Count Me Out

552 days ago, I burned everything to the ground. I was sick of the same old cycle. I finally raged so hard, I destroyed myself too; only this time, the destruction wasn’t on my arms or in someone else’s hands. It was on my heart. It was where the blade couldn’t reach. This episode forced me to fix myself, confront my triggers, and, most importantly, stop drinking…Alcohol just fueled my triggers and turned me into a powder keg.

Before 552 days ago, I attempted to take my life well over 5 times in multiple ways. I accumulated over 150 scars on my body from self-infliction. I attended 1 outpatient program and 2 inpatient programs. I lost 3 friends to suicide and 2 to overdoses. That still wasn’t enough for me to stop.

What pops out most to you is probably the 150 scars. It’s often said that self-harm is an attention-seeking cry for help. And yet, when people saw my arms, they didn’t say a thing.

The truth is, I probably wouldn’t have been able to handle it. I told you I did it for years. I wouldn’t even bring it to my own attention. I chose to ignore as well.

The problem is no one wants to be the person to bring it up.. And even if we do, we hold back because we are not educated on how to handle these things. It is uncomfortable and sad, so we ignore it.

I have often been overlooked because I’m still living. And there are so many others just like me. You see tributes and talks about mental health after someone is gone. I am so sick of it. We need prevention and intervention. Not a simple “RIP, you will be missed.” It enrages me that we say mental health matters, but don’t take matters into our own hands.

Men especially don’t talk about their mental health struggles. And even when they do, people don’t know how to respond. I could be your brother, your son, your father. I could be any man in your life. Mental health does not discriminate.

This week has been really hard on my PTSD. It has forced me to confront my anger with myself and the people who had the ability to help but didn’t

I feel I was let down and left out on my own. And I’m coming to grips with that. I am coming to why. Mental health is a lonely road. People

We unite for the people who die. But too often, we don’t unite for the people who feel that they want to die. Let’s stop running from it and let’s stop hiding from it. We are losing ourselves, our friends, and our futures.

My story doesn’t start 552 days ago, or even a few years before that. My story and my trauma go way back to before I was adopted. The rage was born before I even had a name for it.

When I was 6 years old, my parents adopted my two sisters and me. I was a confused, anxious foster kid feeling love for the first time. It was unfamiliar, but I felt safety within the fear.

My town was built to be my safe haven and allowed me a new start. The connections I made here with my friends threw me onto a new trajectory that changed the outcome of my life. I would not be here today writing this had I not stepped foot into that quiet, waterside suburb.

To my adoptive dad, Alvin: I heard you got an award at work this week. I know it’s called Harvard’s Hero, but tell them to move over; you’re already Ruben’s. I’m about to do a lot of talking, so try to keep up…dad…

I am sorry it took me so long to understand it wasn’t you I was mad at. There was a day when walking home that I saw two sons playing with their father. I blamed you for my grief when that anger was really a kid wishing their biological dad could have been there for them. The truth is, you have always been there for me.

When I was in an episode induced from a four-day bender, you drove me to Vermont…or Maine..I actually can’t remember. But you let me scream at you the whole ride when I probably would’ve opened the door and let me out to make me find my own way home.

You have always sacrificed yourself to give me a safe space to blame someone, even when you weren’t the source.

That time I locked myself into a bathroom in college and threatened to kill myself…again, you talked me off the ledge and got me professional help.

When I dropped out of college, you didn’t lecture me like I thought you would. You and Mom encouraged me to start a career even without a degree.

That support has brought me to my current job, with a group of men who don't hide their struggles and who overtalk about their feelings.

I’ve held this career for 8 years now, and am proud of the accomplishments I have made, even through my mental health battles…I don’t want to wait until you are gone to tell you that I can see it now, and I understand it. I have two sons now, and being a father has forever changed me.

As a father of two, I can confirm that they weren’t kidding when they said, “one is a hobby, two is a lifestyle.” I don't know what the hell adopting three is, but I know you’d tell me, “worth it.” In 2001, you faithfully took us in and gave us a home. In 2025, I know you see the changed man in me that you helped build.

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The change in me did not start the day I was adopted. The safety I felt after being adopted helped to shape a normal childhood, but it wasn’t enough to carry me into adulthood. For a long while, I felt safe there. I felt loved and began to feel hope. My friends became family, and I never thought anyone would leave me again. But then, we all grew out of our innocence and adolescence. One of those close friends committed suicide. That was a trigger that ramped up my unraveling.

Prior to his passing, we saw each other at another friend's funeral. He pulled me aside to talk about how proud he was of me for overcoming my upbringing. He asked me how I was, and I gave him the same “fine” as I did everyone. I didn’t tell him I was suicidal and self-harming.

I didn’t tell him about that time I saw him playing catch with his brother and dad, or how it made me jealous. I didn’t tell him I modeled a life I wanted with my dad or even my sons after him and his family. I didn’t tell him that I hadn’t actually overcome anything.

When he took his life, he took a part of me with him.. No one talked about it, and I felt that I never had the space to grieve. None of his friends did either.

I quietly internalized that deep loss, and it forced all my trauma from before to trickle out and bleed into every relationship going forward.

I misplaced those feelings of abandonment and sadness onto my adoptive parents when really, the wound was from my biological ones.

I pushed people away and built up a wall so I never had to feel the pain of loss again. I used that pain as a weapon against myself. The rage in me carried on for years to come, until I was ready to face myself.

You might be thinking, what caused me to finally stop? To finally heal and stop running from myself. The answer is the little voice that greets me every morning, saying, “Hi daddy!”

To my sons,

I will always be there to share your excitement for the little things, like yelling “school bus” every time one passes our house.

I will always pull you close to my chest when you are upset and ask if you can feel my heartbeat.

And when you say yes, I will always respond, “Good, because it beats for you.”

I will always be there for a hug when you need it most, and just know, I need those hugs just as much as you will.

To my best friends, my brothers,

Let’s heal… Let’s talk, and I’m not just saying over a beer or at 4 am during an after party.

You were never the enemy either. You were supporting me. I became so angry at you. My rage blinded me. Please forgive me, I was hurt, and there was nothing you could do.

I know that made you silently hurt as you stood by and watched helplessly.

I can see clearly now. You cared about me when you burned the world down with me, when you crossed lines you never would’ve if not to chase me… in hopes you could someday bring me back.

When you would continuously call my phone after I freaked out knowing the number was probably already changed and it would be months before I reached back out.

When you would always let my wrongdoings go and love me anyway.

Never forget, because of each of you, I just hold on

But here’s the thing I need you to understand,

We’ve all been there. We all can relate to having issues with our fathers. At some point, you start to see that fathers are just wounded people too; A product of a societal norm to shut up and move on.

That’s how the generational trauma lives on. It takes a night of drinking just to crack the shell of a man’s trauma. The sun rises, the hangover sets in, and then all is forgotten.

I am done shutting up. I’m done conforming to norms. I’m done forgetting…

Count me out of that.

Ruben Powell
Success Above; Grounded Below

I’m sorry dad, I’m done.

If you’re missing anybody this Father’s Day, I love you; just hold on.