TribTown

Synchronicity: when two or more apparently unrelated events occur at the same time in a supposedly meaningful matter. Assigning meaning to events can get as squishy as saying "everything happens for a purpose." And also of course, "Sychronicity" was the fifth and final studio album by The Police.

The Police issued "Synchronicity," early in 1983. It's still a great album.

That year was a pivotal one in my life. The lessons of it have returned synchronicitywise to the events of the past couple of months. At least three or four young people have taken their own lives in Natrona and Converse counties. Research by the Natrona County School District's crisis response team found between six to 10 people had been talking about the subject through MySpace and other electronic media. At least three of those who committed suicide were linked to that group, according to the district.

Two people close to two of the most recent young men who died called me to say there was no such group. District officials stand by their story. I'm inclined to agree with the district because the messages -- with details about times and locations -- were not necessarily by the deceased, but were common with the group of six to 10.

What further complicated this in terms of reporting is that the recent events and the stories about them coincided with my own suicide attempt in 1983, 26 years ago this weekend.

I don't write columns much, unless I've done so much research that I, in my weird humble way, think I'm an expert of sorts. This blogging thing on tribtown is almost as strange, because I don't know if it crosses the line I've hewn between my work and my self. At this point I'm probably too far gone.

Anyway, I wrote the following column in April 1998. For now, I'll just say that nothing I've ever put in print has generated so many comments for so long. There weren't any letters to the editor, but people from all walks of life regardless of politics, social status, age, you name it, wrote and called for years about it.

So, here it is again.

Further reflections will appear in Synchronicity III.

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Today is Easter, the day Christians celebrate as the resurrection of Jesus -- the event proving that he made atonement for our sins.

Today marks my own resurrection of sorts.

Fifteen years ago this weekend, I tried to kill myself.

Unlike a lot of people, I lived to talk about it.

I was in my last term at Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary -- founded in large part by Billy Graham -- and attending an Easter Vigil service, when circumstances, addiction and will converged.

The circumstances were ripe for a suicide attempt. My ex-girlfriend sat down that night with some friends a few pews in front of me. That April was probably the last I would spend in New England. I didn't have a job after four years and a score or so thousands of dollars on a good education to be a minister -- which I then knew I wasn't cut out for. And I was staring down an impending 30th birthday feeling that I hadn't done much with my life, other than chasing a desire that drove me away from family, friends and people in general.

The addiction, if that's the right word for it, was to spirituality, Jesus, religion, theological education and anything that could resolve the Big Questions of life. Other people have their own addictions: sex & drugs & rock 'n' roll, gambling, materialism, or whatever they give everything for that doesn't give much back -- other than a high that leads to a low that spurs the quest for another high and so forth and so on.

So it was with my relationship to God. For most people, piety offers hope, healing and community. But for some, it functions as a drug and harms them as they try to live someone else's idea of a relationship with God. Instead of following my heart, I followed the advice of others -- some well-meaning and some, not so. What should have been a healthy relationship turned dysfunctional.

This "faith" took my money, my personality, my youth, my relationships, my hopes. It exacerbated a very real clinical depression. Through years of devotion, I came to equate the love of God with self-hatred. More piety meant more hatred. I became imbued with a deep and terrible shame, a stranger to myself, my family, and what friends I had.

And I hit bottom.

At the Easter Vigil that year, circumstances and addiction merged. My will took over probably about 10 p.m., when my former girlfriend walked in. Whatever else was in me vanished. My world went black, and I began my exit. I blew out the flame on my little Easter Vigil candle, walked to the back of the church and handed it to the usher.

I drove to a liquor store, bought a bottle of whiskey -- it seemed to me to be the strongest thing available -- drove home, swallowed every pill I had and drank half the bottle.

Mother Nature got to me before Old Man Death. I threw up half of what I ingested.

Nevertheless, my sole intention was to make this the last night I would lay me down to sleep.

But miracles still happen.

I woke up.

I went to church. I had lunch. I finished a resume.

I had a two-day buzz like you wouldn't believe.

I began to realize the horror of what I had done.

And I told my ex-girlfriend. Suicide is one hell of a way to try to get revenge.

I told a few others. Some of them, including a counselor and physician, told me that what I did should have at least fried my brains.

But over the past 15 years, I've not told many beyond that.

So why now?

Because I know I haven't held myself to the same standard that I hold those who are sources for stories I write. For example, in recent years, I've covered multimillion dollar securities scams, some of which have had the complicity of local churches.

People who've been suckered by them say they are embarrassed, ashamed and sometimes destitute.

I tell them that these frauds, as well as domestic violence or institutional corruption, thrive in silence. If people speak up, they may be able to help someone else avoid being taken, or beaten, or abused by corporations or governments.

But I've come to realize that I'm a hypocrite for asking people to come forward with their stories of being financially scammed, when I won't talk about the biggest scam of all -- suicide.

On a personal level, it may solve your problems or my problems, or so we think. But those who solve their problems in this way inevitably leave behind a legacy of heartbreak.

I also feel ready to discuss my story at this time because Wyoming has one of the highest suicide rates in the country, especially among youth. And it's got to stop.

It's wrong. It's irrevocable.

We all have our own dark nights of the soul, the tragedies that, no matter how common, are still intensely personal -- and unbearable alone. It can seem easier to yield to the temptation of prematurely embracing the significant other of death.

For me, Lent and Easter are still the saddest times of year, although they're getting easier to bear.

Whatever the problem is -- divorce, addiction, loneliness, youth, age -- it can be worked out.

Of course, it's better not to have taken whatever road that led us toward self-destruction in the first place. But we can retrace our steps on the wrong road. We can't do that buried at the crossroads.

If I had succeeded in my own self-destruction 15 years ago, I would have failed at everything else.

I never would have known what it was, to put in the excellent Arabic word "jihad," to struggle.

I never would have interviewed Lech Walesa on the fifth anniversary of the crushing of Solidarity. I never would have known the ugliness of Southeast Texas culture or the exhilaration of living in the West. I never would have learned ballroom dancing. I never would have inhaled the intoxicating perfume of lilacs growing in my own back yard.

I never would have known the pain of joblessness for 17 months or the joy of finding work I enjoy. I never would have known the reconciliation with my family, the fondness for my cat, the shelter of a house I can call my own, and the rare joy that something I write might actually cause change in society or another person.

There are some things I haven't known. At the age of 44, I often still wonder what "normal" is in terms of desire, bonding with people, goals, and love.

I haven't worked through those Big Questions I thought I could through knowing Jesus and attending seminary and practicing devotion.

But I don't worry about "normal" or Big Questions, because in time I'll find healing, just as I've found healing over time in so many other areas of my life.

And I do know that I have the opportunities to recover what I lost.

So do you.

A lot of life is beautiful. A lot of life sucks. Most of life lies somewhere in between.

But you cannot know the extremes or the great gray middle when you're dead.

Don't give in.

Get help.

Call a friend, a counselor, a hot line.

Choose life.

After all, it's Easter.