I Shouldn't Be Alive!

"I shouldn't be alive!" What a great way to start a story. It instantly whets the appetite of the reader. Just as Pavlov's experiment proved that ringing a bell, signaling feeding time for a dog brought on the physiological change of salivation - "I shouldn't be alive" gets the reader salivating for a juicy story. So here goes the cold water.

My story isn't heroic. I didn't save some little old lady from a burning building, nor did I take a bullet for a brother in arms. While I did my job as a police officer very well and efficiently - I felt further and further away from heroism in a reality that kept snarling and biting at my heels like "Jaws" in the deep waters of depression. I was losing the battle. I was being eaten alive.

I remember being depressed as early as the age of thirteen. I was the sixth child of six and our household was far from perfectly functional. My father is a recovered alcoholic who favored my middle brother and sister. I always felt overshadowed, especially by my brother. He was a naturally gifted athlete who blew his chance at playing at a major league level by relying solely on his talent, rather than practicing and honing his skills. I had to over achieve in everything I did to come out of my brother's shadow.

This deep-seated need to be better than him brought on a perfectionism that was very unhealthy. If I did something and I didn't first succeed, I felt like a failure. I thought I was a complete loser. It was to a point that if it was something I couldn't do right away, I didn't do it. But if I DID do it, I was great.

Take Tae Kwon Do for instance. I joined when I was twenty-four. By the age of twenty-six I was a second Dan (degree) black belt in Tae Kwon Do and a first Dan black belt in Hoi Jeon Moo Sool. That was with a mandatory year wait between first and second Dan. I still felt empty.

In 2007, I was divorced for the third time. This failure was even worse than the first two as it only lasted seven months. I hit my low. There was no way out of this ever worsening crevasse that swallowed me whole. Those who knew me say I was always happy and funny. They knew the character I had developed over decades so people wouldn't suspect what a loser I really was. Broke, three time divorcee, no future.

At the start of that year, I suffered five simultaneous back spasms. I was prescribed Oxycodone and Flexoril for the pain. I've never been addicted to drugs or alcohol and wasn't about to start. I refused to take the Oxy pills because I didn't want to kill the pain or worse, develop an addiction that is prevalent in my genes. This point factors in to play in September, 2007.

It was the second day of September. The sun was shining beautifully and I spent the morning with a buddy of mine. I had helped him move some furniture. The day was not out of the ordinary for anyone but me. My mind was black with self-loathing. We finished up about noon that day and I went home to a run-down duplex, laden with black mold, that I still couldn't afford.

I got home and the tears came. I laid in my bed for the better part of an hour trying to come up with some way to give myself value. In that dark state, it's near impossible. My mind was made up. I went to my fridge and grabbed the pills that had been there for months. I counted them to see if it would be enough to quiet my pain once and for all.

In one swig with Mt. Dew I consumed thirty Oxycodone and twenty-one Flexoril. After about ten minutes, panic set in. WHAT IF IT WASN'T ENOUGH??? I called the paramedics so I could get my stomach pumped and do it right - with a gun. Then just like that, things went dark...

I woke two days later in a hospital thirty miles away. I had tubes, oxygen, and excruciating pain in my chest. I was in a room with no regular walls, these walls were glass so the doctors and nurses could monitor every move. I was still alive. But it was close. The reason my chest hurt was due to my respiration falling to two breaths per minute and CPR.

It was hell. It was miserable. It was a blessing in disguise. I shouldn't be alive. But why was I?

I hadn't found Christ at that point but He saved me. My purpose, apparently, hadn't been fulfilled. Over the next couple of years, I fought my way out through counseling and proper medications. In August of 2010, I finally gave my life over to Christ and He accepted me, even though I spent so many years cursing God for everything under the sun.

What a depressing story, right? Why on earth would I want to share this with everyone? I debated it over and over. I lost sleep over it. Yesterday, I asked my girlfriend if I should tell it and she said I should be brave and do it because if it helps someone else, it is worth it.

I woke up this morning nice and early so I could get to practice for the worship team at my church. As usual, I checked my I Run 4 group page and the first story was asking for prayers as the father of one of the children had taken his own life. I didn't need another sign. So here it is - my story.

There IS hope. Please be strong. The storm may feel like forever, but it will pass. Do I still have bouts of depression? Yes, sure I do but I have outlets now. I have my friends, my pastor, my God. If you feel none of your friends or family will listen or tell you to suck it up - talk to someone else.

Had God not saved my life that day in September, 2007, I wouldn't be running for anyone. I have been blessed to have Michael and his mom Mary in my life. I am blessed to have the whole I Run 4 family. Even more importantly, I am blessed to have YOU! So who are YOU going to run for?

For help, call tel:1-800-273-8255