In The End, It Doesn’t Even Matter

Writing Therapy - Trigger Warning - Suicide, Self-Harm, Trauma

“Hey Siri, play Hybrid Theory by Linkin Park.”

I loved that album. Perfectly mixing the clash of drums, distorted guitars, and iconic new metal disc scratching, all overlayed with a vocal combination of rap, rock, and a touch of screamo. But the lyrics, they were something else entirely. It felt like they were pulled straight from my mind. Perfectly expressing the confusing feelings of rage, fear, dissociation, suicidal ideation and anger I felt. Anger I directed at myself and the anger I directed at the world.

Everything you say to me, takes me one step closer to the edge and I’m about to break.

I would listen to it on repeat.
I would listen to it with my friends.
I would listen to it alone.
I would listen to it whilst I cut myself.

I was listening to it when I made plans to kill myself.

It’s haunting how I can’t seem to find myself again.

The memories of the past are vague. There are great swathes of emptiness that are filled with torrents of vivid and painful emotionality. I don’t remember much, but what I do remember hurts. To cope, I focused my attentions on the future. Never looking back out of fear of returning to it. I have glimpses of trauma, both big and small. It is like my past is just a highlight reel of pain and embarrassment.

Fear is how I fall, confusing what is real.

The years passed. I moved out. I got therapy. I got a wife and kids. I healed – somewhat at least. All was well. I would listen to Linkin Park occasionally, but no longer religiously. I moved on musically and my life was looking up. But then Chester Bennington, one of the lead singers of Linkin Park, killed himself.

I want to be in another place, I hate when you say don’t understand.

I was instantly brought back to the worst moments of my past. I felt the knife entering my skin. I felt the pills going down my throat. I felt the rage. Tidal waves of grief beat me down; for Chester and for the friends and family who I had lost to suicide.

I couldn’t listen anymore. It hurt too much.

Just give me myself back and don’t stay.

The lyrics had a deeper context. They became real.

In the ignorance and self-absorption of my youth, I hadn’t connected the dots between the bands lyrics and their mental states. I simply didn’t realise that they were drawing from their own pain and expressing it externally. Perhaps I connected with their work because of shared experiences, or at least because of a shared emotional reaction.

I know I’ve got a face in me, points out all the mistakes to me, you’ve got a face on the inside too, your paranoia’s probably worse.

“Hey Siri, play Meteora by Linkin Park.”

It has been years since Chester’s death, even so, I still can’t bring myself to casually listen. To say it’s triggering is an understatement.

Yet, despite how much it hurts, there is something healing about it. When life happens at its worse, there they are, ready to embrace me. Another death. Another suicide. Another act of self-harm. Another act of abuse. I bathe in their words. I lose myself in the emotions. I cry. I hit the bag. I run. I scream and I cry some more.

I want to feel like I’m close to something real.  I want to feel like I’m somewhere I belong.

I have attempted to write this post countless times and each time I have failed. Rereading what I have written here, I know I haven’t done it justice. But how could I possibly hope do so? How can mere words on a page epitomise and summarise a life? How can they possibly hope to express the pain of life? How can they possibly express the choice that some people make in their darkest moments to end it all?

One minute you’re on top! Next you’re not, watch you drop.

The truth is it can’t.

But nonetheless, another person I know has killed themselves. Another is terribly depressed and at risk. A third is chronically ill. Another just had a horrendous car crash. A fifth is accepting that their time is almost up.

So here I am, listening to Linkin Park. Blending the pain of the past with the pain of the present. Simultaneously embracing my feelings and running from them.

Later, I’m going to get high. I’m going to smash that bag. I’m going to waste my day. Then, I’ll take some Valium, kiss my kids, hug my wife and sleep. And tomorrow I’ll probably be fine. I’ll go to work. I’ll be the responsible father. I’ll continue with my life in a positive way. I’ll move forward. And I won’t look back again. I won’t listen again; not until life happens again.

Its easier to run, replacing this pain with something numb.

I used to hate my dad.

I hated him so much that I convinced myself that I didn’t care about him at all. I stopped seeing him entirely. I pretended I never even wanted him in the first place. I was sure that I was strong enough to be alone.

I now know that his addiction and a lot of his subsequent actions are a result of his own untreated trauma. Sexual abuse at the hands of an adult he should have been able to trust. What I saw as weakness, I now see as a desperate attempt to survive another day.

I judged him for turning to drugs. But what other option did he have? But me, despite a loving family, a great job and all the benefits of modern acceptance and understandings of mental health, trauma, and the recovery process, here I am using the same coping mechanisms to survive.

The very worst part of you is me.

 I am writing this as a form of therapy. To process my emotions. To accept them, my past, and myself. To heal, to grow, to recover. But the truth is that at times like this, sanity feels like a cheap veil placed over an inferno. I am so aware of the volatility of my emotions. So aware of how close I have come to following in Chester’s footsteps. So aware that in the heat of the moment, making that choice no longer seems like a choice; it seems like an eventuality.

It never goes away.

I talk online about mental health. About asking for help. About being open. About therapy. About crisis plans. About all the things you’re supposed to do. But ultimately it comes down to a choice doesn’t it? Right now, I don’t really feel like taking those actions. There is an appeal to wallowing in pain. It gives me an identity, and even though it’s toxic, it is at least something.

Memories consume, like opening the wounds. I’m picking me apart again. You all assume I’m safe here in my room. Unless I try to start again.

But then I see my baby boy smiling and those feelings pass. The sun comes out and I eat some food. I turn the music off and move on – until life happens again. Then I will return to Linkin Park, a cure for the itch.

“Sometimes you don’t say goodbye once. You say goodbye over and over again.” – Mike Shinoda, ‘Over Again’ from the album ‘Post Traumatic’

I use writing as therapy. The page listens, it doesn’t judge, it is always available, it’s free, and has a perfect memory. My process is simple - I write until I feel better. No editing or filter.

I just write. I chose to share this piece to start the discussion around important aspects of mental health and to model the practice of writing therapy.

If you are interested in learning more about writing therapy, you can check out my courses on Skill Share or this one on Insight Timer.