How I Survived My Suicide Attempts (And Why I’m Still Here)

A story of survival, surrender, and the Savior who carried me through the darkness

Some stories are hard to tell.

Not because they’re too painful. But because they are tangled in shame, silence, and the shadows of who you used to be.

This is one of those stories.

I never thought I’d be the guy writing a post like this. I was the strong one. The ambitious one. The guy who could outlift anyone in the gym and still ace a chemistry exam. But bipolar disorder didn’t care how “strong” I was. It tore through my life like a storm I didn’t see coming.

And when the storm reached its peak, I wanted out.

I’ve attempted suicide multiple times. I’ve nearly died. I’ve been hospitalized. And I’m only here by the grace of God, the love of my family, and the fact that something — or someone — kept interrupting the darkness.

This is how I made it back.

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The First Time: The Bathtub

I was in my early twenties, newly married, and overwhelmed. There wasn’t a big fight. There wasn’t some dramatic trigger. I just… snapped.

I brought a blow dryer into the bathtub, thinking I would electrocute myself. I can’t explain the logic — or the lack of it — but I remember the water, the cord, the numbness.

It didn’t work.

And that moment didn’t end in an ambulance or an ICU stay. It ended in silence. In isolation. I didn’t tell anyone for a long time. I was too ashamed.

I just kept going. Like nothing happened.

But something had shifted.

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The Gun

Years later, I bought a gun.

Not for self-defense. Not for sport.

I bought it because the pain had returned after my wife had a miscarriage and wanted a divorce, and I wanted a way out.

I sat in my house alone, holding it. And I would have pulled the trigger if it weren’t for my dog, Nyla. She pawed at me and laid her head in my lap.

I couldn’t do it.

That moment — her quiet presence — saved my life.

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The Caffeine Overdose

My most dangerous attempt was in 2020.

By that time, I was in the middle of a divorce. I was unstable, overwhelmed, and spiraling. I bought a bottle of caffeine pills and downed 12,000 milligrams of caffeine — enough to kill most people.

My heart rate skyrocketed. I was sweating but felt cold. One miracle is I barely made it to the ER room before I started vomiting black liquid. And then I blacked out. I went into rhabdomyolysis. My kidneys began to fail.

They told me I might lose both of them. That I might need a transplant. That I might not walk out of the ICU.

But I did.

I survived.

And a week later, I was back in the gym. Benching over 300 pounds. Squatting over 500. Deadlifting over 600. It sounds insane, but for me it was a way to prove I was still alive. That I still had fight in me.

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The ICU Room

I was hooked up to multiple IVs. My blood pressure was through the roof. Nurses were constantly checking on me, talking to me, grounding me.

I had to get up to pee constantly.

The nurses—God bless them—were like angels. They didn’t just take care of my body. They anchored my mind. They reminded me that I was still a person. That I still mattered.

I started blood pressure medication right then. It was just one more sign that my body was under siege.

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Why Did I Survive When My Cousin Didn’t?

Here’s something I don’t talk about much: the same year I survived my 12,000 mg caffeine overdose, my cousin died by suicide.

We were both struggling. We were both loved. We were both prayed for.

And yet, I survived, and he didn’t.

I don’t have a clean answer for that. And I won’t pretend to explain the mystery of why some of us make it through and others don’t. But I can tell you this: his death wasn’t because he was weak, or selfish, or lacking in faith. It wasn’t because God forgot him. He died from a disease that attacks the mind, one that can turn your own brain against you in ways that are invisible, brutal, and fast.

I believe Jesus was with him in those final moments. I believe Jesus wept. And I believe my cousin’s life still mattered deeply, and still does.

That’s why I talk about this so openly. Not to say “look at me, I survived,” but to say: we carry the stories of those who didn’t. And we honor them by fighting for the ones who are still here.

I also want to be clear about something that matters. People don’t “commit” suicide, they die by suicide. This is important. Suicide is not a moral crime like committing murder. It’s the result of an overwhelming, often invisible brain disease. Using the right words isn’t just about semantics, it’s about compassion, dignity, and honoring those we’ve lost.

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Could Angels Have Saved Me?

I believe in angels.

And looking back, I don’t know how I survived except for divine intervention. Maybe it was the nurses who never left my side. Maybe it was Nyla, pawing at my lap. Maybe it was something I couldn’t see, but could feel.

Hebrews 1:14 says, “Are not all angels ministering spirits sent to serve those who will inherit salvation?”

And Psalm 91:11 says, “For He will command His angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways.”

I believe God sent angels to protect me when I didn’t even want protection. I believe He surrounded me, not just with doctors and IVs and loved ones, but with spiritual strength I couldn’t see at the time.

But I also know that saying “angels saved me” can be painful to someone who lost their son, their friend, their cousin.

If that’s you, if someone you loved died by suicide, please hear me. God did not love them any less. Their life mattered just as much. And their death is not a reflection of failure, not theirs, not yours, and not God’s. Sometimes the pain and the illness are just that strong.

So when I say I believe angels were there for me, I don’t say it with pride. I say it with trembling humility. Because I don’t know why I’m still here. I just know that I am. And because I am, I will carry the names and the memories of the ones we lost, including my cousin, and I’ll use my story to fight for those who are still in the battle.

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The Shame That Follows

One of the hardest parts of surviving a suicide attempt is living with the shame that follows.

