I think a very common misconception, concerning those who convert or deconvert, is that there is suddenly this great “A-ha!” moment. One suddenly connects the dots and knows whether God is real or not. This is not the case. We owe this misconception to both Christian and anti-Christian media. It sure does make for a great story! But oftentimes, the greatest stories are not ones that occur in reality.

Losing my faith was not an easy process. I never wanted to renounce Christianity. I wanted the convictions I held since childhood to remain true until my deathbed and beyond. I was not living in denial, by the way; I was living in undesired ignorance. I could never question my faith because doing so is a sin, I was taught. Growing up in a conservative, Christian home, attending church twice a week, and being homeschooled sure did a number on me. Here, I will discuss how I overcame this.

Beginnings – My Quest for Answers

I have told the story a million times, both in real life and here on Living by the Logos. Just after I turned eighteen, I faced the very beginning of my greatest suffering. Shortly after graduating high school and beginning full-time college, my loving mother, true follower of Christ, was diagnosed with stage four liver cancer. At the time, I was very devout. I attended my own church, went to one of the most conservative Christian universities in the country, and prayed daily. Might I add, I studied political science that one semester (yuck!).

But when my mother received her diagnosis, my entire world was turned upside down. Immediately after hearing the news, depression entered my body, where it has remained ever since. I collapsed on the floor in my bedroom, bawling my eyes out. “God, how could you do this? Why her? Why me?” I cried. I had not the slightest idea what the problem of suffering was in that moment, but I know now that I was begging it. In that moment, my life’s journey began.

I was heavily inspired by Lee Strobel’s book The Case for Christ at the time. For those who do not know, Lee Strobel was a staunch atheist who launched an investigation into the Gospels to disprove Jesus and the Christian faith as a whole. In his investigation, he consulted numerous biblical scholars who all wooed him. He concluded his case by accepting Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior. I must admit, I still hold a high degree of respect for Strobel, even if I disagree with him.

I took inspiration from Strobel and launched my own investigation into the Christian faith. However, I was already a Christian; my goal was not to disprove, but to prove that God always has a reason for our suffering. I knew for certain that my case would allow me to grow closer to Christ and heal the wounds that grew from the sickness and eventual death of the most important person in my life. I knew God was real, God cared, and I would show the world that this rang true.

However, I did not have faith in my faith. There was certainly a degree of skepticism regarding God’s care for our suffering, and this must be noted. Although I believed God had reasons for suffering, these reasons were hidden from me. As I began to ask fellow churchgoers, past and present, why God would allow my mother to suffer, I began to notice a common theme. These answers were far from satisfactory, and I knew there was something else buried deeply in the Bible. I was determined to find these answers.

The Case Builds (And So Does My Skepticism)

As I studied at Liberty University, it seemed as though I was only getting farther from the answers I was after. The courses I took never touched on God’s allowance of suffering. The problem of suffering? I discovered this through extracurricular research my sophomore year. I tried to find answers, but instead I constantly received information on why the Bible has one unified narrative.

Now, Liberty requires its students to uphold their fundamentalist standards in all papers, projects, and presentations. I remember one of the worst classes I took, Introduction to Church History Survey I. One of the assignments was to write a brief summary of church history since 33 CE (or AD by Liberty standards). For this assignment, I had points deducted because I mentioned the Crusades and the Inquisition (how dare I mention two of the church’s most notorious and evil acts!).

The classes I took at Liberty never provided any insight into the problem of suffering. All of the knowledge I do possess of it, I gained outside of school. Needless to say, this was a massive part of my deconversion. I took up this study to explore theodicy, yet I only received training on defending the fundamentalist faith. It was not all useless; I use this knowledge now to pigeonhole this toxic narrative and expose the flaws of evangelicalism. But I did not find what I sought at Liberty.

In Death, I Found My Answer

Last year was an extremely difficult year for me. I have written extensively on my psychosis, relapse, and suicide attempts. Why? Because these are the events that truly made me realize how destructive organized religion, Christianity in particular, has been in my life. Much of my psychosis was religious; I saw demons, I heard voices, and the greatest cross I bore was that I had renounced my faith, and as such, God was punishing me.

Early last year is when I came to the conclusion that I could no longer defend the God of Christianity. As I read the book of Amos, seeing the destruction God caused his own nation, along with its neighbors, I realized that the God of the Old Testament is not just wrathful; he is pure evil. Mind you, Satan did not exist in the Old Testament, so we cannot attribute death and destruction to God’s archnemesis.

