I do not want to be writing this.
I have put off writing this.
I cannot continue to put off writing this.
I would rather be doing a lot of other things to distract myself from writing this.
I can feel how not writing this has been weighing me down, has been paralyzing me.

I am writing this to remind myself right now.
I am writing this to remind myself in later nows.

I am writing this to let you know that I am here
if you need someone who understands.

Nine weeks ago I tied a length of network cable into a noose and put it around my neck. I had not tied the other end over the crossbeam yet. I pulled it tight to see if it would hold. It would have. I stood there waiting to see if this was going to be the time. I’m really not sure what brought my hands up to remove the noose. It sat on the floor for days.

The feeling of cable against my throat is still present. It reminds me of what I almost did, of what I am capable of. It reminds me that I will never indulge that habit again.

I thought I would never reach that place again after coming out, feeling within this strange body, within this strange life, finally feeling the vibrance of being truly alive.

I thought I would never do that again after I went camping on the Olympic Penninsula in late December without a tent or sleeping bag, telling myself a tarp and layers of clothing would do in the cold, pretending that I wasn’t testing my resolve to stay alive. If I had laid down that night, I would not have been alive by morning. Even leaning back against the trees pulled the warmth from me. Instead I sat upright in zazen through the night, hoping I could find enough strength to make it to the sunrise.

I thought I would never do that again after laying out pills twenty-three years ago and preparing to wash them all down. A friend saved my life at the last minute with a phone call and a plane ticket to somewhere else for a while.

I have stood on subway platforms more times than I can count and reminded myself to step back from the yellow caution line or place myself safely behind the peeling crimson paint of a supporting girder.

I am writing this to let you know that if you feel this way, no matter how much it hurts right now, that you need to reach out to a friend or to a hotline (here or here), that you have a desire to live and the strength to live because you are reading this and are looking for a way to keep going, to find safety in this storm.

I am writing this because I know one day I might find myself in a place day where this seems like a good idea again and I am making a promise and a commitment to continue to see through those lies. And they are lies, a misperception of reality, a delusion. It is one of the three cravings, the craving for non-existence, born of mental habits of worthlessness or hopelessness or lonliness or desperation or an expectation that the world will be other than the way it is right now or an inability to take responsibility for my own actions. They are mental habits — our thoughts aren't always true thoughts. (even if they seem powerful and real). These are habits I have fed for a long time and will not feed any longer.

I am glad to be alive in this terrible and wondrous world. Even if I do feel overwhelmed (who doesn’t?). Even if I do feel exhausted (who doesn’t?). Even if I do not feel up to the being alive (who doesn’t?). I am glad to breathe into this unknowable body, to feel my own weight shift from lying down to sitting up to standing to walking, to explore and create and tend.

Tend. A shortening of attend. To apply one’s energies to. From attendre (old French). From attendere (Latin). Attendere… to direct or turn towards... ad + tendere… to stretch out or extend, originally in the sense of stretching a bow and taking aim at a target. What am I aiming at? What am I extending into?

There is a mysterious grace I want to know intimately, have known intimately, will know again intimately one of these days. To know it, I must turn towards, even, especially, when it feels distant and impossible, especially when I feel furthest from it. I must remember the actions that open and the actions that close, those that expand and those that contract, those that clarify and those that obscure.

I am writing this to let anyone who is feeling like this know that I am glad you’re here and I want you to keep being here. You are not worthless — you are magnificent, you are exquisite. I will turn towards you if you feel alone. We’re never really alone. We’re all in this together and we’ll figure it out together.