I wasn’t just ashamed that I had tried—I was ashamed of the damage I’d done to the people who loved me.

Some of my family members still carry trauma from those days. PTSD, even. I’ve had to work through that in therapy. In prayer. In one hard conversation at a time.

I can’t erase what happened. But every year I go without another attempt is another year I’m rebuilding trust in those relationships.

It gets better. But it takes time.

One moment that really hit me was hearing Tim Ferriss describe suicide as strapping on a bomb vest and walking into a room full of the people you love—then pressing detonate. You’re not just hurting yourself. You’re wounding everyone who cares about you. That metaphor gutted me. I thought about my goddaughter and how fiercely protective I am of her. I would never want to be the source of her pain. That realization still grounds me when suicidal thoughts creep in—because yes, I still get them sometimes. These days, they’re more like static in the background. They don’t take hold. But I’m always aware of the cost—not just to me, but to the people I love.

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The Role of Antidepressants

Every antidepressant I tried made me worse.

Prozac. Zoloft. Lexapro. Cymbalta. Effexor. Celexa. Wellbutrin. Pristiq.

You name it — I probably tried it.

Each one sent me spiraling. Some launched me into mania. Others made me feel completely numb. A few made me suicidal within days.

And that’s when I began to suspect something deeper was going on. That I didn’t just have depression. That this was bipolar disorder — and that these medications were igniting the fire instead of putting it out.

I’m not anti-medication. But I am against guessing. And for years, doctors kept guessing. And I kept getting worse. I was actually misdiagnosed the first time in college and again in my late 20s. I’ll get to that another time.

Eventually, I found a psychiatrist who listened. Who looked at the full pattern of highs and lows. And together, we landed on lithium and lamotrigine — which, for me, changed everything.

Let me repeat: people with bipolar disorder should not be prescribed antidepressants without a mood stabilizer. It’s not just ineffective—it’s dangerous. That’s why I now speak so loudly about this.

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What Helped Me Survive

It wasn’t just medication that saved me.

It was structure. Faith. Therapy. Fitness. Sleep. Time.

But most of all, it was people.

My mom. My dad. My brother. Friends who stuck around when I didn’t deserve it. Therapists who helped me face the trauma and rebuild.

And my dog.

If I had been alone… I wouldn’t be here. No question.

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The Neuroscience of Suicidal Thinking

Let’s get scientific for a moment.

Suicidal ideation isn’t just emotional. It’s neurological. Research shows that:

• The prefrontal cortex (responsible for decision-making and impulse control) becomes hypoactive during suicidal crises.

• The amygdala (our fear center) can become overactive, flooding the brain with signals of threat and hopelessness.

• Serotonin levels are often dysregulated — especially in bipolar brains.

• Trauma, inflammation, and sleep deprivation all compound these effects, making the brain a perfect storm for despair.

This isn’t weakness. It’s chemistry.

It’s a medical emergency, not a moral failure.

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When I Gave Up, Jesus Carried Me

Even in the moments leading up to my suicide attempts, I was praying. I was crying out to Jesus, begging Him to take away the pain. I didn’t want to die — I just didn’t know how to live anymore. And even when I gave up, I believe He never did.

I believe Jesus lifted me up when I couldn’t lift myself. I believe He carried me when I had nothing left. And while the healing didn’t come in an instant, His presence never left me. That’s what got me through the darkest nights — not a sudden miracle, but the steady presence of a Savior who never let go.

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Rebuilding from Rock Bottom

After my last attempt, everything changed.

I made a decision: If I was going to live, I was going to fight like hell to make that life meaningful.

I got serious about my routines.

I tracked my sleep religiously.

I stopped drinking. I cut ties with cannabis. I gave up steroids.

I leaned into my faith like never before.

I started writing.

And slowly, I started to heal.

Not overnight.

Not perfectly.

But faithfully.

Today, I’m engaged to the love of my life. I work in a high-performing sales job. I lift weights, write every week, and am building a life I never thought possible in my darkest moments. I also cohost a podcast called The Books Brothers Podcast which is on Apple, Spotify, and YouTube (shameless plug).

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To the One Who’s Struggling Right Now

You might think your story is over.

It’s not.

You might think you’re too far gone. Too broken. Too messy. Too much.

You’re not.

If you’re reading this, you’re still here. And that means you’ve already survived 100% of your worst days.

That’s not weakness. That’s strength.

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Final Thoughts

Suicidal thinking doesn’t make you crazy.

It makes you human.

And if you’re living with bipolar disorder, it means your brain is working overtime just to maintain balance.

You don’t need to prove anything.

You don’t need to carry it alone.

You just need to stay. One more day. One more breath.

Because you matter.

And your story’s not over yet.

And for me, the reason I’m still here — the reason I’ve been able to rebuild my life — is Jesus.

All the strength I thought I had was never enough. But His grace was. And it still is.

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Call to Action

If you’re struggling with suicidal thoughts, please talk to someone. A doctor. A therapist. A pastor. A friend. You can also call or text 988 in the U.S.

You don’t have to go through this alone. There is help. And there is hope.

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Resources

• 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline — Call or text 988 or visit 988lifeline.org

• National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) — nami.org

• Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance (DBSA) — Find support groups, resources, and community at dbsalliance.org

• My podcast: The Books Brothers Podcast (Apple | Spotify | YouTube)