Additionally, about these scriptures… Are they really perfect and inerrant? How can the church be so certain? We do not have the original manuscripts. We have copies of copies of copies of copies of copies. Seeing that, for about one thousand years, the Catholic church only allowed its priests to read the Bible… how are we certain that what we have today is not tainted? The answer: we cannot be!

While the Bible is the basis of my life, the foundation of everything I am and do, it is far from perfect. It has been edited. I believe there is valid information within it that can be used to live a happy, healthy life (thus, Living by the Logos), but it is not magical. It does not have all the answers. Moreover, the Bible does not answer the most important question in this life. Once upon a time, I was certain that the Bible contained this answer or answers. But, in fact, although it does deal with the question, it never provides any kind of answer.

You’re a Terrible, Terrible Father

The God of Christianity is frequently compared to a father, both in the scriptures and the church. My actual least favorite song, what I believe to be the worst song ever written, composed, and/or performed, is the cringe-worthy “Good Good Father” by Chris Tomlin. “You’re a good, good father,” the artificial chorus says. But is God a good father? The same God who plagued his own people? The God who, according to the Old Testament, started wars because he was offended? The God who kills the innocent? Is this really a good father?

I never had a good father. My father, who I typically refer to as my sperm donor, is a horrible person and has devastated my life, from birth to now. It is because of him that I drank. It is because of him I struggled with self-image for much of my life. The idea of God being a father at all disturbs me. I cannot reconcile God being a good father when A) he is not good and B) I never had a good father, so how can this comparison provide any meaning to me?

This concept alone I have struggled with for as long as I can remember. The closest solace I found was in Wm. Paul Young’s controversial book, The Shack. In this book, God is portrayed as an African-American mother (one of its biggest controversies; ridiculous). Viewing God as a good, good mother I could understand. I think we all could. Mothers are typically, though not always, more empathetic and caring than fathers. Gender roles aside, I cannot believe that a God who allows innocent children to die of horrid diseases to be a “good, good” God.

Stepping Away, Finding Peace, and Fighting Religion

As I lay in my bed that night I attempted, I apologized to God. I apologized for failing to keep the faith. I apologized for becoming one with the world, rather than one with God. But did the God of Christianity deserve this apology? I think not. I think I deserved the apology. For my entire life, I believed that God was just and good. When I found out that this was not the case, and that the answer (God being a monster) was right in front of me in his own book, it shattered my world.

I abandoned the church shortly after my mother’s death, in the early days of the pandemic. While in my first round of treatment for alcoholism, I learned that the legalism of Christianity was the root cause of most of my struggles. Religious legalism, I can best describe in layman’s terms, is being told, “You must live this way, or God will punish you with eternity in hell.” You are told to act a certain way, or believe something as fact… or else.

Despite this awakening, I continued to hold Christian beliefs, just minus the church. Then I worked for a church. Seeing the inner workings of a church, and how it functions just as any other business, was a major revelation. Seeing how the church continues to be involved in sexual abuse scandals made my blood boil. But it was the prophet Amos who finally made me say, “No more, God.” I realized, through my study of Amos, that God is, indeed, a monster.

The Case Concludes

This has been a very brief overview of why I abandoned Christianity. Let me be clear, I did not want to leave it. I fought to hold these beliefs for almost my entire life. I never wanted to be “that guy” who just denies Christianity. I went into the study of theology, determined that I would grow in my relationship with God and lead others on the same path. I mean this wholeheartedly. But it did not work out that way.

I held onto Christianity with every fiber of strength. But I had to recuse myself. Sometimes, holding on is much harder than letting go. In this case, instead of alleviating my suffering, it took me to the brink of death. I will not say God is dead. I still fully believe that the God of the Bible, the horrific monster he is, is still real. But is he the only God? I don’t think so. Is he the God I want to place my faith in? Hell no! But despite all of this, I have made the Bible the foundation of my life. And it will always be… though not for the reasons I once hoped.

Today marks one full year since my last attempt to take my own life. It’s a bit strange for me to look back and see what was going through my mind during this time. Nonetheless, I am eternally grateful that my attempt did not work as I hoped it would. I never imagined that today, just one year later, I would be living a life not only worth living but one full of hope and perseverance.

I’ve written about this same issue quite a bit. Why? I hope that someone out there, who is struggling with similar issues, will find that there is hope beyond adversity. I have experienced a lot in my life, a lot that I am not comfortable discussing on here. But what I experienced between February and May of last year is the most painful thing through which I have lived.

