Self-Love.

When I was 12-years old, I made up my mind that I was going to take my own life.

I had been thinking about it for months and completely convinced myself that death was the only viable option for me.

Reading those last two sentences back, takes me back to all of those days in middle school when I would come home, lock myself in my room, and sit with my music and imagination. I would try to imagine what it would be like to have friends.

My imagination still could not escape the reality of what was when I went to school: every part of me, from my hair, to my teeth, my eyes, my clothes, my accent, the way I walked, and the way I talked had all been used against me. I had been called faggot, queer, homo and ‘uh bitch” more times than I could count. I’d been on the receiving end of “Aye, boy…she like you” as some girl would say and then take off running, only for her friend to cuss her out for “trying her like that.”I would imagine myself sitting at the popular “Black” table with all of the dope Black girls and boys: the athletes, the class clowns, the fly mama’s. I would imagine playing football, and making my dad proud of me knowing good and well I couldn’t catch a ball, throw a ball, or run a route. I would practice my touchdown dance and celebratoin two-step. I hated football. I hated sports. But I wanted so badly for my dad to be proud of something I did.

My sister, dealing with her own pain at the time, made matters no easier for me when I came home. She would call me names like “Troy-eeka” and “Troy-eisha”, ego blows that still give me hang ups about my manhood and what it means to be a man to this very day — and those were good days.

I guess one day I had taken more than I could bare. I am not sure what broke the camel’s back that particular day but I came home and said “Today is the the day.” I thought about all of the ways I could do it. First, I decided on a gun. Both of my parents were law enforcement and kept guns in the home. I knew where one of them was and decided that that was how I would do “the do.”

Then, I remembered I was scared as hell of guns.

I decided that a handful of pills would be the best way. Then, I remembered that I hated vomitting and the thought of even doing so made me rethink that decision.

I took out my journal (I used to write daily notes to myself at 12) and turned to a clean page. I sketched out a map of my room: I drew my bed, dresser, desk, and tv stand. Then, between the bed and closet I drew a rope and noose. I drew a little stick figure inside of the noose and a chair under its feet.

I was the stick figure.

I drew my bedroom door. Then, I drew my parents on the other side of the door with HUGE smiles on their faces. I topped the picture off with a caption bubble coming out of my mom’s mouth with the words, “Money! Money! Money!” coming out of her mouth because, in my mind, the first thing my parents would think after seeing me hanging from a sheet in my bedroom was insurance money. Or at least that’s what my very broken 12 year-old self believed. I closed my notebook and sat on the side of the bed.

For a few moments, I thought about it long and hard. I thought about what people would say at school. I thought about my funeral and who would speak. I thought about where my clothes would go and who would get my boombox. In those few moments, I made peace with death by own hands. I decided that I was neither loved nor wanted and that killing myself would somehow ease my family and the world of the burden of … me. I can’t remember what stopped me or why I didn’t go through with it that day. To this day, I still don’t know why or how at 12 years old, I could make peace with a decision with such a drastic action.

A Struggle

I have struggled with suicidal thoughts most of life. It is not something I am particularly proud of that I like to admit. In fact, it wasn’t until I got through college that I learned to manage the thoughts to the point of suppression. Sometime around my mid-twenties I couldn’t run from the fact that I was just as attracted to bad ass Black men as I was Bad ass Black women and I could no longer suppress those thoughts any longer fearing the hell my life would become.

Let me go ahead and be clear: I have no desire to die. I love living. I love life. I love my purpose in life. But, when you have no money coming in, no car, no home of your own…nothing, and you’re still trying to sort out your sexuality and all the things that come with that, it becomes extremely difficult to overcome the cadence in your head that says, “death has to be better than this because this ain’t it.”

I’m 30 now, and still struggle but not nearly as much. The thoughts come less frequently and I can’t even remember the last time I thought about ways of actually doing it. I have learned to stay away from those things that trigger those thoughts. It’s not something I like to talk about but as a Black man, I find it neccessary. With the recent spike in elementary school-aged Black children killing themselves, it’s a conversation that I do not mind sharing if it means that another 12-year Black boy doesn’t have to come home and illistrate his intentions of taking his own life.

“Death has to be better than this because this ain’t it.”

Do You Smell It?

I can’t tell you what stopped me from going through with it that day, but I can tell you what prevented me from ever doing it. One random day before summer break, I was flipping through channels in my room and came across a WWF show. I used to watch wrestling as a youngster but had stopped years ago. I could not turn away. I had been pulled in — mesmerized even, by a man who insisted on referring to himself in the 3rd person. The way He spoke, His confidence, The cadence in His voice; His humor. His charisma. His fashion sense. Everything! He was funny. He was confident. He was Black. He was The Rock.

From that point on, I. Was. Hooked. I started recording every single episode of Raw and Smackdown. I would record The Rock’s promos/skits and practice them over and over and over again in my room and in the mirror. This went on from the time I was 12 grade up until my 9th grade year. I did book reports on The Rock. I had his picture all over my wall. I started making a few friends in school because wrestling was the one sport I could talk about and actually know my shit. I read The Rock Says from cover to cover a few days after it came out. A few years had passed and I slowly began to step out of that awkward shy stage of middle schools years and started to really find my voice — literally.

I would practice The Rock’s promos and skits and deliver them to family and friends as I’d gotten comfortable enough with myself to do so. I didn’t even realize it, but I was slowly gaining confidence in my voice — a voice that had been the target of so much hate and ridicule the years before. When I got to high school (Imagine Sunken Place…but high school) I enrolled in a speech class and learned quickly that I had a gift for delivering powerful speeches and spoken words. Every speech I made, I challenged myself to be the best in the room — and I was. Every. Time.

That same year, I entered a speech contest at my church and won first place. The win from the contest gave me such confidence that I ultimately ended up running for class president in high school. Here I was, just 3 years earlier, I couldn’t even find the courage to talk to people I knew. Now, I was campaigning to people I’d never met and giving speeches. I went on to serve as the Sophomore and Junior Class President as well as Senior Class VP.

By the time I reached my senior year, when I stepped to a podium, there was an expectation. No one wanted to come after me in class presentations. I gave a speech at my high school ring ceremony that was so memorable , it was recounted in the school newspaper. My gift won me scholarships in college, poetry slams, and speech contest and…get this…I was starting to get play from the ladies. It was through my voice in speech that I developed my voice in writing in college and the rest, as they say is history.

If you know anything about The Rock or you’ve read his book, then you know that his ascension to the highest paid actor in Hollywood sounds like a Hollywood script itself. He battled homelessness, depression, and failure after failure. His story of how he became what we know him to be is one of the most amazing personal journeys I ever read. Whenever I find myself in a new struggle, I find myself saying The Rock wasn’t always The Rock…be cool.

Then, I’d be cool.

Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson gave me a voice at a time in my life when I thought no one cared to hear what I had to say. I recorded every single episode of Raw & Smackdown for 3 years straight — and my parents supported my habbit. Looking back, I think my parents supported my obsession with wrestling because it was the first time I’d been excited about something. Every Monday, they’d be there in front of the tv with me and buy me another pack of VHS tapes when I ran out. Playing those speeches over and over, rehearsing them, and reciting them back to myself or whoever would listen became therapy for me. I don’t know what it was about The Rock, but investing so much time to being like him brought about this change in how I viewed myself. With my new found voice, came a new pride in how I dressed and how I took care of myself. He changed my life; He saved my life.

One day, I’ll get the opportunity to tell Him Thank you. Until then, I hope this will do. Thank you, Rock.

#Love #Wrestling #PublicSpeaking #Suicide #Gratitude