This is a photo of me, the last time I was OK in life.

2010, New Years Eve. Partying with a few friends down in my man cave, playing pool, blasting music, getting smashed. Smoking $50 cigars and wearing $200 shoes, enjoying life.

The next day, my wife didn't come home from her sister's where she had been hanging out the night before. She said she wanted to stay over there a few days, and I started feeling concerned.

Two days later she told me she wanted a divorce. I asked her if she would do counseling, work on things; She said yes.

The next day, she texted me and said she wasnt going to do counseling, and if I wasn't out of the house by Feb, she wouldn't pay the mortgage.

I'd gotten out of the army the previous August, and had been living off my $20,000 in savings. By January I was nearly tapped out, and between us we'd spent most of my savings on trips, clothes, etc. I'd also given her $8000 to pay off her credit cards.

Instead, she spent that, wracked up another $20,000 in credit card debt, told me to get out of my house, and left me hanging with half the debt. Their lawyer said "did you get receipts?" Lol. Right, doesn't everyone ask their spouse for receipts when you give them cash?

I lost everything. A second time in my life. I sat there signing the divorce papers in her parents kitchen, under the watchful eye of her dad, their lawyer, and the notary they brought in to make it official.

Afterwards, they celebrated with cake while I cried at the table. They asked me kindly to leave.

Most of my possessions, gone. The house, she kept. And I was forced to move out, and start my new life. From a homeowner, to a shitty worn out mattress in a bad part of town, my few remaining possessions stuffed into boxes in a closet. I lost everything. My life, top to bottom. My love, my stuff, my home, my security. My job.

My future.

A while later, I'm at a bar, when I hear a stranger call my name. I look over, see a guy I've never met before. Says he knows me from the photos of me that were hanging on the walls at my house. Meaning, he'd been there before, while pictures of me were still up. Turns out she'd been fucking this guy for months, well before new years, and he thought it was hilarious to run into me like this. Wasn't quite as funny to me.

A month later, strung out and snorting pills by the pile, I truly lost hope for life.

This shit wasn't a game. When I said till death do us part, I meant it. I would, and had, sacrificed every part of myself, my sanity, my money, my pride, everything to try to save my marriage. I cried and shook, I literally went psychotic. I was so depressed, I remember I laid on the floor of my room for two days. Not eating, not drinking. No bathroom. Nothing. I couldn't move. Every waking moment was agony, and sleep was far, far worse. I’d lost 50 lbs in two months, I didn’t care about anything anymore.

So I decided to take myself out.

Fucked up on ambien one night, I recorded myself saying goodbye to everyone using my computers webcam. Loading my gun. Crying my eyes out. Telling people I loved them. Then I put the gun to my head, and pulled the trigger.

The click was audible in the video. I heard it. Luckily, in my completely disoriented state, I'd forgotten to chamber a round. I was confused for several minutes, and when I finally figured it out just collapsed out of camera view down to the floor. 4 hours later you see me pop up and shut the webcam off.

But it wasn't over. I began hallucinating, maybe from drugs, maybe from lack of sleep, maybe from depression. Maybe all three. I began hearing my roommates talking shit about me from outside my room.

I could hear them laughing about how pathetic I was. How I should kill myself. Hoping I'd just do it already. I was convinced they were going to kill me, and actively plotting to. My other friends were in on it, and of course nobody cared, because I was a pathetic loser piece of shit. So honestly, I was ready for it.

I heard my best friend laughing with this girl I liked one night, talking about how they'd poisoned me, and I knew that was going to be it. I just readied myself to die. Everyone wanted me dead, and I couldn't blame them. I couldn't even keep my wife happy, the person I loved and trusted more than anyone on earth. The person who knew me better than anyone, had said "no. You are not capable of providing me what I need, and you are not worth continuing to engage with", via her actions.

My roommate had already taken my gun by this point. But I knew where he'd put it in his closet. So, I laid there, in the bedroom across the hall from his, and I waited.

