SOW Director's Spotlight Thursday

Written By: Alan Robert Henry Nettles

What can I say about SUICIDE? I’ve contemplated and initially tried it. I wouldn’t wish the feeling of emptiness and abandonment that utterly leads an individual to take his or her life on my worst enemy. As a child, I often had certain periods where I would rhetorically say, “I wish I was dead.” But I never actually intended to take my life. It was more so for attention. I wanted to have my way as most children do. It wasn’t until my freshman year of college that I found myself wanting to truly take my life. College has been probably the most traumatic period of my life.

I’m a Christian. I grew up in the church. Both of my parents have been playing for churches for as long as I can remember. My mother said that when I was born, she had me in a bassinet the very next week as she played the pipe organ for Sunday Mass. My grandfather was a pastor. My grandmother was the church secretary. Church was very much apart of my life growing up.

Suicide was never an option for someone like me. It was never an act I ever thought I would want to commit. I used to sneer at people who contemplated killing themselves. My attitude was malicious and cold. But my life took an unexpected turn in 2014. I was finally living in my favorite city (D.C.). I was attending the historic, Howard University which was my first choice college. I had become a member of the Howard Gospel Choir as well as the Howard Players. I had my own apartment with a private bathroom. I had money in the bank, and I was happy.

Sadly, my entire world turned upside down after a careless mistake in the financial aid office at my school resulted in a traumatic chain of events. Without warning or notice, I was kicked out of my apartment. I will never forget that day.

Five police officers that ironically shared my skin color, stormed my apartment. They refused to allow me to change my clothes in private. I wasn’t allowed to grab any of my belongings. I was literally thrown out on the street like a common criminal. That experience alone was humiliating, but for me the detrimental aspect of the entire ordeal came afterwards. I’ve always been a friend for everyone. My grandmother used to say that I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. But I was alone on the street in the snow with no one to help me. I contacted every single person I knew, and no one would let me stay with him or her. I even offered to pay $50 to sleep on their kitchen floor. I was an outcast, and these weren’t strangers. These were people that I considered to be friends more so I considered to be family. My mother was 900 miles away sick in the hospital, and she was the only who tried to help me. She’s barely alive on life support in the hospital trying to find a place for me to lay my head.

Thankfully, an angel appeared and I was able to move back into my apartment. However, my attitude towards others greatly changed. I was so deeply hurt by the lack of support I’d received from friends and even family. It was at this time that I was diagnosed with Chronic Depression. There would be days I literally could not get out of bed. I didn’t shower. I didn’t eat. I didn’t always go to the bathroom, if you know what I mean. I was a complete wreck. So I thought the only way for things to change was to take 400 sleeping pills. And so I did…

I figured I wouldn’t be missed. I figured I didn’t add anything but stress and heartache to my friends and family. I dropped out of the choir, and I became a “stepchild” to many of my collegiate peers. I gained a ton of weight. My physical health was in the toilet. And all I could think about was the fact that my dad never wanted me. He told me that he wanted my mother to abort me, even though they were married. That stuck with me for years. My parents divorced a year after I was born. My sister used to comment on how great life was until I came into the picture. I always felt like the “black sheep” of the family. So in my mind, I figured I might as well die. No one will care. No one will miss me. I knew that suicide was a sin. I knew the church would shun me. But the pain was so intense I had to let go.

Here’s the miraculous thing. I did not die. I did not fall into a coma. I did not even fall asleep. I had taken enough drugs to literally kill me, but I was preserved. In that moment, I saw Jesus for the first time. I realized he had a purpose for me. I slowly began to receive professional therapy and I started taking anti-depressants. It’s been a long journey for me, but I finally have peace.

I share my story to encourage others. Mental health is such a taboo subject especially in the black community. People with mental illnesses are God’s children too. We should not ostracized and mistreat those struggling with Bipolar Disorder, Anxiety, Panic Disorders, Personality Disorders, Schizophrenia, or Depression. Instead, we should embrace those individuals. I am so thankful my mom has always been a vocal advocate for mental health. As soon as she found out about my suicide attempt, she encouraged me to seek help. She didn’t judge me. She didn’t talk about me. She didn’t make me feel any less of a person.

My mom was my angel. So I say all of this to exclaim to the world that there is life at the end of the tunnel. We all have a purpose. We all have gifts and talents that make us unique. Don’t mistreat people who’ve contemplated suicide or struggle with mental illnesses. Love them. Show them the beauty of life. Give them hope. Give them encouragement. Give them inspiration. Because you never know if you’re going to be that individual who wants to take his or her life. Suicide is real, and we need to start talking about it. It’s time to heal from those wounds.

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