Ten years ago today, I was going to kill myself.

On August 31, 2011, I stood at the midpoint of the 730-foot-tall Foresthill Bridge. My body was pressed hard up against the 4 ½ foot barrier; my arms were stretched out wide to each side of me, with my hands gripping the top of the rail. I was bent far over, legs on one side of the barrier, head and torso on the other, and I was staring down at the North Fork of the American River, preparing to jump.

But I did not die that day. Instead, three thousand six hundred fifty-three days later, I now sit in front of my computer typing out this post, alive and on most days, really well.

From mental “hellness” to mental wellness, from the edge of death to the cusp of Life, my journey has been made possible by an array of spectacular souls. And the purpose of this post is to thank them for saving my life then, and keeping me alive, today.

My heroes appear to be rather ordinary, the kind of people you see in every part of your Life. They don’t stand out by appearance, and yet they stand tall because of who they are. These are the ones, for every day of the last ten years, who have stood by me, walked with me, supported me, picked me up, cheered me on, and moved me forward to this day.

The list is long, and while I will omit some by name for the sake of space, those not mentioned are equally significant.

My companions on this trek include my beloved fiancé, Summer, my former wife, Deanna, and my former partner, Keri, and her magnificent daughters, Michelle, Natalie, and Lauren.

Those who have accompanied me include all of my family members, with special mention of my brothers, John, Jim, and Tom, my sister-in-law, Staci, my nieces, Brooke and Jordan, and my nephew, Dustin. There are also next-tier “not-by-blood-but-just-as-close” family members: David, Michael, Tim, Brigid, Barry, and Lois Noonan.

In addition, a wide array of close friends and mentors have helped me in ways they are unaware of, and each has added a lasting impression on my Life. And, there have been medical and clinical professionals, superstars in the field of mental health, fellow advocates, and those I admire from afar who have paved the way for me to do what I am now called to do.

No matter our age, gender, or who we are, I believe we all have a lion spirit within.

And, lions want to roar, even injured ones.

Mental illness, PTSD, sexual assault, even Life itself can rob us of our voice. So much so that we can forget that we have a voice, that we are entitled to speak up, and that we have a right to roar.

Ten years ago, I had reached a point of hopelessness. On that fateful day, I stood unable to speak because I had lost my voice. In turn, I followed silently behind as the monster known as clinical depression took me forcibly by the hand to a dark spot on a tall, tall bridge.

But, thanks to others, I was able to push back from the rail, retrace my steps off the bridge, and begin the slow process of healing the broken parts of my soul and finding my voice again.

It didn’t happen right away.

Healing takes time, and in the beginning, others spoke for me. But eventually, with their help, my voice returned. There were even those surprise days when I not only recognized it, I even liked the sound of it.

It’s been a long trek, and it’s not over by a long shot.

But today, even with the scar tissue of mental illness and difficult days that can leave me wounded, I can open my mouth and roar.

Today is the first day of Suicide Awareness Month.

September is the time when we move the topic of suicide from the dark shadows where it now lives, to front of mind. As we do, we become increasingly aware of the severity of the problem and open to the possibility of a solution.

The truth is, the rising tide of suicides, in our country and the world, represents a significant threat to our way of life. Suicide is a big problem, a daunting and complicated issue. But I have come to believe it is a solvable problem, and that the solution is not only close at hand; it is in our hands.

Consider this. One of the primary causes of suicide is depression. At its core, depression is a disease of acute self-hatred, self-loathing, and self-criticism.

Depression is all about adopting as true, a host of dark and awful lies. These boldface lies, manifesting as beliefs, are the same ones that convince a person they are worthless, useless, and completely unlovable. They are the ones that have a person believe their hellish emotional pain is endless. And, most tragic of all, depression has you think the people in your life will be far better off in the wake of your death and the absence of your grotesque existence.

Believe me when I tell you, I know.

On August 31, 2011, I was going to kill myself. On that day, the monster known as clinical depression, took me forcibly by the hand and placed me on the precarious edge of the 730-foot tall Foresthill Bridge. Once there, the villain did all he could do to lift me up and over the suicide barrier and toss me away with the same level of disinterest we have when we dispose of a piece of trash.

But I was saved. I was pulled back from the edge by a simple, life-saving act of connection. In my case, it was a first responder leveraging the power of curiosity to create understanding. And in that fertile place of mutuality spring forth a bud of connection. In turn, connection blossomed into Hope, and Hope saved my life because that is what Hope does.