I just needed 20 seconds of him out of his room, so I could get in there. He had his door open, as did I, and I could see the place he'd put it. As soon as he moved I was going to do it. For real, no bullshit, no cry for help, I was prepared to die. Everything in my life had lost meaning. Every moment was pain. My brain burned night and day, twisting knives of self torment in with horrific, painful thoughts. Seeing her fucking him in my mind, seeing him in my bed, knowing the person I'd swore to die for got more out of a stranger than everything I could muster for her, I was done. It was too much. I didn't care to live.

Six hours went by. I was literally trembling. My body shaking. My eyes locked on the gun. I couldn't do anything else. I just laid on my bed, pretending to be asleep, and watched it. Waiting for my chance.

But this fucking guy, he didn't leave his room. For once, not a pee break, not a food run, not a quick trip to the kitchen, nothing. He did not fucking leave. I was going nuts waiting. I just wanted it over with. I was frantic, mentally. Just one sole focus in life. No other thoughts. Get the gun. Be quick. Do it fast before he stops you.

Two more hours went by. The frustration turned into an awareness. An awareness that if I didn't do something, right now, I would die. I would die. It would all be over. Everything I'd ever hoped for would be gone. There would be no chance of redemption, no possibility. And in that moment I knew I had to get the fuck out of there, right then. I stood up, grabbed my keys, told him I was going to the hospital, and I got in my car and left.

It was a long drive. An hour, maybe more. During that time I regretted my choice. I regretted it horribly. If I'd just stayed it would already have been over. Everything could stop, finally fucking stop. I could barely focus on the road as I thought out my plan. I wasn't sure if the VA would take me in, or if I even wanted to go. But I was driving. So, I kept driving.

On the way up the hill to the hospital there was a nice bend that dropped over a small cliff, overlooking the Willamette River down near the city below. It was beautiful. I decided if they turned me away, that would be my exit path on the way back down the hill. I'd just not make that turn, and that'd be it. I hoped they told me they were full, or tried to placate me and send me on my way. I hoped they'd just talk to me and send me off. But I had to find out, I had to try.

I took myself in, and standing at the front counter I said the hardest thing I've ever had to say face to face with another human. Looking some sweet 20 something cutie nurse in the eye, I calmly said "I am going to kill myself, and I need somewhere safe to be." Embarassed, but too depressed to even care anymore. Every thought of self worth, ego, pride, honor, passion, gone.

I dont remember much next. They processed me in, locked me in the ward, gave me a room. And I cried. I cried, and I cried and I cried. And I shook. I stared out the big floor to ceiling windows of my room, watching the day pass into night.

My unit had been notified where I was by this point. I was still in the national guard, just not active anymore, so they are required to report things like this. For those who don't know, mental health carries a huge stigma in the armed forces. If you're not mentally strong, you are disgusting. And they treat you like it.

So to go in and know I'd face that, that I'd picked that over death, seemed to make my choice even more stupid. Facing my commander, the look of disgust on his face when I said I needed time. Still, I didn’t care anymore. He could’ve beaten me to death in that chair, and I’d have taken it without a fight. And he saw that.

Two days went by, and they'd put me on some pretty dope meds. I slept for the first time in probably 2 weeks. And when I woke up, I realized I'd come through.

I was not at all even close to better, but I realized I had made it through the death phase. I'd done the thing I'd never done, never admitted I needed, never thought I needed. I was so low, everything was black and white. If I didn't get help, if this didn't stop, I would kill myself. It was all I could think about, even still. Even coming through two days in the psych ward, if I didn't make this stop, I would kill myself.

But I realized something. If you're thinking about killing yourself, then you have a duty, a responsibility to yourself, to make every effort you can to stay alive before doing so. I was not going to allow myself to die, and have someone say "shit man if he'd just done literally anything to stop it, he'd have been fine. But he was too chicken shit, too full of pride, so he just killed himself needlessly."

No. I would jump through whatever fucking bullshit hoops they wanted from me. I'd take the goddamn pills. I'd not kill myself. I gave them six weeks. The day I got out I met with my first psychologist of my life, and I told him. He had six weeks to convince me to live, or I was absolutely ending it.

This wasn't a "I’m not killing myself" thing by being alive. This was a deal I cut myself, to make every honest effort to stop my pain without dying. I didn't think it'd work. I didn't have any hope for it. I frankly didn't care if it worked, I really just wanted to die still. But I couldn't die saying I didn't try.

