sometimes, i think about dying (2019) (dir. Stefanie Abel Horowitz)

10 years ago in 2014, I said to myself, "I have to die." But didn't. 24 years before that, I actually tried to die. October of 2024, I finally went and reached out for help. Maybe it's time to live.

This comes with a trigger warning: suicide, suicidality, suicidal ideation.

What I’m writing about today: a short film (not the feature length version) and how it reflects my own struggles with mental health. Hopefully if you’re subscribed to this, you’ll already know how I write, where I come from and to some extent, where I’ve been. There’s even more to come outside of the words I’m sharing today, including a podcast I was on called Suicide Noted, which will be posted in the near future which tells precisely how I tried to take my life in the year 1990. To quote a favorite songwriter, “I survived, that’s good enough for now.”

My attempt will also be included in a mental health documentary I’m finishing up next year. When my mom watched a part of the film in which I shared what happened, she had the response I expected, “maybe you should cut that part out.” Not because she’s closed-minded about mental health conversations, she doesn’t want people to think she was the reason for what I did. I think most parents would have that reaction. It’s vulnerable, it’s scary, it’s hard to fathom that their child wanted to end their life. Imagine if it worked. Imagine me not sitting here writing this now.

Not too long ago, I was honored to share an interest in films all about mental health with my partner Sharon Gissy, who runs the Mental Filmness Film Festival. We both share a lot of the same struggles but we also have an avid interest in the stories of those who have gone through struggles involving things like suicide, anxiety, depression - any facet of the human experience that could involve the brain’s wiring gone awry. Each individual has gone through something in their lives that can be simply thought of as “hard.” Whether it’s loss, relationship issues, addiction - anything can set us off in the wrong direction often towards self-destruction or a loss of identity. There’s a reason why I try to cover that festival and review what plays there.

I have found a lot of comfort in the arts over the years as most of you know. Although it didn’t play Mental Filmness, I came across this short film by Stefanie Abel Horowitz and identified with it based on the title alone. Then when I watched it, I shared some of the internal monologue the lead character had with shyness, quietness, awkwardness and just the feeling that I would always be on the outside looking in.

Katy Wright-Mead’s portrayal of Fran is so pitch-perfect and reflective of my own struggles with communication that I couldn’t separate myself entirely to enjoy the feature-length version featuring Daisy Ridley. Believe me, I wanted to, but my heart belongs to the original short film and it’s not something I think needed to be longer than 13 minutes. Mental Filmness showcases a lot of incredible stories and the ones I resonate with the most, more often than not, are the ones that are contained, shorter. Honesty and creativity are two true core values of mine so when they are poured into a filmmaker’s passion project, it’s hard for me not to respond for that reason alone.

The romance that develops between Fran and a new co-worker is very interesting as she’s in a perpetual state of anhedonia. This is where I’ve been since 2014, if not longer. But she does think about death sometimes which makes her a psychologically troubled person who likely needs support. What makes this film remarkable is that it doesn’t say, “well, this potential relationship with this new person is going to make me feel better.” The ending cements that in a way that I find profoundly moving. She says something out loud (maybe for the first time to another) and we’re left to wonder what’s next. Horowitz' filmmaking style is akin to Sofia Coppola or Mike Mills in its muted, hushed tones. Reserved, observant, patient.

At the same time, a real sense of empathy for someone who can't find the good in herself. Perhaps someone has come along to at least acknowledge that things could be okay. We also know love won't save her either; intrusive thoughts aren't going anywhere. It's also something I've learned these past two months in a mental health program. And the fact remains: a lot of us think about death and dying. Within this fragile, familiar story, told in just 12 minutes, there is a quiet yet profound examination of social anxiety, depression, and the challenges of putting oneself out there. When we do, we open ourselves to brutal honesty. But maybe that's exactly what's needed.

If I were to travel back in time to the last time I was ready to take my life, I was living in Michigan, dealing with a lot of demons and co-dependence as well as a health scare that was potentially driven by a compromised immune system and even possible psychosis. Seeing things, hearing things but then on top of that, I had a painful bout of shingles that was on the left side of my face and stretched really close to a part of my inner ear.

So I had a lot of vertigo and intense pain. It hurt so much that I couldn’t step outside into the cold without it feeling like my face was on fire. Of course, when I went to a doctor, they just said, well here are two things: steroids and opiates. I still recall watching Absentia, Mike Flanagan’s debut when I first took both and felt like I was having an out-of-body experience.

Before all that, I had begun drinking regularly to where even several episodes of the podcast I hosted from that period, I can hear me opening a bottle and pouring liquid. This is something I never thought I’d do but instead of binge eating like I had in the past, I turned to booze because it was easy to come by. Imagine this state of mind a decade ago: health issues, mental health issues, addiction, questioning my career choice and graduate school, as well as relying on my roommate for social connection when she had just met the love of her life.

