The brutal honest truth about not wanting to go on anymore
⚠️ Trigger Warning: Suicide, Suicidal Ideation, Mental Health Crisis
This post includes personal reflections on suicidal thoughts, medication issues, and emotional collapse. If those subjects are difficult for you, please take care. Help is available — in the U.S., you can call or text 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.
The brutal honest truth about not wanting to go on anymore
This is the first time I’ve ever written publicly about this.
I’ve talked around it before. I’ve been honest about struggling with my mental health. But I’ve never told this story in full. Not like this.
I’m sharing it now because I know someone else out there needs to hear it — maybe to feel less alone, maybe to stay alive.
I’m going to keep it simple. There are days when I do not want to be here. I do not mean a bad afternoon or a string of annoying errands. I mean the kind of day where my brain starts telling stories that scare me. The kind of day where getting out of bed feels like climbing a wall with no footholds.
I do not identify as an addict. I am not telling a recovery story about substances. I am telling the truth about despair, and how it can show up in any life, even a pretty good one, even a loved one.
I live with cyclothymia. It is a mood disorder, a cousin to bipolar. Most days I manage it. I have a family I love, work that matters to me, and routines that help. Then there are days when a wave hits and I cannot see a way forward.
I know some of you have felt this too. You do not have to be an addict to know what hopelessness feels like. It visits all kinds of people, in all kinds of seasons. That is part of why we started Pondoff’s Anonymous. Real talk, no pretending, no shiny filters.
There’s one day that stands out. It was a Sunday, and I was working at a church. My headspace was already in a rough place, and then I stumbled across an article about a pastor who had taken his own life in the sanctuary. That wrecked me. It hit too close. And on top of that, I had just seen my doctor earlier that week. I misunderstood her instructions and thought I was supposed to stop one of my meds cold turkey. So I did.
If you’ve ever been on mental health meds, you know that is not something you mess around with. But I believed that was the plan, and I followed through. By late morning, my chest was tight. My thoughts were racing. It wasn’t just anxiety. It was a full-on crash. The kind where the idea of not existing anymore starts to feel like a logical option. That scared me enough to walk out. I left work early and drove straight home.
I went home and I cried in my wife’s arms. Not quiet tears. Full body shaking. The kind where you cannot hold your posture, and you do not care who sees. I told her what I was thinking. We called, we checked, we fixed my meds, and we made a plan. That moment was hard, and it also saved my life. I needed help, and I asked for it. I am still here because I did.
On days like that, my brain lies to me. It tells me I am a burden. It tells me my family would do better without me. It tells me this feeling is forever. Those thoughts feel like facts in the moment. They are not. They are symptoms. They are the sound of my disorder getting loud, the sound of a chemistry problem, the sound of exhaustion.
When I can name them as symptoms, they lose a little power. Not all of it, but enough to make a phone call, drink water, take my meds on time, and live through another hour.
I have read other people’s stories, and their words help me put this into language. One survivor wrote:
“I had gotten to the point where I was suicidal every day for six straight years. On that day, I made a choice. The choice to live, the choice to get better for my son, the choice to get better for me.”
That line sits with me because it is not dramatic. It is a small choice, made on a regular day, in the middle of a mess. That is what staying alive has looked like for me too. A very small choice, made again and again.
Hope does not always feel like hope. Some days it is a whisper. Try again tomorrow.
Some days it is the sound of my kid laughing in the next room. Some days it is my wife’s hand on my back while I shake and breathe. Some days it is just knowing I have people in my life who care, and that they would want me to stay.
I am not someone who feels suicidal often. That’s not what this is. But I’ve had enough of those thoughts to know they’re dangerous. And I’ve seen firsthand how fast they can creep in when something shifts chemically or emotionally.
What helps is staying grounded in the truth: this pain will pass. I have had better days before, and I will again. When I feel the spiral start, I try to interrupt it early. I reach out. I take the meds. I sit down and talk to someone. I stop pretending I’m fine.
If you are in that dark place right now, here is what I would say if we were sitting across from each other:
- You are not alone, even if your brain is screaming that you are.
- You do not have to solve the rest of your life today. You only have to survive this moment.
- Telling someone is not weakness. It is how we keep each other alive.
If you do not know where to start, dial 988. Someone will answer. If you are in immediate danger, call your local emergency number. If you have a person you trust, text them one sentence: I am not okay. Can you check on me?
When I left work that day and went home, I felt like I had failed. I had not. I had chosen to live. I had chosen to take my body and my scared thoughts to the one person who could hold me, and we made a plan.
That is not failure. That is strength. It looks messy, but it is strength.
Living with cyclothymia means I still have to pay attention. I keep my appointments. I track my sleep. I try to move my body even when I do not want to. I eat, even when food sounds like cardboard. I take my meds as prescribed. If something feels off, I ask for help.
None of this makes me weak. It keeps me here. It keeps me present for my wife, for my kid, for my friends, and for the work I think matters.
I do not have some running list of reasons to stay tucked in my pocket. But when I’m feeling low, I try to remember the things that have pulled me back before. People. Music. Small rituals. The sound of my kid’s feet on the hardwood. A good meal. A dumb joke in a group text. It’s enough. It doesn’t have to be deep.
One more thing that is hard to say, but I am going to say it. If you love someone who goes through this, believe them when they tell you they are not okay. Sit with them. You do not have to fix it. Bring water. Ask if they have taken their meds. Offer a ride to the appointment. Help with small tasks. Keep the room calm and warm.
If they say they are in danger, take it seriously and get help. You would call for a broken bone. Call for this too.
At Pondoff’s Anonymous, we try to tell the truth. Not the polished version. The real one. No one gets better by pretending everything is fine. People get better by saying what is true, and by hearing someone else say, me too.
That is why I am writing this. I want the person reading it to know that someone else has had those thoughts, and that person is still here.
I am still here. I am glad I am.
I am not going to promise you a tidy ending. Life is not tidy. What I can promise is that there is another side to days like this, and you can reach it. Sometimes you get there with a big move. Sometimes you get there with one small step, and then another small step. Both count. Both are brave.
If today is heavy, try to be gentle with yourself. Drink water. Eat what you can. Sit in the sun if there is sun. Text one person. Put your meds in your hand and take them on time. Write down one thing you can do in the next ten minutes, then do that one thing. When the ten minutes are up, pick another small thing.
If you need someone to talk to right now, call 988. There is no shame in that call. There is only life on the other side of it.
Thank you for letting me be honest. I hope this meets you with some kindness. If you need it, borrow mine for a while. We can carry this together.
Jeff Allen
Pondoff’s Anonymous