Little did I know at the time that during this time, I was in full-blown psychosis. I did not know what this disease even looked like until months later. My ex, the one at the heart of this story, asked me at one point if I had been diagnosed with psychopathy. It wrecked me to hear this. I am not a psychopath. I simply do not meet the criteria for this diagnosis. However, I have experienced psychosis.

What is psychosis?

Psychosis is a difficult disorder to understand, but it is one that I feel goes unnoticed in our culture. The short definition of psychosis, according to the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH), is “a collection of symptoms that affect the mind, where there has been some loss of contact with reality.”¹ In this state, a person does not know what is real. To some, this might sound like insanity. But it is far different.

The thing about this disconnect is that a person later cannot remember much of what happened. From early February to late May of 2023, I have almost no recollection of what happened. The only clear memory I have is that fateful night, one year ago, when I ended my life. I have experienced hopelessness many times before, but nothing compares to the pain I felt that night.

It was then that I truly resonated with Psalm 88. Why, in my last post, did I write that I prefer the NIV translation of the psalm? A translation that strays significantly from the original text? Because the closing words summed up my place: darkness was my closest friend. The love of my life was, in my psychotic belief, dead. I was literally reliving the loss of my mother all over again. God was absent. God did not hear my cries. And yet, for whatever reason, some deity out there decided that it was not my time to go.

This is My Story

At 12:00AM on the dot, I overdosed. Every prescription I had I emptied into my mouth and chased it with an IPA. I then laid down and hoped that I would never again wake up. About 40 minutes later, my eyes opened and I jolted up. I staggered to the bathroom when I horrendously vomited a combination of beer, pills, and blood. I collapsed on the floor of my bathroom in fetal position, begging God to let this work.

For quite a few days afterward, I felt absolutely terrible. I did not do the smart thing and go to the hospital. I did not want anyone to know what I had done. I was ashamed; not because I had attempted once again, but because once again, my attempt had failed. The medication that once had kept me stable was gone. And for a long time, the ideations only became worse and worse.

I have told this story a million times in the last year. Now, in this post, I want to address the aftermath. Here I am one year later; and to be honest, not much has changed. On a personal level, a lot has changed. I am not presenting signs of psychosis; I am not suicidal; I am not drinking; I am not weighed down by the fear of losing someone in my life. I am still alive, for which I am beyond grateful, but there is something that bothers me.

An Urgent Call to Action

It bothers me that not a single person who knows my story has checked up on me. I do not have friends who have checked up on me or asked if I need help. As it always goes, I am expected to reach out to my support network if and when I need help. I have a serious problem with this. It is not my selfishness that bothers me, it is the cultural response to such crises that offends me. People who have survived suicide attempts should not have to make all the effort in relationships.

It bothers me that I am just one of many who struggle with this dilemma. The stigma around depression and suicide is so awful that I think, people are afraid to bring it up. Maybe people do not ask how I am holding up because that might trigger old thoughts. But that is not the case. It is the loneliness that led me to attempt in the first place, and it is the loneliness that makes accepting my actions so involuted. And I fear for the millions of others who have attempted.

At the time of my attempt, I was still working for a church. This was the last straw for Christianity in my life. In hindsight, I can recognize that I was afraid to tell my coworkers, leaders, pastors, etc. that I was suicidal because Christianity focuses more on the sin of suicide than the healing of suicidal individuals. The church should be a safe place for people going through such crises; but instead, it was a stumbling block in my path to recovery.

Christians have a moral obligation to care for those who suffer; yet, in reality, Christians would rather run and hide. It is a shame that this is the way the world of Christianity works. If I still considered myself a Christian, I would constantly bear the burden of viewing my attempt as a sin, not a cry for help. But at this moment, I am seeing that it is not only Christians who do not want to address the suicide crisis; it is the entire world.

The hardest part of today is reflection. That is why I have essentially journaled all my emotions in this blog; it is not the most structured blog I have written, but I really don’t care. What I do care about, and what truly bothers me, is that I had nobody to lean on one year ago today. Here I am a year later, I have told my story numerous times, and I still have no one to rely on. Is this true for everyone else who has attempted? Are we just expected to bear the burden of failure?

While my beliefs in God are pretty contrived, I cannot help but feel that some deity out there, whether the God or gods of the Bible or not, was the only help available to me. My decision to seek help was not the result of intervention. It was the result of me being tired of facing this alone. The ideations became too much to bear; I had no choice but to call 988. Nobody made me do it. And certainly nobody supported me doing it.