I imagined, if after I die I had to explain to anyone; God, aliens, an AI, myself, anyone or anything, that I gave up without trying everything, EVERYTHING in my power, with every fiber of my being, that I let pride stop me, that I was too weak mentally to try some stupid pills, then I hadnt earned the right to die.

I had no faith in counseling. I'd been to counselors before, therapists as a kid and teen. I was always in trouble back then, getting in fights, getting arrested, so the court had ordered it at one point, and at one other point it happened as well. But both experiences were the same. Low IQ people who didn't know anything, trying to get me to talk about feelings. I held disdain for their simple tactics, it insulted my intelligence to hear such simple reasoning behind living. As if a glass half full view of the world somehow changes the world.

This guy though. The psychologist. This was different. He was about my age, which made it extra hard. It's hard to look a guy your age in the eye and be like "yeah no I know you and I been around here the same amount of time, but you do not understand what I've been through in life".

We met, twice a week. Two weeks turned to three, and I was eyeing my gun. Just waiting. 3 more weeks and I could finally do it. I could say I tried. Three to four. I was starting to feel different. My brain wasn't burning quite so much. The intense pain I'd been feeling had become a dull roar. The ringing in my ears that clouded my brain began to subside. Things began to feel calmer.

After our first session of week six, I realized it was time. Six weeks was up. It was the day.

And I paused, and smiled.

Over the next few weeks, my life changed dramatically. You see, when you've always been depressed, you don't know what it's like to not be depressed. Depressed people think its just life. They struggle, push themselves to get through, call themselves failures if they can't, they refuse help, they do everything in their power to make sure that their answer is the correct answer, because to admit you were wrong, to admit taking a pill or seeing a counselor could've helped you and you'd never needed to feel this way, that's too much for your pride. You will almost never see a depressed person make that choice willingly.

The idea that you will lose who you are, lose your creative spark, lose your personality, it sticks firmly in mind. You feel this life is your struggle, your battle, your titan to defeat, and you and you alone must bear the burden and the full weight of your life. A duty to pain.

And for the first time ever, I realized that's all bullshit. It's complete bullshit. I began to see the world in color, to smell roses for the first time, to hear birds chirping, and FEEL good about it, pointlessly. And the pointlessness of feeling good, I didn't care to even question anymore. The meaninglessness of life, my failures, all my pain, it was still there. But so were birds. So was music. So was color.

I realized, throughout my whole life, I'd been grading things on a 1-10 scale. A bad day was a 1 or 2, when I couldn't function and could only lie wherever I was and dream of death. A happy day, an amazing trip out with friends, in which everything was as great as could be would be like a 6. Maybe a 7. It would feel slightly good, but just slightly. And the thoughts and suffering would flood back in immediately after. There was no afterglow.

But life isn't a 1-10 scale. It's 1-100. And by week 12, I was at a 75. And I was in shock. I was sheepish. I felt so ignorant, as I realized this had always been an option to me. I could've done this at 18. I could've got help. I could've ended it all, long ago, but in a positive way. My own ego had stopped me from being happy, but even that didn't matter anymore.

Because when you're feeling good, you don't dwell on stuff like this. When you're feeling good you don't lie awake at night wishing she were at your side. You don't cry yourself to sleep thinking about the hell you've lived. Your mental strength increases 10 fold, what were once problems aren't even concerns. Life becomes easy.

For once, I finally felt something other than pain. Pain was the only emotion I knew. And through my actions, my diseased mind inflicted pain upon myself. Through drugs, through self harm, through tortured dreams and sleepless nights, but also in one important way I never recognized; I also would sabotage myself constantly in life.

I became aware of how my actions had influenced my situation. How my own disconnected nature had never let anyone close to me in. I was so disconnected, my life was robotic. I was in go mode running hard forward, always. Every minute I could I'd stay occupied. I was always working, if I wasn't working I'd be doing a hobby, if I wasn't doing a hobby I'd be with friends, or my spouse, or literally anything. Anything I could, I always had to keep my mind occupied.

