Transcriber: ‌Behdad Khazaeli Reviewer: David DeRuwe
August 31, 2011,
was, for the most part, just an average day.
In fact, it was a Wednesday, a hump day.
Pretty ordinary, unremarkable, except for one thing -
This was the day that I was going to commit suicide.
This was the day that the monster known as clinical depression
had finally convinced me of its lies:
that I was weak and stupid and pitiful,
that I was ugly and problematic,
I was an embarrassment, and I was a burden.
And the monster continued his argument
by promising me that the end of existence,
the end of my pain,
would be in the seven-and-a-half seconds
it would take my body to fall 730 feet from the Foresthill Bridge.
And he concluded his argument by promising me
that everyone in my life would be far better off
in the wake of my death and the absence of my pitiful existence.
So those lies in hand,
I got in my red Dodge Dakota pickup truck
and not telling anyone where I was headed,
I made the short 20-minute drive from my home to the Foresthill Bridge.
And I parked my vehicle and turned it off.
And I sat there in the driver's seat, and I closed my eyes.
But then I opened [them] lest I changed my mind.
And I reached over to the passenger seat,
and I grabbed the suicide note that I had typed out.
And I put the note in the center of the dash.
And I took the keys out of the ignition and put those in the center of the note.
And I exited the vehicle,
and then I spun back around to make sure that I had left the door open.
I crossed the road,
went down the narrow path that ran parallel with the busy road,
and I walked just short of a quarter mile to the midpoint of the Foresthill Bridge,
that point that stands 730 feet above the river below.
And I turned and I pressed my body
up against what was then a four-and-a-half foot suicide barrier.
And instead of looking out at the extraordinary view,
I looked down,
and I focused on a singular spot in the river.
And my mind played a trick on me
because while the water flowed around,
in the circle of my aim, the water was still.
It was placid, not moving at all,
and it created a sort of deadly target,
an end-of-life bullseye.
But that moment,
a rush of cool air came up from the river below,
and it pulled me back from the barrier.
And I lifted up my gaze, and I took in the spectacular view.
And then I had a thought -
that I am so going to miss all of this.
But I shook myself free of the thought, and I put it out of my mind,
and I returned to reposition myself against the barrier.
And I closed my eyes,
and I rehearsed the move up and over the barrier.
And I tried to imagine the speed of my descent
as my body hurled towards the river below.
And I said a prayer
that I would either pass out or pass away before I made impact.
I stayed in that reflective pose,
in that stance,
long enough for a passing driver to become concerned,
long enough for that person to call 911,
and long enough for a first responder to approach me from the left-hand side,
and initially establish contact,
which is logistical,
and then create connection,
which is lifesaving
because connection creates hope,
and hope saves lives.
I was taken off that bridge into an emergency room
and then to a psychiatric hospital where I would remain for the next 15 days.
And when people found out I was there and why,
they were shocked.
Because instead of seeing me as clinically depressed or suicidal,
they saw me as the happy and the contented co-director
of a nationally-recognized animal sanctuary,
an extraordinary place that was home
to as many as a 100 senior, special needs, and other animals
that were facing life-and-death circumstances:
25 horses, 23 dogs, 9 potbellied pigs,
umpteen goats and sheep and ducks and geese and bunnies and birds.
Literally Noah's Ark on land.
And the sanctuary had become widely known for the establishment of a forever home
for those companion animals deemed to be unadoptable.
And on June 2, 2010,
the sanctuary was featured as the cover story
in the Life section of USA Today.
I didn't fit the image of somebody who is battling a mental illness.
I didn't fit the image of somebody
who had been plagued
by suicidal ideations for years upon years.
But the truth is sometimes what hurts the most can't be seen.
Sometimes great despair and soul-wrenching agony
lie just behind a forced smile,
a distracting joke,
or a seemingly perfect and ideal life.
Because of this, people had no idea the degree to which I suffered,
they had no idea that I had found myself in a precarious place of hopelessness
on that last day in August in 2011.
But just 14 months after the mountain-top experience of being in USA Today,
there I was,
the monster firmly in the center of my back
as he was nudging me -
point, point, point -
to a place of no return.
But I was saved.
I was saved by connection,
and on a day that I thought would be my last day alive,
it was instead the first day of a new life.
The first steps in a journey that has now lasted seven years,
which has moved me away from mental hellness
and into the experience of mental wellness.
People will ask me, "David, what happened on the bridge that day?
What stopped you from jumping?
What saved your life?"
And I've shared with them how one person created connection,
which in turn created hope,
and hope is the reason that I am alive here today.