I survived suicide. And I hate to say it, but I survived alone. The closest people in my life, who know my story as well as I do, do not check up on me. They do not ask how I am doing. And for me, that is okay. But I fear for the people going through the same experience I survived. Nobody should ever have to feel that they do not belong in this life. No one should have to sit alone in the dark with these thoughts. But in such a cold, painful world, is it really too much to ask to check on your loved ones?

Conclusion

I do not want anyone to feel the way I did one year ago, or even how I do now. I sit here knowing that not a single person in my life cares that one year ago, I tried to take my life. I don’t want to make a big, self-centered complaint about this because that is not who I am. But I have to admit, it bothers me. It bothers me that people who struggle with being suicidal are expected to put in all the work, make the phone calls and ask for help, all while feeling guilty for experiencing situations they did not put themselves into.

Christianity could make the suicide epidemic all but disappear. And yet, it refuses to do so. Not only Christianity but the human race as a whole. Showing kindness is too much to ask of our fellow man. That bothers me. That is a serious problem. And nobody seems to care. I am alone in this battle, and there are millions of others. This should not be the case.

Dear readers, please check on your loved ones. Surely you know someone who has attempted suicide. Go, and reach out to them. Tell them that they are loved. They are valued. I know that is hard work, and it requires you to get over yourself, but do it. If you are not addressing the problem, you are the problem. This is a matter of life or death; we all need to be taking it seriously.

Although I am woefully disappointed in the human race, my inner circle, and religion, I survived. I survived and I am proud. I did it alone, but I did it nonetheless. Go, and be a light in the darkness. Because that person you are too arrogant and selfish to reach out to should not have to lie there and accept that darkness is their closest friend.

1 National Institute of Mental Health, “Understanding Psychosis,” https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/publications/understanding-psychosis#:~:text=Psychosis%20refers%20to%20a%20collection,real%20and%20what%20is%20not.

I’ve been gone from this world for what seems like millennia
Looking for nothing short of a miracle
I only ever wanted to come home, please won’t you let me go?
When I have nowhere left, I can run away
Will you lie to me, tell me I’ll be okay?

Crown the Empire, “Milennia,” Track #3 from The Resistance: Rise of the Runaways, Rise Records, 2014.

It is that time of the year again. Eggs are being stuffed or painted. Churches are preparing for resurrection messages. Mother Nature is awakening in her brilliant spring attire. And yet, lately, I have struggled to find the happiness everyone else enjoys this time of the year. I prepared to write a post on my skepticism of Christianity’s fascination with Jesus’ death, yet the cogs in my theological mind are not turning.

Instead, my mind continues to pull me in another direction. It appears to focus more eagerly on my personal story of resurrection. One that, unlike the Easter narrative, is fraught with pain, shame, and grief. I cannot help but dwell on the fact that one year ago, I was entering the darkest stage of my life. I fear that if I do not tell it, it will continue to control and devastate me. And why should I give so much power to a force I have defeated?

As if I am somehow psychologically deceiving myself, I continue to focus on the trauma that I endured rather than the resurrection that I gracefully received. I believe that, by the end of this post, I will be able to connect the dots of parallelism between Christianity’s views of Christ’s death and the death of my own self. It is not the direction I intended to follow, but it is one I will pursue for the sake of closure. It is my utmost hope that in writing about my story I can provide hope to at least one person facing present darkness.

January 2023

Personally, 2023 was a terrible year from the very start. On January 12^th, a colossal tornado devastated the small town I currently reside in. I was working from home that day. I worked as a remote customer service agent for a Christian health-sharing organization; on the weekends, I worked for the Southern Baptist Church. On that day, everything suddenly became dark. We lost power. And then it was as if I entered a world-altering whirlwind. As I have described the moment to others, it seemed like for several minutes, everything was just underwater.

After the storm had cleared, I learned that one of four tornadoes touched down less than a mile from my residence. The next day, I drove to the grocery store. Riding around town, it seemed like we had survived some apocalyptic holocaust. The entire landscape was altered. Roads were closed; businesses were closed if not destroyed; the streets were eerily quiet. The atmosphere felt cold and empty.

On a more personal note, I was struggling. I was working every day for organizations that demanded I be someone I was not. The fabric of my identity was being torn apart. I was in a relationship that meant the entire world to me; and yet, it was failing. My partner had grown cold to me and started to pull away. I began to grow cold as well. In hindsight, it seems that I had no grasp of who I am; and if I were so unaware of my identity, how could I salvage what I thought to be the only thing that mattered?

