By Stein Thorbeck
I want to tell you a story to make you better at supporting people in pain. I was glad to be there when it happened, despite the difficulty. Further, I was thankful to know something about struggle. My experience with depression in my youth connected me to what I was seeing. These kinds of stories are hard to write about and even harder to share, but they must be told. If only to better equip those looking to help when hope disappears.
When I was a tactical (TAC) officer at West Point, there was a particular cadet. A feeler like I am. As feelers, we are left wanting in words. The little symbols and sounds flowing from our hands and falling from our mouths seem impossibly inadequate. We are explorers and we are divers – always searching for deeper chambers of the human heart to experience. This is our superpower. But sometimes, we swim too far, and can no longer find our way back – lost in the dark, sinking into the abyss.
Now I think that I could have been a better TAC officer in many ways, but there is one thing I would SURELY do again in the same way. Every morning, I prepared my mind to execute a deliberate operation. I endeavored to say good morning to every cadet under my care, using their first name. Especially so with Plebes and Yearlings (freshmen and sophomores). This operation required close study of our name roster, regular practice with these names in my notebook, and real-life application in conversation. I approached the task with an intensity required of any important test. And this test was, to me, the most important. In fact, here’s a hard truth for you:
Being “bad with names” is what you tell yourself because you don’t care enough about them.
Names connect you to people. Names transform a face.
One of these faces seemed to carry more weight as the days passed. Looking more hopeless. Looking so sad. This soul, the feeler, the explorer. One morning, I barely got a response. The cadet’s large eyes were my windows. I stepped closer and looked inside them. Something beguiled the young explorer. Brooding, off on a new kind of voyage. I suspected a journey to the seabed itself. Not likely to return. I know this look. I’ve seen it in the mirror.
I asked the cadet to see me after class.
Arriving nervous and timid, the cadet knocked on my door. We exchanged trivialities. Indeed, I could see pain. I admired this cadet’s courage though, and saw it a few other times. One of our brave ones. The brave often look timid to the outside world. Not to me. The weight of this cadet’s vacant frame sat on my office sofa. Our conversation remained at sea-level. Inside, the exploring soul before me was somewhere deep beneath the water. But I had an old wetsuit, still hanging in my closet. To my surprise, it still fit. I fastened an oxygen source behind my lips, submerged, and began my search.
Finally, after maybe an hour of strained exchange, searching everywhere I could, I sensed a human form before me. I pedaled my feet and swam closer. The human form was suspended just above the ocean floor, face up and looking away. It floated somewhere between fright and peace. A soul exposed. Our lost explorer, trapped but found. The explorer was tangled in seaweed and circled by starving creatures. I dove closer still. The explorer’s oxygen mask was missing. This cadet was holding a breath. Connected now, careful to tell nothing, offer nothing, but prepared to ask everything. I began, and the lost explorer spoke:
Explorer: “I’ve been having dark thoughts.“
Concerned Diver: “I can feel it. How dark?”
Still looking away from me. “Really dark.”
A hideous creature slithered across my back. Unable to see and crushed under the sea’s weight, I was scared and wanted to surface desperately. Still, I continued to search for the explorer’s air source. My hands clawed through weeds, sand, and slime.
Concerned Diver: “I understand dark. I definitely get… dark.”
Our hearts searched for cadence. Patience now.
Concerned Diver: “Are you thinking about killing yourself?”
The explorer looked straight at me. Our eyes locked. Time stopped.
So this is the sound of silence.
What I witnessed next, I will carry with me until the day I die. In what can only be described as seeing lost air re-discovered, this beautiful soul grabbed hold of the oxygen mask and put it on. A first breath from suffocation.
Explorer: “Yes. Yes I am thinking about killing myself. I can’t believe I just said that. Nobody knows that. I have never even said it out loud to myself!”
Catharsis. A weed loosed around the ankle.
Concerned Diver: “Thank you for sharing with me,” I paused. “Do you have a plan?”
Explorer: “I think so, yes.”
Concerned Diver: “How would you do it? Tell me.”
Explorer: “I am thinking about jumping from that building over there. I just want to take the leap and get it done. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Concerned Diver: “Would you leave behind a note for us?
Explorer: “Yes. I’ve thought about it.”
Concerned Diver: “What would it say?”
Tell me.
Concerned diver: “One more question. Would it be ok if I asked for some help? I really want to see you tomorrow. I want you to be here. Is that ok?”
Explorer: “Yes.”
Yes… What Life sounds like.
Over the next several weeks, we would spend long evenings in the hospital. All TACs have done the same.
—
Alright. A few things here.
First thing: You better believe this conversation was scary as hell. But the thought of losing this soul was far, far scarier. When you ask someone if they are planning to kill themselves, you will feel afraid of hearing “no.” You will feel afraid of hearing “yes.” I’ve experienced both. Listen to me: you are never wrong. Ask the question. It only shows you care.
Second thing: Don’t stop there. When you ask someone suicidal about their plans, it will tell you how serious they truly are. This will inform your response.
Third thing: When you dive as far as you can, all the way into the darkness, resisting the temptation to offer advice or return to the surface, it tells someone suicidal you are willing to wade through the slimy, hellish weeds of despair with them. The island of self can’t be swallowed whole when it’s home to two hearts. When you finally find the black, I want you to swim right into it. Just when you think you can’t swim any further, you’re almost there. And leave your flashlight behind too. They don’t work down there.
We struggled alongside this brave explorer over subsequent months and many others helped as hope was eventually found. I contacted the explorer while writing this story and confirmed the included dialogue. The explorer supported this publication in the hopes it may help others. While this is only a chapter of a larger story, I highlight this part for you, dear reader, for one reason. Caring for someone is really scary sometimes. You can’t do it well from your position of comfort. You have to do it from their position of pain.
Stein Thorbeck is a 2023 Art of War Scholar and currently serves as an Operations Officer in the 82nd Airborne Division. Previously, he served as tactical officer and instructor of general psychology at the U.S. Military Academy, West Point, New York. He has deployed to Afghanistan, Kuwait and Oman. He can be found on LinkedIn.