In the most typical sequence that leads to suicide, dark thoughts trigger overwhelming emotions, which can lead to harmful actions. Connection breaks that circuit. This is right because our minds cannot hold competing views. Therefore, in the space of connection, a person is safe since they cannot simultaneously think of living and dying at the same time.

On the other hand, without connection, that which we know can work, therapy, peer support, medication, and all forms of self-care, are not accessible. In the space of dis-connection, a suffering soul cannot take hold of the handle on the door of mental health, much less push it open.

But, with connection, someone like me can finally move forward and begin a journey away from mental “hellness” and towards the destination of mental wellness.

To be clear, while I believe the solution to the problem of suicide is simple, I am not saying it’s easy. The road I now travel is fraught with irregular terrain, sudden descents, twisting turns, sheer drop-offs, and treacherous climbs.

But there are also grand vistas, spectacular scenery, and roadside stands that serve up the sweet nectar of mental health, the likes of which I have never imagined possible.

Is it hard?

Yes.

Is it worth it?

Absolutely!

Let me end with this, as a rallying cry for the next 30 days.

“Someone you see today is thinking about killing themselves.

Your smile, your question, your love could save them.

Trust me; they told me it did.”

Dr. Drew Ramsey, MD

The recent high-profile deaths by suicide are awful and tragic reminders of just how devastating an impact mental illness can have on a person.

The medical condition, in all its forms, is cunning, baffling, incessant and evil, and uses all means necessary to inflict horrific pain upon its undeserving victims.

Matt Haig, in his book, “Reasons to Stay Alive” says, “depression is a disease of thoughts.”

I believe Matt is spot on, and the sequence in my mind and those of my brothers and sisters in the world, often flows like this:

· Depression creates a thought.

· The thought births an emotion.

· The emotion triggers an action.

It’s a highly effective mechanism used to thrust a soul into the precarious state of isolation, extreme disconnection, and worst of all, hopelessness. From that dark sliver of hell, a suffering soul can lose its way, and wander past the point of no return.

Nothing good happens in isolation. Only bad and terrible things are born there.

But, there is a way out, and it is by way of connection.

Connection creates hope, and hope heals and does even more than that.

Hope revitalizes, restores, reenergizes and renews a weary soul. Hope reminds us we are wanted, worthy and that we matter.

Hope saves lives.

The truth is, sometimes what hurts the most can’t be seen. Sometimes great agony and pain lie just behind a forced smile or distracting joke.

But, while the pain of mental illness is most often invisible, that doesn’t mean there is nothing we can do to help alleviate the unseen suffering of another.

Actually, what we can do is surprisingly simple, yet powerful, even life-saving.

The beauty is, sometimes what helps the most is easy to do. Sometimes it’s the little things that make the biggest difference, and we are all capable of doing the little things.

We are all capable of creating connection:

· We can take the time to remember and use a person’s name.

· We can pause and stand in the innocent place of curiosity and ask a heartfelt, open-ended question, and in doing so, create the space for another to tell us their story.

· We can send a timely, specific and authentic expression of our care, concern, and support. And, we can do this simply by way of a text, an email, or a phone call. But for me, I think the best way is to use the good old-fashioned handwritten note to convey our loving sentiments.

One day, while stuck in the middle of a major depressive episode, someone near and dear to me sent me one of those priceless, amazing, life-saving handwritten notes.

It was in fact, the perfect note:

· It offered support, not advice.

· It served up empathy, not pity.

· It oozed understanding, not judgment.

And, at the bottom of the note, this soul, whom I love and completely adore, passionately reminded me, and in no uncertain terms I might add:

“Depression can’t have you, because you’re ours.”

Let us always remember; in the end, it’s all about connection.

“But, why?”

We are all asking that question, not just as it relates to Anthony Bourdain, but in response to every suicide.

Those left behind, the ones whose grief must be limitless, understandably spend a great deal of time trying to make sense out of something that won’t ever will.

Mental illness is completely illogical and trying to apply logic in search of an answer to, “why? “is like trying to change a tire with a toothbrush; it just doesn’t work.

Yes, there is science and data and studies and such, but in the end, we are dealing with a condition of the mind, and let’s be honest, how much do we really know about what’s upstairs?

That aside, and even if we were to disregard the truth about the depth of our actual brain knowledge, it is the behaviors that result from the various disorders that dispel logic and make absolutely no sense.

Mental illness causes those of us who live with its evil cousins to act in random, sometimes bizarre, uncharacteristic, shocking and never before ways.

Believe me, I know.

On August 31, 2011, I was going to commit suicide by jumping off the 730-foot high Foresthill Bridge, the 4th tallest bridge in the United States.