February 3, 2023

On February 3^rd, I initiated my downfall. After a horrible day at my work-from-home job, I made a trip somewhere I should have never gone, my old liquor store. A few bad phone calls pushed me over my tipping point. Nineteen months ago, to the date, I decided to quit drinking. Now, I was back. I polished off an entire bottle of Jim Beam Honey that night. And though I could not see it then in my drunken state, I was about to ruin my life.

I sent a text to my partner, breaking up with her. A drawing I had done of her I tore to shreds. The next morning, I woke up with a migraine from hell. For a brief moment, reality set in. I had ended my recovery. Drunk Luke had returned. I felt ashamed, but not ashamed enough apparently. Although I did not drink that following day, my gluttonous rampage had only just begun.

I tried, and somewhat succeeded, at repairing the damage I caused in my relationship. She had already grown cold to me, but I figured my honesty would save what we had. And it did serve as a Band-Aid. After a lengthy conversation on the phone, we made amends and committed to sticking together. I only wish that had lasted, but I had more damage to inflict upon myself.

A few days later, I went to see my physician. She had prescribed me Prozac and trazodone three years prior. This was one year after my mother’s death; I was finally diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder and prescribed medication without any education on its effects. When I went for my appointment last February, I had already decided to stop taking my medications. They were no longer working. If anything, they only numbed the pain I was experiencing.

I sat in the office waiting for my physician. Then, to my surprise, her husband walked in. Her husband was not on staff at the time of my appointment, but he was a licensed doctor. He told me he was filling in for her. I did not care; I only came in for one purpose. I told him that I wanted to stop taking my medicine and he agreed to put me on a taper plan. For both medications, this taper plan read: “Take one capsule by mouth once a week, then 1 capsule every other day for one week, then 1 every third week, and then stop.”

For those who, like me in this scenario, do not have a great understanding of medicine; this taper “plan” is absolutely terrible. Every psychiatrist, provider, therapist, nurse, etc. who I have told has looked at me with shock. Psychiatric meds are not a joke. They can have crippling effects on a person. They are literally drugs. And my ignorance of psychiatry taught me this lesson in the hardest way possible.

April 2023

I started my taper plan and noticed no drastic results. I assumed I would become slightly irritable, maybe even a little sick. But as I endured the process, I lost something invaluable of mine, my mind. My drinking escalated. I began to question whether my partner genuinely loved me. We began to argue more. I began to feel ashamed of every breath I had ever taken. My depression, which had been in a coma for three years, awakened. And this time, it was far more monstrous.

In the week leading up to my birthday, April 24^th, I completely snapped. I had entered a state of severe psychosis. And I had no idea. I was not about to find out either. My hell had awakened. My passion had begun. And little did I know that I would never again be the same.

My partner became sick that week. She believed it was COVID-19; I instantly believed it would end in a worst-case scenario. She lived far away, and I could not simply go see her. One day that week, she texted me from a hospital. She was on a respirator. She sent a voice message that sounded like she was dying. I was reliving my worst trauma. Once again, the woman I loved most was terminally ill in a hospital far away and there was nothing I could do.

I panicked. I cannot remember much of this time, but I do remember feeling the same feeling I felt when Mom was sick with cancer. I became utterly hopeless. It was as if I was in a constant, never-ending panic attack. Suddenly, after Wednesday, I stopped hearing from her. I became paranoid. I could not imagine life without her. She made me feel like a normal person. She made me feel like my failures made me who I am. She is only one of two people who have ever made me feel loved. And then, I lost her. It seemed she was dead.

April 22-23, 2023

On April 22^nd, I spent the entire day in a state of extreme fear and dread. Another friend from far away tried to encourage me and support me, but I would not listen. I went to my liquor store and bought a few cases of beer. I tried to drink my pain away, but it would not go. Somewhere late in the afternoon, I decided that I could not live with the pain. I needed to escape. I did not want to live another day like this. My heart was shattered; my soul was crushed; my mind ceased to exist. I accepted that I was dead.

With what I had left of my medication, which was a lot, I decided I would end my life. I sent my partner one final text, apologizing for worrying about her so much. Apologizing for being myself. Stating that my life could not go on without her. Once the clock struck midnight, I emptied both pill bottles into my mouth and chased the poison with a beer. I said my goodbyes to this cruel world and cried myself to sleep.