That the first responder knew
that the more we understand, the less we fear.
And that curiosity is, in fact, the most direct path to understanding.
And so with my basic biographical data in hand,
he turned to me and he asked,
"David, what does it feel like to be depressed?"
And I remember very clearly in that moment everything decelerated.
Because you see no one had ever asked me that question.
No one had done it in a way with compassion and authenticity.
And so I shared.
And then he said, "David, how long have you been impacted by depression?
and how has depression influenced who you are and shaped your personality?
and David, what do you want the world, to know about depression?"
And I shared, and we became connected.
And little did I know,
small blossoms of hope began to work their way
up through the cracks in the cement of that bridge deck.
And there,
on a half-a-mustard-seed size, not of faith but of hope,
he turned me.
He said, "David, what is it like to live and work and serve all those animals?
and David, what is it like on your best days?
and David, what do you want the rest of your life to be like?"
And as I shared, I became overwhelmed
with a condition I can only describe as positive doubt.
Suddenly the certainty I had to end my life
was being confronted and overwhelmed with the possibility of more life to come.
The density of despair begin to lift
and my mind calmed and my body felt lighter.
And I pushed myself away from the barrier,
and I turned to my left and I retraced my steps off that bridge.
And for the second time,
a cool rush of air came up from the river below,
but this time, it was at my back.
This I believe a celestial whisper urging me to keep moving forward.
My journey since that day
has been straight and curvy, up and down, and smooth and bumpy.
And I must actively manage my condition
each and every day
lest the monster grab me by the hand
and take me to an awful spot on a tall, tall bridge.
And I do this and caring for myself by caring for the whole of who I am:
my body, my mind and my spirit.
And to make sure this is so, I put my self-care on a pedestal.
My care plan is all about sleep and diet and exercise,
meditation and medication.
My care team involves a therapist, a psychiatrist, a support group, friends,
and an absolutely spectacular family.
It involves communion with the God of my understanding.
And work as an independent mental health speaker, writer, and trainer
with the singular goal of being of service
to those people in need and the people in their lives,
so that they can go firm and arrive at spot where they realize
that mental health is our divine birthright.
But of all the things I do,
the fuel that moves me forward is, of course, connection.
Because connection creates hope,
and hope not only saves lives,
it renews and restores and revitalizes a weary soul.
We live in a time and an age
in which mental illness and all its evil and awful incarnations
has risen to epidemic levels.
We are confronting a global health crisis that threatens our very way of being.
And because mental illness inflicts the pain
that is almost always invisible,
and it impacts the people we assume are least likely to be at risk.
We are all awesome.
We are often unaware of the peril that they face.
But we must leave our time together tonight
with both the sense of urgency
and be firm in the knowing that people everywhere,
regardless of their condition or circumstance,
are in need of meaningful connection now, more than ever,
because they are in need of hope now,
more than ever.
But here's the good news:
Each and everyone of us here tonight
is qualified to make what can be a life-saving difference
in the life of another human being
because each and everyone of us here tonight
is capable of creating connection.
This for the simple fact
that we have all been on the receiving end of its magic.
Yes, sometimes what hurts the most can't be seen.
But it's equally if not more important to know
that sometimes what helps the most is easy to do.
We know this to be fact. We have had this experience.
Each of us here tonight has had the experience
when someone has remembered our name and we had no expectation that they would.
And how that pure and simple act,
happening on a day
when we may be experiencing even a tinge of isolation,
how being called forth by name
can move us from the horrific place of isolation
into the sacred place of inclusion.
Everyone of us here tonight has also had the experience
where someone has resisted the temptation to judge us,
and instead, in fact,
used curiosity as to arrive at an understanding.
And they have taken the time to discover the oft-surprising "why"
that lies behind our previously misunderstood
and misconstrued behavior.
And each and every one of us here tonight
has been on a receiving end
of a timely, specific, and authentic expression
of someone's love,
of the fact that they care for us.
Of their willingness to support us and stand by us no matter what.
Those sentiments,
most powerfully delivered
in the form of a good old-fashioned handwritten note.
Not long ago,
while in the midst of a depressive episode,
I was on the receiving end
of one of those life-affirming, life-saving handwritten notes.
This one sent to me by Natalie,
the extraordinary young woman who has become like a daughter to me.
And Natalie's note was indeed the perfect note.
Because it offered me support,
not advice.
It served up empathy,
not pity.
And it oozed understanding and was absent judgement.
And in the note, Natalie tells me and affirms how much she loves me.
She reminds me that my diagnosis is not my identity.