At the time, I was co-directing a nationally recognized animal sanctuary, one that just 14 months earlier was featured as the cover story in the Life section of USA Today.

But, as I have said before, and will do so for as long as I live, sometimes what hurts the most can’t be seen. This, unfortunately, was the case for Chef Bourdain, and was, and still is at times the case for me.

I am certain the first thing that entered the mind of the emergency responder who approached me was, “what’s a nice guy like you doing on a bridge like this?”.

Why would a well-known, well-respected, well-traveled, well-read, man of the world, successful by a great many standards, choose to end his life?

No one will ever know the full reason, including me who stands at the far reaches of the circumference of Chef Bourdain’s life.

But, the Chef and I were brothers of sorts, members of a large and ever-growing family of men, women, and children the world over who live with some form of mental illness. That makes us relatives, and since we were family, I feel a certain liberty to share my thoughts.

I am 55 years old, part of the same generation as the Chef.

Our grandfathers and fathers are from the WWI, Depression, and WWII era. The world was a very different place at the time, and it demanded men to be a certain way.

The inevitable suffering of life was to be accepted with little or no complaint because if nothing else, there was always someone worse off than you.

If you were to select the most prevalent mantra of the times, it was to work hard and keep your mouth shut because nobody wants to hear your problems.

Added was the admonition was, take what’s given to you and don’t ask for more, keep a still upper lip, and for God’s sake, never let them see you cry.

That’s just the way it was.

Got it.

These men, the ones who raised us, were, in fact, tough as nails. They were also emotionally unavailable, and suffering terribly on the inside, and had no possible way to express their pain or ask for help.

Fast forward to modern times, and a vastly different world.

Information and data are flying around at what seems like the speed of light. The act of communication happens through a myriad of devices, ALL the time, and there are scant places you can go and hide for some good old-fashioned peace.

The great mysteries of life keep getting revealed, and with each discovery, an equal measure of the sacred unknown is lost.

And, with incessant need to be connected globally, the once big blue marble has become rather small.

In tandem with all of these radical changes come new expectations of what a man should be:

He is expected to be fluid and flexible.

He is to anticipate and then respond to his partner’s needs.

He is asked to access his feeling, emote appropriately and without delay, then process the experience and share authentically.

He is mandated to be vulnerable, cry, and reveal his true inner self. And, after each of these cathartic moments, is sincerely implored, “if you need help, just ask.”

Let me go back to the tire and the toothbrush for a moment.

Imagine a wide chasm, a great divide between one’s personality influences and the present time. Imagine being raised a certain way and your heritage being not so softly whispered in your ear day after day after day.

Now, imagine yourself being expected to not only abandon a great deal of what shaped you in the past but simultaneously needing to develop a new approach to your current life, all without the benefit of an instruction manual.

So, why are we surprised by the fact that middle age men die by suicide so often?

Could it be the generation of the Chef and I are the poster children for living between a rock and a hard place?

Could it be that our invisible suffering can rise to the point of intolerability, but when we open our mouths to share how we feel, our voices are silenced by the men of our past?

Could it be this terrible circumstance creates isolation, disconnection and then the true killer, hopelessness?

I believe my brother, Anthony, both wanted and needed help, but didn’t know how to ask or accept it. I believe he arrived at a point of dark and awful despair in which he wasn’t able to reconcile his heritage with his need for help.

I feel those of us with mental health issues are far more connected to our feelings than the rest. And, when those feelings rise to an acute level, colored through and through with deep and illogical self-hatred, our pain can become unbearable.

In those moments, we are not looking to be happy; we just want the pain to end.

My brother was hurting.

My brother was in a great deal of searing emotional pain.

But don’t you dare say my brother was weak-minded, and I’ll slap your face if you say he acted selfishly.

Let me let you in on a secret; if you arrive at a place where you feel your presence does more harm than good, and you believe with all your heart, mind and soul that the world would truly function better, including your family, without you, the choices you make from that place feel selfless, not selfish.

Believe me, I know.

And so, how can we honor Anthony Bourdain?

How about we keep a careful watch on the “strong ones,” the men we least expect could be hurting?

How about we press past the, “don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” and act in a way that a man knows he can trust us to be accepting, understanding and compassionate?

How about we create a safe place for a real man to tell his story so he can, in turn, reach out his hand, and we, in turn, take hold of it and walk with that man to get him the help he so justly deserves?

How about we pay closer attention, and move past comfortability, and make what can be a life-saving difference in the life of a man we love?

How about we do that?