Exactly forty minutes later, I woke up. I staggered to my bathroom where I nearly vomited my organs out. I collapsed on the floor, feeling defeated. Once again, my attempt had failed. But did it? Would it still work? I cried out to God. My soul left my body. Eventually, I made it back to my bed. It was as though my soul detached from my body and simply levitated over it. I heard voices and saw shadows. All night I laid there, not sleeping, just wishing, and waiting to finally knock out.

I frequently checked the time, and every time I looked at the clock, I noticed a similarity. 12:40. 1:40. 2:40. 3:40. 4:40. 5:40. I thought nothing of it at the moment; I exclusively wished my plan would work. But eventually, the sun broke through. And I lay in bed, a broken and empty man. I turned on my phone and looked through my messages. They had all been delivered and read, and I had been blocked. Everywhere.

Sadly, I was not resurrected that night. The phase of lonely isolation and severe psychosis only continued to worsen. My life was over—so why did my attempt not work? What was the point? The ideations became too much to manage. All I could think about was ways to end my life. I wanted to so badly. All I could do was drink in misery every day. Finally, one day in May, I drunkenly started searching for ways to buy a gun. And for whatever reason, that rattled my soul. I broke down and called 988. And although the journey out of the darkness was far longer than in, my resurrection began at that moment. I soon walked into a crisis stabilization unit, and my life changed forever.

Now

It was a drawn-out battle. If I were to explain my re-sobriety, stabilization, and eventual return to normalcy, I would need to draft a book. Some stories are best kept short. The condensed version of it is I recovered from alcoholism again and got stabilized on meds again. My partner and I reconnected in June. Unfortunately, things did not work out there. I got my heart stabbed again at the beginning of the year. But I found my calling. I found that, in addition to Living by the Logos, I can help people who are suffering through what I have survived. I have a renewed sense of purpose.

Is my life perfect? Absolutely not. And it never will be. But thank God (or gods) that I made it out of my toughest season alive. I have learned to accept life on life’s terms. And I am satisfied with that. Yet here I am, one year later. I cannot seem to shake the guilt of my actions, even if these actions did not come from my true self. Why is it that I cannot control my fixation on these events?

The weather is changing. The flowers are blooming. The trees and grass are returning to their true green. The last time this happened, I was losing my mind. If we are talking about triggers, then everything triggers me right now. It is healthy to reminisce. It is perfectly normal to never go back to where I was one year ago right now.

Conclusion

But here is the catch; I am focusing on my death, not my resurrection. It has always appalled me that Christians are so fascinated by the death of Jesus. Churches are adorned with crucifixes. We always hear about “Jesus dying for our sins.” To modern Christianity, the empty tomb seems second to the barbaric death on the cross.

It is Good Friday. Last year, even while losing my mind, I wrote one of my most popular posts on Living by the Logos. I touched on Christianity’s strange preoccupation with Jesus’ grizzly death. And now here I am. I have survived a total tragedy. Yet my mind seems to only focus on the tragedy, not the survival? Make it make sense.

My cross did not have the final word, and neither did Yeshua’s. I sought to end my life, and I succeeded. I escaped from rock bottom. And I lived to tell my story. And my hope is that whatever you are going through, you will be inspired to persevere. I lost my life of wandering in darkness, unaware of who I truly am. Now, I do not know for sure, but I have a greater idea. And with that, I am satisfied. Life does get better—and it becomes a life much worth living.

“When you have a calling to help people, your first patient must be yourself.” Last May, after I finally reached my breaking point and called the suicide hotline, I checked into a crisis stabilization unit. While in the waiting room, one of the crisis counselors who transported me spoke these words. That one sentence awakened my light unseen. 

I held on to that tiny, seemingly unperceived glimmer of hope, believing it to be the final scrap of good in a wasted life. Even beyond my stabilization, I questioned the purpose of my place on this earth. Was I just lucky that all my attempts had failed? Was God making me live out hell on earth? Or did my escape from rock bottom even mean anything at all? Now, here I am, nearly a year later. And I am ready to tell my story. 

Over the last year, I have hinted at bits and pieces of my story. But until now, I have not felt comfortable discussing such matters in detail. Even still, there are parts of my life, specifically my childhood, that I am not yet ready to describe. I wanted to create a new category of posts where I reflect on my life. How I have—and have not—lived by the Logos. But most importantly, how I have found hope. 

