You are not alone. Millions of people each year attempt suicide, feeling hopeless and in despair. During the years I've spent at the Suicide Prevention Center, I am repeatedly struck by the marked similarity in what hurts us as people. Sometimes, a particular call catches my attention. It is never the particulars, but rather the way in which that person's story emphasized some basic need we all share as human beings.

I want to stress that all calls to the hotline are held in the strictest confidence. For this reason, I will never share with anyone a personal conversation without their explicit permission. Names, locations, jobs, and particular details have therefore been modified to guarantee the anonymity of the callers, while attempting to preserve the essence of the call. The stories below are either shared with permission or sufficiently modified to preserve the confidentiality of the people involved.

While each person is unique, we all share a common thread of feelings and needs. Even when our approaches differ, that commonality weaves it's way into virtually every person I speak to each week. If you recognize some of yourself in the following, know that you are not alone -- that others have come before you, and will follow, that have suffered the deep pain you feel right now. Take their stories as yet another step toward rebuilding your own foundation.

 

  • The Man Without a Voice
  • The Woman in the Bath
  • The Convict

I knew Jack was in a lot of pain from the moment I picked up the phone. I hardly got out the words "Hello Jack" when the shouting started. "What's the point?!" he asked, getting right to it. I tried again. "Jack, what's going on tonight?" More shouting. He repeated the question. "What's the point?!"

Several minutes passed this way before Jack was ready to tell me what was going on. "I'm almost out of money," Jack said, "and I haven't gotten laid in over a year. What's the point? No one will miss me." There wasn't much I could say.

Slowly, his story unfolded. He was used to the good life. A comfortable childhood. Well paying jobs. As the years passed, his jobs changed, but his spending did not. Slowly, imperceptably, the debt grew. He didn't even notice until the creditors started hounding him. Now, owing many thousands of dollars, Jack had reacd his limit, both financially and spiritually.

For a few moments I felt helpless. Sure, I had owed a credit card some money before. Like many Americans, I had learned the hard way about the consequences of living beyond my means. But not like this. No creditor had ever called my house. How could I possibly understand what he was going through? As if reading my mind, he suddenly asked me "why should you care? You wouldn't even understand." "I don't" I said. It was true, after all.

We spoke for a few minutes more about what he was feeling, and how he had wound up in this hole. In vain I asked questions about his work and his life, hoping to help him solve his financial woes. I would ask a question about past jobs or future options, and he would reply quickly, pushing my suggestion to the side. This went on for several minutes, and I started to sense there was something more. And then the 'something more' finally came: "They don't trust me anymore," he said.

Jack felt that he had proven himself over the last few years -- he had actually paid down his balances considerably, and shown he was no longer the free-spirited spender of the past. His debt was decreasing, and he was proud of his success. Then the call came. "We can't keep you as a customer anymore." During a credit review, they had decided they could not allow him a replacement card -- he would have to pay it off and move on. He was left at the mercy of corporations -- rules and regulations designed, understandably, to protect the company, not Jack. I finally understood.

"There's nothing out there for me, and I refuse to work at McDonald's!" Jack said, "I know, you must think I'm a snob." I didn't. I had heard the sentiment so often, I had almost finished the sentence for him. "No," I said. "You feel like you've spent so much of your life working toward something. It would feel like a spit in the face. Like going backward to 20 years ago."

Finally, Jack let down his guard. This was why Jack hurt tonight. No one respected him anymore. No one valued him for what he was capable of. No woman was by his side, valuing his presence. His voice changed for a moment, and I was shocked. I recognized the voice, though I couldn't place it. He told me where I had heard it, and then laughed. I told him, truthfully, that I was impressed by his work. I asked if he could get more work along the same lines. "No," he said. He explained that even now he could not get the same work he once could. That he was not capable enough a performer to compete with the "big boys." Jack had nothing left -- nothing to support him in the face of financial distress. No family and friends supporting him -- even his best friend had committed suicide years ago. No respect from the community -- he wasn't as good as those he looked up to in the field, and even the creditors had rejected him today. No self-worth -- no work that exploited his talents and helped him see meaning in his life.

I wanted to fix it for him, but I couldn't. On the phone, late at night, this was all I could offer. I told him what I saw, acting as little more than a mirror, hoping I was clear enough to let him understand what he had told me. He was calmer. I kept reminding myself I couldn't fix it all. He would be okay tonight. It was all I could ask for.

I still think about Jack. I tihnk about the enormous talent he couldn't see that evening, and the potential for so much more. And mostly, I hope he made it through that night, and found something that would let him begin his journey forward.

Sometimes, I get calls that haunt me for a long time. They seem to resolve themselves, but I'm still left feeling helpless. Sometimes I understand them later, sometimes not. This is one such story...

"Hi Carol." I said. There was a long pause. "Hey." Carol's voice was hard, flat. "What's going on tonight?" I asked. I heard the sound of water in the background, mixed with the faint sound of a highway or city street. "Not much." she replied.

I waited. The next sixty seconds poured over me like waves at the beach, and I gripped the phone tightly. So badly I wanted to speak, but I had nothing to say. I knew eventually she would say something. She just had to. I tried to think of something else, to stop myself from speaking. I drew a small flower with big fangs. A bunny that looked more like a deformed dog. Anything to keep me from talking. I knew I had to let her begin.