Around the time of the shingles pain at its worst, I called my mom and said, “I need to move back home.” Goodbye Michigan, hello again Illinois. I did that instead of taking all of the opiates like I had thought about doing. I even had leftover Xanax and a bottle of Woodman’s Reserve on hand to wash it all down. I’m glad I made that phone call, as hard as it was. Grateful for strength.

Once I packed up and moved back, I did start seeing a therapist again who knew me well from the past. That was pretty much it, in addition to working at a thrift store and figuring out what my next career plans would turn into. Living with my mom in my 30s wasn’t exactly ideal but at least I had my friends, my podcast and music to turn to like I always have. But the thought about dying was still there. Really, what’s kept me alive - the arts and my cat. If I see an amazing film or listen to a great record, and see Lucy by my side in my bed, I don't necessarily want to die at all. The truth is though, after what I did as a teenager in 1990 with an actual attempt and then a near second attempt in 2014, I should’ve sought out more than just a familiar therapist.

What I needed was inpatient treatment though. Honestly, that scared me the most. My mom did that at the exact same age. It didn’t go well. Within the past few years, I kept hearing about a version of this - that didn’t involve staying overnight. It was called PHP/IOP and there are a couple of clinics in the Chicagoland area that specialize in this. Instead of staying in a bed and eating their food, you basically spend 6 hours a day doing several forms of treatment: individual therapy, medication, nurses, group therapy, art therapy, connecting with others in the same program, processing together and learning different ways of distress tolerance and self-compassion through modalities such as DBT and CBT. There are many others but I’ve found individual and group therapy to be the most effective (the latter of which was a huge hurdle for me at first, but I slowly opened up with others).

At first I thought, okay, I can take off work for a month and focus entirely on my mental health. Little did I know, it was actually two months. This basically put me on leave from Halloween to Christmas with no income. And of course, scary things still happened that would often leave me anxious and depressed especially late at night. But then things began to shift, slowly and subtly. I no longer had extreme suicidal ideation, I wasn't having as many panic attacks and I didn't turn to food for consolation as much.

Suffice to say, this IOP program didn't teach me to "feel better" it taught me how to be better about feeling. To accept the sadness and pain rather than to fight it off or judge myself for being like Fran. I'm still introverted, possibly more quiet than most, but that doesn't make me "less than" or not worthy of self-compassion and love. I also can't rely entirely on my partner or my friends either. There are skills to rely on now when things get heavy and real and difficult. Even recently, I had a panic attack at night after a car accident, but I didn't wake up my partner and say, "I think I'm dying." I dealt with it using the things I had learned in the program.

But as I'm about to say on my final day in the program, it is not a cure-all. It is not an easy fix. There are even things they taught I will likely not utilize or even question (some of DBT and CBT's models are a little dated, and the therapists even admit that). The trick was to show up, do the work, try to write, try to eat better and get exercise too. Being alive is hard so why not go easy on ourselves especially as things will likely get worse in 2025 (or not).

I have sometimes thought: what is the purpose of all of these complicated, conflicting feelings? They're dialectical and at odds. I can be tired and motivated. I can be anxious and grounded. I've always felt like I'm at war with being here, being present. Depression gets you stuck in the past. Anxiety gets you ruminating about the future. There have been times when I have felt such joy and pleasure that I stop myself from letting myself experience the 'good.' Maybe because in my mind, I've always felt depressed, detached, out of sorts and maybe even 'bad.' The short film, 'Sometimes i think about dying,' came along at the right time. I hope others can a similar connection in a character. It allowed me to see a version of myself on screen and feel less alone. Same with the mental health program that is now coming to an end, right before the new year begins.

Great art still isn't enough. We need people. That's where the mental health program came in. If my default state has been perpetual malaise and disassociation, then how can that be healthy for friendships, family, relationships and most importantly, when I'm alone with my thoughts? Why not seek out support, ideas, comfort and connection to manage those feelings. Again, they won't be eradicated but I could figure out how to live with them to where they don't control or overwhelm me to where I can't function or experience positive energy. Especially at a time when I want to. I need to.

The metaphorical “dark cloud” has been above me for quite some time. It is something deeply ingrained. It is not the dampening of mood, but the negation of it. There is often little nuance - I just lived inside that cloud without peeking my head out to see if other weather was even possible. Confronting a lot of topics and concepts in the program for two months felt a little like watching a lot of films about mental health - they allowed for re-framing and seeing the forest for the trees. It's important to talk about the things we're most afraid of. I’m only scratching the surface of what I want to say and what even just a short film like this can inspire within me.

Believe it or not, ADHD, anxiety and depression have likely been a part of my DNA since the first time I attempted suicide in 1990. I just shut down then instead of sharing that with my parents, with friends, with anyone. Now that I've finally come out of my shell and learned how to communicate my thoughts better, I realize there is a lot to look forward to and maybe now I can manage these emotions in a way that doesn't lead to a premature ending. This could very well be the beginning of the me I've always wanted to be.

Sometimes I still think about dying, yes. But now it feels good to start thinking about living and loving myself too. And that's precisely what the program has taught me to do.