It's neurotic, and eventually the people in your life tire of it. And for good reason; it's an endless drain on their well being. It's cruel to them. And I was guilty of inflicting emotional pain on those who loved and trusted me, by denying them that connection they sought.

I never realized, I was just running. I was constantly trying to run from the parts of me I didn't like, and chasing the ideal of what I thought I could be. I never slowed down. Sleep was for the weak. Any adventure, I was in for. Any time of day, I'd be there. Hungry? No problem. Sick? No problem. Suicidal? No problem. I'm on it, boss. I cannot be stopped. I never failed at anything, anything I ever wanted I got. I worked hard, and I got it.

But I could not make her love me.

And that, that is the fallacy of invincibility. I truly had never been defeated, not my spirit. Of course I didn't always get my way, but I always won. No matter how much of an underdog I was, I could always find a way to win. To overcome. But not this time. And that, combined with a lot of other things in my life, finally broke me.

I could not handle the idea of being out of control. The idea that you could try your hardest, do your best, really do everything in your power and still fail, it was helpless. I felt completely helpless.

But week 16 rolled through. And week 26. And 52. And 104.

The weeks kept coming. Months went by where I didn't feel like dying. Didn't even think about it. I became aware that thinking about suicide was something that had been a considerable investment of my time throughout my life; I'd never realized just how often I thought about it, until I wasnt anymore.

Here I sit, 11 years later to the month from my second divorce. And yet again I found myself in an emotionally precarious position. A desire for something that was not in my power to have. Another moment in which no matter what I did, what I said or how much I tried could make things become what I wanted them to be. A dream that would never be real, a fantasy of something I desired. A seemingly perfect answer, tainted by the stains of history, and invisible to the others eye. And yet again, I felt powerless. Worthless. Empty.

And yet again, I found myself reliving my worst fears. A love, unrequited.

But this time, I had knowledge. I had 11 years more of knowledge. And this time, I had the awareness of just how bad I was going to feel. This time, I didn't wait to get help.

I'll be honest with you, I would not be here right now, had I not. Because this time, while I had experience, tools and knowledge to prepare myself, I also have 11 more years of life. I have refined and refined what I believe over the years. I've been tested, and shown what I can do. I know myself 11 years of introspection better than before. I am so, so much more aware of what I want, and of what works well for me in life.

I know that I am rare. I am not a typical human. I have never been an NPC. I've been the hero, the star, the captain. The outsider, the leader, the underdog and the reject. I have always been a presence unignored. And so I know, through tests and trials, heartache and pain, exactly what I want in life. What fits me. What makes me my best.

I also have grown to know who can't handle me. The personality types that don't fit me, or who are harmed by my presence. I'm blunt, bold, and stubborn. Not everyone can handle that. When I find someone special, I refuse to let go.

Because I know. I've made the mistakes, I've eaten my shame, I've swallowed my pride, and I have stood myself up and looked honestly at the world. My vision has never been clearer in my life, because I have lived. And I know, I know better than ever, what I crave, and who I fit.

But this time, I will not die for it. This time, I instead choose to live up to it. I am a good human. I have worked hard to be. I am valuable. And this time, it is my opinion on that topic that I value most, nobody else's. Because at the end of the day, I've learned the hard way, even those you love the most could be a ghost to you in a year. Even if you work hard, you can fail. Even if you try your hardest, you may never shape your reality how you want it to be.

And honestly, that's OK. Because every second you're alive, is another chance to succeed. It's never the end. Life just keeps coming.

36 years, lol christ. I didn't think I'd make 15. Or 16. Or 18. Or 21. Or 23. Or 25, or 27. Really didn't think I'd see 28.

I didnt think I'd make 33. I had a premonition that I'd die at 36 from a tumor. As I encroach on 37, I'd like to take a moment to tell people, no matter what you're going through, how miserable your life has been, never, ever forget.

The entire world you live in can change, in just six weeks.

Give yourself a chance and give yourself a break. Trust yourself. Go with your gut. And don't ever let anyone else's opinion of your value have more weight to you than your own. If it does, then you know what to do.

Pull the trigger; on helping yourself.

Thank you for reading.
Dana Sharman