Never make long-term decisions based on short-term misery

Over 30 years ago, I lay in bed in a decrepit one-bedroom apartment, crying as I stared at the cracked ceiling.  At the ripe old age of thirty-three, my life was over. I had lost all I valued in life, with no hope of ever reclaiming it. The truth had sunk in—my home was broken, my dreams of being with my children were shattered, and my business was almost ruined. My wife had filed for divorce. I felt totally worthless as a man, a husband, and a human being.

My chest felt as though a boa constrictor were squeezing me in a death grip. Each breath required an effort; I just could not get enough air. Dark, dismal, dirty, and decrepit described both the apartment and my soul. I never knew a man could feel so low, so utterly hopeless and helpless. Gut-wrenching sobs racked my body. I had not known it was possible to hurt this much.

For three years, our marriage had decayed from occasional arguments into constant fighting. Counseling, religion, and self-help manuals had not provided any answers. I discovered relief only through chemicals—first using a prescribed medicine and then turning to alcohol.

I had moved into this small apartment to await the final divorce proceedings. I could have afforded a better place, but it seemed appropriate that my surroundings match the ugliness of my feelings. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t find anything that would relieve the misery. Both my mother and my childhood church had taught me about a benevolent God that intervened in the affairs of man, but I had sacrificed these early beliefs to a scientific approach to life. Now this logical training failed to provide answers for my emotional turmoil or give any hope that I could ever find real solutions. I told myself over and over that I needed to let it go and move on. Move on. Right. I could barely make it from the bed to the toilet!

Nighttime multiplied the mental torture. Throughout the cold, dark, rainy hours, a sense of total hopelessness swirled through the witches’ brew in my mind. Each thought about how unfair this all was and how badly I had been treated led to more of the same. Then I’d take a drink of scotch to ease the pain and clear my thinking—or so I thought.

My emotions sank lower with each passing moment. I knew I couldn’t take it much longer, but I couldn’t break free either. I thought of the father I had never known, the man who had committed suicide when I was two years old. I had always thought his final act had been despicable, selfish, and cowardly. My judgment of him—and of many other people and things—reflected the pride of the self-sufficient engineer who believed that he could achieve anything. Now I understood what my father had felt.

I lay in the dirty, rumpled bed, desperately pleading with a God that I did not believe would ever help me, to please relieve my pain. I had long since given up any belief that this entity I called God would do anything for me, but I had nothing else left to try. As expected, nothing happened. I walked to the one chair in my apartment and sat down. I picked up the fifth of scotch and saw that I had enough left to put me out again. I choked down another big hit, but it barely fazed me. Filled with self-pity as I looked at the peeling linoleum, the unmade bed and dirty dishes, tears started rolling down again. How had I ended up here?

I made a decision. I had hurt long enough. I picked up the .357 revolver and jammed the barrel deep in my mouth, feeling the front sight digging into flesh and drawing blood. The 150-grain bullets would make an exit hole the size of my fist so I would have no chance to second-guess this one.

I pulled slack out of the trigger, knowing exactly how much tension this trigger required to drop the hammer. With a scant sixteenth of an inch of trigger-pull left, a thought flashed into my mind, Hey! Wait a minute. You can always do this later if things don’t get better.

This small thought, though it hardly seemed profound, penetrated the alcohol haze like a laser through smoke. Somehow, this simple interruption allowed me to make a different choice. Knowing that if I couldn’t find a way out I could always return and pull that trigger gave me a choice that I could accept, at least for the moment. In retrospect, that specific thought was probably the only thought that could have stopped me from pulling the trigger. If it would have been, You’ll go to hell if you do this, or something similar, I would have finished the sequence.

I didn’t know it then, but later I understood that sometimes the spiritual power that resides within every human being, whether we call it God, Supreme Being, Great Spirit, or another name—He or She—often works this way. No flash of light, no burning bush but simply a quiet thought, a subtle shift in attitude.

    Emerging from my near suicide, I had one simple but very clear insight:

Never make long-term decisions based on short-term misery.

 And for 36 years, I have enjoyed a life filled with love, excitement, happiness and the opportunity to help other people. The wrong response in that single instant of misery could have prevented every beautiful moment since. I am not only alive but am overwhelmed with gratitude. Thank you God.