I almost took my life on Saturday.
Earlier last week, my Twitter feed was a dumpster fire. It began as criticism – a public call-out about my activism – and morphed into something much worse. This is the toxic side of social media in action; It might have beginnings that seem reasonable enough, but more often than not, it goes well beyond the criticism of the offending action or statement and becomes a public shaming. It’s not about the person doing something wrong, but about the person being wrong, fundamentally, and without redemption. A full-on character assassination. A cancellation. Trashing that person and everything they stand for becomes a sport, a way to unleash anger, a form of entertainment, or something to gossip about later.
I’m not going to bring up all the details of what happened because that isn’t the point of this post. What happened is done. It’s over.
And by Saturday morning, it was supposed to be completely over. I had left Twitter, deactivated my account, and stepped away from a platform that has become increasingly negative and anxiety-producing in my life (this experience was just the final straw.)
After it happened, I spent a few days absolutely sick with anxiety – hardly sleeping, hardly eating, shaking, moving from crying to numbness, from hopelessness to sadness. But by Saturday morning, I was finally starting to feel a little better. Not good, but okay. I was going to garden that morning after having coffee with my wife.
And then I got tagged on Facebook. Called out, once again, about what had transpired earlier that week.
Adrenaline flooded my body.
I replied to the person who did it and asked why they were doing this now, days later. And did they not see that I’m grieving the loss of a dear friend’s child who had only passed away days before? Did they not see my regular posts on social media about the fragile state of my mental health?
Instead of compassion, I was met with demands to address the issue.
And that’s when I fell apart. Right then. In that moment. Because it had been happening all week, and this was the final blow that sent me to the floor. I felt my mind break. There’s really no other way to describe it.
My wife went to have a shower. I was alone. It was then I started to seriously think about how I could end my life, to plan it out. Could I do it before she was done?
I pushed the thought out of my mind. It rushed back in.
I pushed it out again and left the room. But everywhere I turned, there was a new way, a new plan forming, a new reason to do it. The whole world wanted me gone anyway, right? I was a terrible person, right?
I felt alone, dark, hopeless. This seemed like the only solution.
I haven’t felt truly suicidal since I was 14. No matter what life has thrown at me, I’ve been able to manage it better than I was managing in that moment. Right then, I knew I wasn’t okay, and I needed to get help. Now.
“I’m going out for a little bit,” I said to the family as I left the house. I didn’t want them to know. I didn’t want them to worry. Mom is strong and mom is capable and mom is the emotional rock. Mom can’t be wishing she were dead.
I went the ER and cried in front of the triage nurse. “Among other things, I’m a mental health advocate,” I said to her as tears fell on my pandemic mask. “Can you believe it? I can’t. I can’t believe how far I’ve fallen.”
“But you did the exact thing you should do if you’re feeling unsafe,” she said to me, gently. “I’m really glad you’re here.” Empathy shone in the eyes behind her face shield.
I was severely bullied throughout my childhood. In middle school, I was set on fire by two kids in front of a bunch of other kids – just for fun. That’s the most dramatic example of many times confrontation and conflict hurt me deeply, cast me out, and left me scarred. After that incident, I took steps to end my life. A few months later, I went to rehab for substance abuse issues. Ever since, I haven’t been great at dealing with conflict. Add to this grief and a pandemic, and I had arrived in the worst place in my adult life.
“I think I’m having a PTSD episode,” I said to the ER doctor. “I think that’s why it hit so hard and it hurts so much and I can’t get my brain to stop.”
“I think so, too,” he said. “And I’m sorry this is happening. I see you and I hear you. We’re going to get you some help.”
A while later, with a referral to psychiatry and a prescription for sleeping aids, I left the hospital. I felt safe enough to go home, knowing that home is a place where I’m loved very much. I was met with an abundance of it when I walked through the door – and ever since.
But this isn’t where the story ends. This is where it begins.
As I was walking out of the hospital, a trans woman called me. She had seen what happened online and, as an activist herself, wanted to reach out. She spent an hour on the phone with me, telling me everything was going to be okay and how important my work is.
The next day, a friend came by – a trans person who had come out after reading about Zoe on my blog. That was her catalyst for change. She brought homemade butter tarts and stood on the front step. Later, a mom of a trans kid dropped off wine. “It won’t solve everything,” she laughed. “But it’s a good start.”
Later that night, I got an email from a therapist – also a member of the trans community who saw I was in crisis and wanted to help. Today, I started trauma counselling. We’re meeting regularly, and I’m confident I’m going to get better.
I visited our neighbours before dinner for a physically distanced backyard coffee. A cis/trans couple, we met when they reached out via my blog for support a few years ago. Then they moved in down the street.
Add to this the emails, messages, texts, comments, and the song dedicated to me on Trans Radio UK this afternoon that left me crying happy tears. The endless stream of support has been overwhelming. I’m grateful, and I feel the love.
I’ve spent years fighting for the trans community. But this week, the trans community fought for me. They saved me – literally. They brought me back from a bad place. And in time, I’m going to be not only okay, but so much better than that. I’m going to be able to support them again.
This situation has torn open a painful old wound and it feels terrible. My heart is broken, and my brain is tired. But it will be the last time I let my past hurt me like this.
I’m sharing all of this for two reasons:
Firstly, if you are a trauma survivor, you are not alone. And if you’re feeling suicidal, please get the help you need. I’m here today because I did, and I want you to be here too. Let’s make it through together.
Secondly, I want people to think hard on how we approach conflict on social media. This really did almost kill me. I wish that were an exaggeration. I’m not looking for sympathy and I’m not trying to play victim; I just don’t want it to happen to the next person. Because this week, I stated several times that I was grieving and that my mental health was poor. Yet it was mostly met with a serious lack of empathy and no regard for my boundaries or my safety. I was accused of fragility. We can and should do better than this as a community and as human beings - especially if we’re going to talk about how important good mental health is. Let’s treat each other as people, not political targets.
I don’t know if I’ll go back to Twitter. I have a year to decide. Right now, the idea of dealing with a place built largely on anger and toxicity makes me sick with anxiety.
For now, I’m taking a breather from most social media and letting my mind and body heal. I’m going to get to that gardening, catch up with friends and family, hang out with my wife and kids, play with the dogs, and take as many moments as I can to be grateful for the life I have. It’s imperfect, just like me – but it’s beautiful, nonetheless. And I’m here to appreciate it. This is my new beginning.
I wanted to die on Saturday. But today, I want to live.