Bravery Saved My Life, A True Story
If you have the luxury of living long enough, life’s challenges will often feel more than you can bear. Right now, I can think of three instances in the last ten years when I thought my world would surely come to an end. The first happened when my second marriage of twelve years dissolved. The next occurred just weeks later, when the organization I was working for crumbled in a matter of hours and my professional world collapsed. And the third? I was hospitalized with acute depression caused by circumstances one and two, and a belief that the world might be a better place without me.
Those who’ve known me since childhood may likely be surprised to know that I once seriously contemplated ending it all. I had a plan. Actually, I had two. One that seemed best because it would have likely done the trick quickly; and the second was my back-up, in case plan #1 didn’t work. I had a date. I had a time. I wrote a letter apologizing to my family, and authored four short cards to special, representative people in my life who I needed to tell one last time that I loved them; and that there was nothing they could have done to prevent my decision to move on.
The letter to my family was difficult to compose, but it was straightforward, simple, and apologetic. The cards to my friends, however, were filled with some of the deepest emotions I’d ever felt, let alone ever written. Each one took at least an hour to write. I used my best handwriting, believing that if my penmanship was beautiful, that perhaps that was how they might each remember me. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I wrote, and then read, each one aloud; imagining what the words might sound like to each recipient and how they might feel. The thought of their pain, upon reading my last words, made me physically ill. At once, I ran to the bathroom knowing I was going to be sick. I didn’t make it there in time, and I felt humiliated like a toddler whose conquered potty training, only to have an accident in front of her friends. The humiliation of not being able to control my body elevated my despair and reinforced my plans to end it all that day.
I wrote the first of these four short notes to my childhood best friend. I talked about my happy memories of Halloweens and summer jobs, and of times spent at her family’s dinner table. I told her how proud I was to have been her friend for so many years, and how happy I’d been when she married and had a child, later in life than most. I told her that I loved her because being around her made me want to be a better person. I explained that she’d been my motivation for earning my doctorate and wanting to follow her lead. I shared how much I respected her religious practices, so unlike my own growing up; and I thanked her for all she’d taught me about the beauty of Judaism. Finally, I wrote that I was sorry I hadn’t reached out to her for help, or to tell her how lonely and desperate for love that I’d become. I knew she would have been at my door in a heartbeat, but I really didn’t want to be saved, so I didn’t dial her number.
The second card was to a professional mentor who I’d always respected and held up as a model of what it meant to be a progressive educator. One of the brightest and most charismatic men I’d ever met, he pushed me into thinking about teaching and learning in new ways. I explained that whenever I was around him, I felt at the top of my game — not because I needed to impress, but rather because his profound thoughts triggered new insights that ultimately made me a better leader, and more impactful than I ever might have been without his modeling. I wanted him to know how much respect I’d had for him and how I knew he was truly, with each new educator he encountered, changing the face of schools and outcomes for students in ways he might never imagine. I knew he would be surprised to find a small card in his mailbox with my address label on it for any reason, but more than that, he would have been shocked to know that in my final days that I had been thinking of him. To this day, he does not know of my despair, and for that I am grateful.
The third card was written to an old flame. Someone I’d really never gotten over losing when he married, even though I was already married to someone else by that time. So what did I want him to know? It wasn’t that I’d pined for him all those years, because I hadn’t. I wanted him to know how happy he’d made me when we dated, ever-so-briefly, in our twenties. Yes, there were funny stories about the foibles of our on-and-then-off relationship, but tucked inside that brief encounter were moments of magic. Like the time we’d spent overlooking the lights of New York City, the memories of us laughing and my nervously blushing in his presence, and the day he’d innocently, but falsely, professed that he’d love me forever. I’d wanted to thank him for that magic, and for leaving me with a handful of beautiful memories that I’d never really experience again, in spite of the fact that I’d walked down the aisle twice. When I imagine, today, him receiving a thank you note from someone who’d just taken her life, all I can think is that I’m relieved it never made it into his mailbox.
The fourth and final card, I wrote to myself. In it, I talked about how fortunate I was to be born into my family and to grow up in a place as special as New Rochelle, New York. I wrote about all the people that were seared in my memory. Like the beautiful girls I’d danced with for so many years, and the cohort of fantastic friends I was lucky enough to have in high school. I wrote about the love I’d had for my sorority-life at GWU, and the intense passion I’d had for college life in Washington, DC.
I reminded myself of my pride in my more than twenty years as a teacher and advocate for young people. I gave myself praise for having led a prominent school system in CT as Superintendent - a job I’d loved for the work, and hated for the politics. I wrote with regret, “Although you’ll never know if you might have become the Secretary of Education…,” (a dream I’ve held close to the vest until very recently) “…you did good and important work. It’s just a shame you never really found love.”
And finally, I composed words that were intended to serve as a textual hug for myself for having survived a relationship in which I ultimately wasn’t emotionally or physically safe. I told myself that I was a bad-ass for getting out alive and that I was proud of having helped other women in the same position. I apologized to all those women for having made the choice to end my own life, after all I’d been through. And then I signed-off with the words, “I’m sorry I let you down, Lee.”
When I read the signature line out loud, for a second time, something amazing happened. I experienced a tangible shift that seemed to come straight up from my toes. In an instant, I found myself reaching for the phone and calling for help. I told the family member I’d called to come quickly, and when she arrived I said, “I need help.”
Looking back, picking up that phone may prove to be the bravest thing I’ll ever do. And as we left my apartment for the hospital, I tucked all five cards away, and I never looked back. Today I keep those sealed, addressed and stamped cards as a reminder of the day I realized that bravery matters and that it can save a life. It saved mine, and now I understand that my job is to be brave in the face of adversity on behalf of others. It’s my responsibility, and it’s my calling. It’s also the way I now set my intention for each new day, when I ask the Universe, “Who in my world needs a brave friend today?” and I pray that God fills me with the ability to be in the right place at the right time.
The moral of the story is that bravery is a gift from above; and that if you’re reading this and you ever need a brave friend, I’ve got your back.
Dr. Leanne Tormey is a lifelong student of teaching and leadership, and a human who prays for courage on a daily basis. #braverymatters