In November, I started working as a behavioral health technician for a residential mental health facility. Given my history with both substance abuse and mental health, I figured I would at least try it out. Daily, I encounter people who are going through what I have escaped. I take pride in the fact that my story has given hope to quite a few people. Why stop there? 

One year ago, at this very moment, you could have told me there would be hope for me. I might have verbally agreed with you, but inside, I would have never believed it. I was lost. I was hopeless. I was an absolute trainwreck. I maintained that there was no purpose in living. I believed my life was over. And oddly enough, that the preceding sentence still holds a degree of truth. My life was over. My life of walking in darkness was nearing its end. In seeking to end my life, I actually began it. 

Childhood 

I am going to keep this section as brief as possible. I would ignore it entirely, but I must draw some details to explain where I come from fully. 

I was born on April 24th, 2000, at 7:13 PM, weighing 7 pounds and 13 ounces. I was the tenth and final child my mother would bring into this world. She was 45 at the time. She had already birthed nine children. She had two miscarriages prior to my birth. The odds of me being born without Down syndrome or major birth defects were slim to none. Her doctor, a Christian man, encouraged her to get an abortion. She refused. 

I have eleven siblings. Six years after my birth, my mother adopted my younger brother, Cameron. We were all homeschooled. We went to church every Sunday and Wednesday. For the first nine years of my life, we attended a large Southern Baptist Church. We left once the pastor got caught sleeping with his secretary (big surprise—not). 

All of us children participated in extracurricular activities outside of church. My sisters did karate or ballet. My brothers played baseball and football. As a child, I suffered from asthma. This condition limited me to participating in certain activities. About the time we left the Baptist church, I joined Boy Scouts. 

Also, around the same time, I was struggling with weight. My family and friends frequently ridiculed me for being a “fat boy.” Finally, much to my “father’s” disdain, my mother signed me up for the local swim team. My mother required me to join the team so that 1) I could participate in a sport that would not worsen my asthma and 2) I would lose weight. For the first two years, I did not find much enjoyment in it. 

Several years later, when I had a lot of aggression built up, swimming became my avenue for releasing such anger. I developed a sincere appreciation for the sport and quickly became one of the team’s top swimmers. It is a paramount part of my life that cannot go unmentioned. Much of my worldview comes from what I call the “philosophy of swimming.” I will discuss this more in later posts. 

Addiction 

I cannot paint an overview of my life without touching on one of the most heartbreaking, yet definitive traits of mine: my addictive personality. The same year I joined the swim team, I smoked my first cigarette. I smoked weed for the first time. I had my first taste of alcohol. Each of these activities disgusted me. But it was around then that I looked at porn for the first time. Like the others, it disgusted me at first… then it became all I could do. 

I kept my porn addiction a secret for many years. Although I managed to kick it at 18, it is something that I find much harder to discuss than my addiction to alcohol. My addictive personality truly began when I became hooked on pornography. Ten years later, I would check into rehab for alcohol and weed addiction. Within those ten years, my addictions slowly evolved. I picked up drinking and smoking regularly at the age of fourteen, and lost control after my mom’s death.

Now, I was not raised in an environment where the disease of addiction was proactively discussed. I was raised in a religious atmosphere. Addiction was simply a myth; it was the disease of choice that was impressed upon my mind. It was a question of faith. The alcoholics and addicts of this world simply did not have the right relationship with Jesus. They could not distinguish good from evil. Because in the mind of a fundamentalist or evangelical, everything is black and white. 

My “father” is an alcoholic. My mother struggled with drug dependence in high school and college. And for those who know anything at all about addiction, it is largely genetic. Had we had discussions about addiction, things might have played out differently. Had I not been under the impression that addicts burn in hell, I might have known how to better handle the situation if and when it came up. 

But mainstream Christianity is the primary poison in my life. It stripped me down into thinking that I would never be good enough. That if I ever so much as touched a drop of alcohol, I would have a miserable life and be spiritually tormented after death. The disease of religion ruined my life. Sadly, it would not be for many years that I would learn I could be spiritual without being religious. That I would not go to hell if I stopped going to church. The legalistic nature of religion, and Christianity in particular, has made my journey much darker. 

Mental Health and Suicide 

I would not be formally diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder until 2020. Therapy was never encouraged growing up. Psychology went against the grain of religion and, therefore, it was kept from me. But I struggled with this disease long before my diagnosis. I mentioned earlier that I am not ready to discuss my childhood. Well, that is because there is a lot of repressed trauma from that time. There is a lot that I never got to work through. And each day, even now, it haunts me. 