And she lets me know that I do not have to fight this battle alone
because, in her words, she says,
"We can do this, we are a team,
and I am ready to kick some depression ass."
And then at the end of the note,
with just seven words,
Natalie pulls me free
from the grip of depression and into the warm place of belonging
by telling me,
in no uncertain terms,
that, "Depression can't have you because you are ours."
A given day can go one of two ways:
It can turn towards tragic or move towards triumphant.
But I know from personal first-hand experience
that if we choose to leverage the power of connection to create hope,
we will minimize the possibility of the former
while exponentially increasing the likelihood of the latter.
And when we do, our story will be just like Odie's story.
Odie was a 35-year-old, chocolate-colored Tennessee walker,
a former proud parade horse,
who came to the sanctuary thin, depressed, and ailing with a bad right-hand hip.
But as soon as Odie came to the sanctuary,
he became connected,
and he went from hopeless to hope-filled.
Now all horses want a job, and Odie was no different,
and before long, he assumed the role of what I call the "town crier."
Twice a day, in the morning and evening,
Odie would always be the first animal at the gate.
And when the other sanctuary residents saw the grand old man,
front and center, they knew it was time to form ranks behind him.
And Odie then would lead his posse
from the front pasture to the rear in the morning
and then flip and go from the rear pasture to the front in the evening,
both times to eat.
One particular day,
there was Odie in front of his tribe.
And they opened up the gates, and he led his crew
about a hundred feet across the top part of the gravel driveway,
into the rear pasture.
I followed behind, and I shut the gate.
And I went to go by my chores.
About an hour later, I had this strange feeling,
something wasn't quite right,
and I turned around and there was Odie, lying on the edge of the large pond
that was the focal point in the rear pasture,
and he was down.
And then, to my horror,
I watched as my amazing horse tried to stand, couldn't,
fell back, and rolled into the pond.
I dropped my bucket and my rake,
I sprinted across,
I used my two hands and vaulted over the four-foot gate.
I ran up to the edge of the pond,
but when I got there, my mind actually eased a bit
because I thought the buoyancy of the water
would help my magnificent horse go back to his feet -
that he would be able to rise.
But throughout the next rest of the day,
I watched this time and time and time again.
My horse could not stand.
And we were all committed to the experience of an animal
from a quality perspective who came to the sanctuary, not tenure.
We wanted them to enjoy whatever period of time they had left,
and seeing my horse, seeing my beloved Odie unable to stand,
I realized it was my time to help him move to the greatest pasture of all.
And so I went inside, and I called our veterinarian.
And together we created a unique plan
to euthanize Odie in the pond and then retrieve his body later.
By the time I came back, the other animals were lined up at the gate,
but it wasn't Odie in the primary position.
It was Prince,
a thirty-something racing thoroughbred
who was Odie's best friend in all the world.
Odie looking on from the pond.
Prince standing there with nervous energy.
I opened the gates, and Prince led now his crew
to the front pasture, but after five steps, he stopped,
and he let the other animals pass by and when they did,
Prince turned around,
and he walked back into the rear pasture
and up into the edge of the pond where he stopped.
And he locked eyes with his best friend.
And he stood there.
And I moved up to stand next to Prince.
And I too locked gaze with Odie.
And there we were, three brothers frozen in a triangular embrace,
engaged in a sacred and a solemn goodbye.
And we remained there, suspended in time and space.
And then Odie rose to his feet.
And he steadied himself.
And then he turned to his right, and he slowly but surely
made his way out the shallow end of the pond.
And he took a sweeping left-hand turn and walking up to me,
he put his head in the center of my chest.
And I held my magnificent horse
and I lowered my forehead till it rested on his
and I felt the dampness on his coat and I breathed in his scent.
And then he moved away, and he went up to Prince.
And they touched noses in that way that horses do.
And while I heard no word spoken, I know exactly what was said.
Prince saying to Odie,
"Not today, my brother.
Not on my watch."
And the two besties moved in tandem
and made their way to the front pasture.
Odie leaning into Prince. Prince holding Odie up.
Their journey forward marked by the water
that fell from Odie's body.
Odie didn't live three more months after that incredible experience.
Odie didn't live for three more weeks.
Odie didn't live for three more days.
Odie lived for three more years.
That is the power ...
That is the power of connection.
Connection creates hope,
and hope saves lives.
Hope saved my life.
Hope saved Odie's life.
And hope will save countless other lives.
And here at the end,
we need to ask ourselves, not just once but everyday, one simple question.
But the question is not:
Will I use connection to create hope
and in turn use hope to impact and possibly save somebody's life?
The question is: Do I dare?
(Applause)