4 years ago today, I leaned against a tree and stuck a gun in my mouth. I intended to end my life.
I usually post something on social media about that day. Today, I'm going to share more...
Recently, I had a conversation with a widow whose husband had taken his own life. She didn't understand. "I was an Army officer with a college degree; he was a high school dropout. He never worked because I had my Army career. He never wanted for anything, so I will never understand why he would do this to me."
I listened as, even in death, she invalidated him. She made it clear that he was less than her; she was the victim.
She was a narcissist.
I tried to help her understand that people don't just wake up one morning and decide to commit suicide. It's a long process that involves many moments of pain. Of being invalidated. Of having your worth chipped away until nothing remains. Of being alienated. Of loneliness. Of being diminished. Of not feeling safe around those you love. Of not feeling a part of "the fam." Of having your dignity taken away. Of feeling invisible. Of knowing your absence will not be missed.
And then, there's the final straw moment. For me, that moment came in my final phone conversation with one of my sons. In that call, I realized I meant nothing to him. Mind you, all the signs were there and had been for years; I had just refused to see them. I hung up. I sobbed... for hours. I decided to implement the plan that had been in my mind for several years.
The following weekend, I was going on my annual camping trip with my old Army buddies. I knew they'd get me home. 
On Friday, September 3rd, we all began arriving at our campsite. Some people arrived early in the day, some later. We had established patterns for where we put our tents, who sat where around the campfire, etc. That evening, everyone remarked about how jovial I was and that I must be happy. I laughed. I was happy because I knew my pain would soon come to an end.
The next day, we went hiking and fishing and basically just enjoyed the day. Late that afternoon, we sat around the campfire and began our Happy Hour. As usual, there were jokes, and eventually the conversation turned to work, family, and what all we had on our plates. I had nothing. There was no family other than my daughter Katie, and I'd left her a note.
It was about 10p when I wandered off "to go pee." I was drunk. I had smoked some weed. I was exactly where I wanted to be: I was among friends, I was in nature, I was at peace in my decision, and I was inebriated enough that I would feel no pain.
I sat down beneath an old oak high on our hill. I had a clear view of the night sky. It was where I wanted my pain to end. I leaned against the tree, pulled my 9mm from its holster, cocked it, and placed the barrel in my mouth. That's all I remember. The next morning, I awoke in a hospital with my daughter by my side.
I was told by my buddies that they found me passed out with the gun still in my mouth and they carried me out and an ambulance was waiting. Still, I remember nothing after placing the gun in my mouth.
As I tried to tell the lady I had recently spoken to, nothing happens in a vacuum. My pain was clear for all to see. Some saw it, but most didn't, and they didn't because they simply didn't care. She described many moments that I clearly recognized as a cry for help.
My advice is to sit with those you love, have the difficult conversations. Let them know you see their pain. Let them know the pain you see isn't who they used to be. Listen. Don't judge. Help them get help.
If you're the one in pain. Reach out to professionals. Call the suicide hotline (9-8-8 in the USA). There is a way out of the darkness. There is a way to get past the pain. There is hope. It won't be easy. You may lose (or remove) some of those who caused you pain, and that loss may seem insurmountable, BUT, in the end, all the work will be worth your while.
I know, I know... that seems impossible... overwhelming... that nothing you do will matter. I know that tape, I played it 1000s of times. Now, 4 years later, I can tell you, there is a way out and it does get better.
It gets better. There is happiness. There is joy. There is laughter. It won't always be smooth nor easy, but once you find your footing, the climb out is so worth it!
Here's a link to a poem I wrote in December 2023, more than two years after my suicide attempt (yeah, it took that long to start seeing the light at the end of the tunnel). It's called Disconnected.