It is no secret that people misunderstand MDD. There is a nasty stigma surrounding it in the United States. Let me tell you that it is not just feeling sad. And it is definitely not feeling this way for no reason. It is devastating. Unfortunately, there is no age limit for struggling with depression. I know now that I struggled with it as a child. But, again, these are discussions that were forbidden at home. 

The scariest part of it all is that I have struggled with being suicidal for the greater part of my life. I cannot recall exactly when this feeling began, but I remember my first attempt. I was eleven years old. Read that again. Eleven years old and attempting to take my life. I tried swallowing a bottle of airsoft bullets. Obviously, it did not work. And that was my cross to bear. 

It was my cross to bear because, once again, we have an issue of stigma. As if the stigma surrounding addiction, mental health, and suicide is not bad enough worldwide, it is far worse in the Deep South. And especially in the church. I recall having a terrible youth pastor at this time. He taught that suicide is an unforgivable sin. Unforgivable because once it is done there is no repenting. 

The same pastor caused a lot of unnecessary traumata. Suicide would get me sent straight to hell in a handbasket. I remember the same pastor teaching that drug and alcohol addictions are treatable, but porn addiction is uncurable. And, of course, porn addiction is unforgivable. No matter what vice I allowed to define me, the only residence beyond my grave would be a fiery chamber of torture. And it would take a miracle to save me from it. 

“Losing” my Faith 

The most important part of my story lies not within the abuse, the attempts, or the addictions. It lies within my recovery. The starkest blow to my life came at the age of eighteen. That May, I had just become an adult. I had just graduated high school with an Associate of Art from my dream college. I had just been hired as a swim coach. I was doing well at my full-time job. I met who I believed to be the woman of my dreams. And yet, that very month, my mother was diagnosed with stage four liver cancer. 

From the moment I received the news, I knew I would never be the same. I started drinking more. I stopped eating normally. I lost well over 20 pounds, my hair began to fall out, and no matter what I did, I could not feel normal. At the time, I was a devout Christian. Nothing was more important to me than faith and my involvement with the church. I started my dream program, studying political science, and quickly lost interest. 

I was ready to give up on my dreams and accept defeat. I was prepared to make a career out of my grocery store job. I was determined to ditch school completely. But when I informed my sick mother of my intentions, I knew that it would not work. Here lay a woman who had survived it all and now faced an uphill battle against a putrid disease. I could not let her down. She poured 18 years of her life into educating me, and I needed to make that count. 

After much thought and prayer, I decided I would stay in school. I began to question how God could let this happen to me. I wondered how God could allow this woman, a saint, to be stricken with such an awful disease. And when I asked my religious leaders about the problem of suffering, I did not receive satisfactory answers. I decided to pursue biblical theology. I already had issues with the global church, despite my devotion to it. Now, it was time to test the waters. 

After losing my mother and battling my own diseases and addictions, I reached my conclusion. I found that religion, the thing I held onto through it all, was actually poisoning me. I had been lied to my entire life. Not only was I lied to, but I recognized that millions of people are lied to every week by the church. The church has created far more suffering than it has alleviated. And that, in and of itself, is a problem. 

I needed to recuse myself from religion. I needed to rid myself of the poison that flooded my veins for so long. Believe me, I did not want to leave. I did not suddenly have a great “a-ha!” moment and realize religion was toxic. It developed slowly over time, the more I began to understand and interpret the Bible. And now here I am. I am spiritual, not religious. And I pride myself on that. 

Now 

I have survived abuse. I have survived being bullied. I have survived addiction. I have survived grief and loss. I have survived psychosis. I have survived trauma. I survived suicide. I have survived and lived to tell my story. Now here I am, and I am doing it. 

A year ago, at this very moment, my struggles were cumulating into my own devastation. And I believed that no matter what I did, I would never find hope. But the story changed. Not only do I have hope, but I have the will to live. I am living a life I once dreamed about. I do not have everything I ever wanted, but I have found something I could not find at home, at church, or even in swimming: hope. 

I wake up each day and serve as a testament to the hope of recovery for others. I get to share my story and touch the lives of others. If you had told me I would be doing this a year ago right now, I would never believe you. But I made it here. And now, I hope you will enjoy it as I delve deeper into my story and psychology. I hope you will understand where I come from when I write critically about the church and organized religion. More importantly, I hope that you will see the hope that I have found. 

My life is not over. My light is no longer unseen. And I am only just getting started.