Her voice hit me hard. "Just taking a bath. I had some Tylenol for the pain." There was another pause, but this time I broke the silence. "What pain do you have?" "My boyfriend cheated on me." she replied. She took another Tylenol.

Carol explained that she was in the bath now, trying to relax. She took some more Tylenol, but couldn't make the pain go away. I heard something and asked what the noise was. "Some Advil." she said. I felt like crying. I knew the Tylenol and Advil wouldn't take away the pain. I had heard this, too, so many times before. Carol started counting all the times someone had hurt her in her life, taking more medication along the way.

My chest hurt, and I didn't know what to do. I asked if she'd like me to call 911, but she said no. I asked if she'd be willing to call a doctor, but she also declined. "If I wanted a doctor, I would have called her instead of you."

I was confused. She had called, but didn't want help. This wasn't supposed to happen. I waved at my supervisor and starting writing notes. I was the one that needed help now. It was early in my career as a crisis counselor, and I didn't yet understand that the pain Carol felt was an extension of being left alone and unwanted. That simply being there for her on the phone was precisely what she needed. Naively, I searched and searched for something to say, something to do. I wanted to fix it, but I could not.

"Have you ever felt this way before, Carol? Have you ever tried to kill yourself?" I asked. "Yes," she replied, "but obviously I screwed that up. Maybe this time it'll work. I doubt it, though. I can never do anything right." I asked again if she wanted me to call a doctor or ambulance for her, but she declined. There was nothing more I could do. We spoke a few minutes more, and then she thanked me. "Carol, I'm worried about you." I said. "Thank you." she replied. I heard a click.

I went home crying that night. It took me many months to even understand what had happened. There was so much more I wish I could have done, not understanding that there wasn't. This wasn't about fixing. The past is unfixable. What we see in the past can only help us when we focus on the present and future. The past is dead, and fixating on it only leads to more death. So, in part, I suppose this is my attempt to right my mistake -- the mistake of not being present enough to Carol that night. A night when she felt utterly alone and utterly abandoned. When all she really needed was someone, anyone, who simply cared.

Terry was upset. "What's going on?" I asked. Terry started to explain. We went back 15 years, to when she had stolen the car. "I screwed up bad." she said. She wanted the car, so she took it. Not even a second's thought as to whether it was a good idea. "It happened so fast," she recalled.

Many years had since passed. As a teenager, she had gotten away with a much reduced sentence, and had been in therapy ever since. "I'm really sorry." she said again and again. "So sorry."

Fifteen years of probation. Of being in and out of hearings and therapists sessions to ensure society's continued Safety. Terry had taken up where she left off as a teenager, doing entry-level work as a cashier. She would change locations from time to time, moving around, never feeling safe. She wanted so much more, but felt held back. Fifteen years, and no visible progress. "My kid needs so much time," she said, "and my boyfriend died a few years ago." She had a son, and was a single mother. No man would take her now, not with her history. It seemed she would rather be alone at this point anyway -- relationships came with too much judgement. I learned that her son suffered from a life-long illness -- one she wasn't ready to deal with on her own. "I love my son, but truthfully, I don't like him." The frankness of her tone made me realize just how hurt she really was.

I asked Terry what she wanted from her life. What it was that really hurt tonight. "I want to help people." There was a long pause. "No one will let me. I'm not allowed to get a professional license in anything! Not with this conviction. Besides, even if I did, no one would hire me."

Many times during a call there is a moment of utter helplessness that washes over me. A sudden question -- who am I to be helping this poor woman? I had no idea what recourse she could take. No knowledge of the intricacies of the law; no clue if she had some kind of case, some loophole to set her free. I tried anyway, desperate to fix it -- to make it all better. Suggestion after suggestion fell upon informed, rejecting ears. "I tried that." "I checked into that." "Yes, but they won't let me." I was at a loss.

And then, as often happens after this moment of helplessness, I had a realization. Seeing the futility of my attempts, I stepped back, and silenced my mind. Forced back, my mind slowly weaved back into the problem anew, and the real problem slowly surfaced, clear of my personal debris. Terry was trapped. Haunted. She tried to let go of the past, but the world chained it to her with eery determination. It tattooed her conviction to her forehead in crimson, describing her with a crime that no longer defined her. Every job, every interview. A promise not to discriminate, but then, why hire her when you had an equally good candidate that was conviction-free?

As a society, we do not forget. I'm not sure if we really forgive. I searched for a few moments, letting her continue to explain while I thought, trying to offer directions toward hope. Thankully, she was a better counselor than I that night, and offered her own. "I want to be a life coach." she said "but I'm afraid I'll be shunned if anyone ever learns about my past." She already knew the way out; she simply didn't know how to get started. I had only one suggestion left, and closed my eyes tightly, praying it would be the right one. "Maybe you could become a life coach for other people like you? People haunted by their past actions, who are trying to recover?" Terry's voice lifted a bit. After a few minutes, she ended the conversation herself, looking forward to morning.

Part of me was glad I'd been able to help. It feels good, you know, when a client walks away visibly changed. And yet, another part of me knows everything isn't okay. Terry will still live shunned, possibly forever. She will still wear that albatross, forever looking into suspicious eyes and angry citizens who believe she never deserved a second chance.