreds. Friends. Friends of friends. Friends of friends of friends. High school classmates, college classmates, and grade school classmates. Think of the ridiculous number of people you touch in your life—and they all remember the way you made them feel. The impact you have. And when you take your own life, you are causing all of these people an enormous amount of pain. All of them. If there’s anything that keeps me from killing myself, this is it—seeing the faces of all those people at all those funerals. And the pain never goes away.

Here is the sad reality—if someone wants to commit suicide, they are going to do it. There is nothing you can do to stop them. Sure, you might get someone into the hospital on a 72-hour hold, and sure, that might work, but if someone really has suicidal ideation, and they are planning, and plotting, and thinking about every detail, they will carry it through to completion. Now, anytime someone commits suicide, like a celebrity or something, you inevitably have the dickheads saying things like: it was a selfish act. Ok, sure. I have been in that position—twice—and I can tell you that when you are in that much psychic pain, all you are trying to do is to stop the pain. Nothing else matters. I have a great deal of empathy for people in this situation.

I find the phrase “suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem” to be exceedingly glib. But there is truth in it. There is no pain that I’ve gone through that…hasn’t eventually gone away on its own. It may not feel temporary at the time, but it is. Time passes. Things change. This, too, shall pass. But try reasoning with a suicidal person. Try having that discussion. They won’t listen. When you’re in that much pain, you don’t want to listen to anyone. You don’t want to listen to anyone telling you that your reality isn’t real, that your experiences are not valid. Go ahead. Call people selfish. Pray that you are never in the same situation. I doubt your conduct will be any more valorous.

I attempted suicide by taking a bunch of pills. My wife came home late that evening, and found me writhing on the floor, vomiting. I was also drunk. I remember that she grabbed a towel to mop up the floor around me, and I tore the towel with my teeth in a rage, furious that I was still alive.

But a funny thing happened the next morning. I felt very, very remorseful. And stupid. And embarrassed. I was sorry I did it. My wife looked up the number for a suicide hotline, and made me call it, after the fact. I talked to some young woman who seemed exceptionally bright. She asked me why I did it. I didn’t have the vocabulary. What I wanted to say was that I hated myself and I hated my life and I thought I was the biggest piece of shit in the world. But I could only manage monosyllables, still recovering from the effect of the pills and alcohol. Then my wife took me to a diner to get some food and I ate an omelet while watching the sun come up. I allowed myself to feel a little bit of hope, that maybe this was the bottom, and it would get better.

It was not the bottom. Things got worse. But I never tried to kill myself again.

My friend who killed himself in 2019 used to call me often, asking for help. I did the best I could. On more than one occasion I got angry with him, because he was incapable of learning what I was able to learn. I regret that, too. Towards the end, when he was at his worst, he called and left a voicemail. It began: “The paranoia…” I could hear the terror in his voice.

I listen to that voicemail sometimes, to remind me how bad things can get, and how grateful I am for the life I have today.

Take care of yourselves,

Jared

P.S. We’re Gonna Get Those Bastards will always be free. Please forward to whoever you like.