A Suicide Survived

John Kevin Hines

I was 17 years of age, the year was 1998, and the month was May. It was late in this fateful month that I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder (or manic depression). I had finally decided, with much encouragement and anticipation from both my parents, to see a psychiatrist. A couple of months prior to my terribly frightening doctor visit, I had begun to feel oddly paranoid. I felt as though people around me were looking at me funny and possibly even making secretive comments about me. Within that paranoia, I was finding bits of depression and pieces of mania. At the time this was happening I knew not what these symptoms were, but only how they made me feel. During this time I could not communicate properly to my family and friends. I was even incapable of writing down my thoughts. Frankly it is safe to say that I could not clearly think my thoughts. My brain was on scrambled mode and it only seemed to be getting progressively worse.

For six months after my diagnosis I struggled, suffered, and attempted to understand the metamorphosis I was going through. Maybe it was just a phase, maybe I was going to grow out of it? During these six months, I could not read, write, or speak effectively. When I would talk, the words came out in a fractured stutter.  When I would try to read a book or a magazine, the words seemed literally to be bouncing off the page. And when I tried to write down my thoughts, my hands would shake so violently that the words were entirely illegible. I was also going through the motions of trying to find the right medications for my particular kind of manic depression. Some days the medication would feel like it was working, other days it would not.

This went on for two years and in the year 2000, I was on some very powerful medications. As the months passed, I began to seclude myself from my friends as the paranoia began to escalate, and the mania and depressive episodes just kept getting worse. I became very introverted and quite scared for my future. Then in September of 2000, about every week starting on Monday, I would slide into extreme mania and overpowering paranoia. By Thursday or Friday, I would fall into a very deep depression—so deep that I could not sleep and did not sleep for several weeks. It was then that I became psychotic. It was then the thoughts of suicide unfolded. On

September 24, a Wednesday night, I wrote a suicide letter; as a matter of fact I wrote seven letters before I picked the last version. Unslept, I packed my bag like I did every morning, and I prepared for another day at City College. Yet I knew this day would be different, this day was to be my last.

At about 7 a.m., my father came into my room and asked me if I was okay. He offered to take me to work with him that day because he knew I was having trouble.   He didn’t know how deep-seated my troubles actually were, as I didn’t let him know. I didn’t let anyone know but God.   I convinced him that I was doing much better and that if he could drive me to school, I would take the bus home and see him after work. It was a blatant lie. I knew that morning that my plan was to go to the Golden Gate Bridge and jump off.

My dad ended up dropping me off at college. I kissed him good-bye on the cheek like I did every day for as long as I can remember. I thought it would be the very last time of my life. He said, “I love you; I’ll see you at home.” I said, “I love you too, Dad,” and we parted. I entered the campus, skipped two of my classes, went to my English class, where I signed my suicide letter “John Kevin Hines, Please forgive me.”

I got on the bus, stopped at Walgreen’s for my last meal—a starburst and a Skittles candy—jumped on one last bus and began to cry softly to myself. I got off the bus on the bridge, walked out onto the span and it was then that I truly broke down. I cried for at least 40 minutes, begging myself not to jump, not to carry out what my bipolar mind was thinking.  The problem was not just my paranoid mind, the mania or the depression, but also the voices I was hearing inside my head. I was having auditory hallucinations, and they were repeating things like “you must die, you must die,” or “jump now, you deserve to die.”

I thought briefly to myself, if one person comes up to me and asks if I am okay, if I need any help, I would tell them everything and I would ask for help. It was nearly at that moment that a woman wearing sunglasses, and speaking in a German accent, said, “Pardon me, will you take my picture.” So, like a gentleman, I took her picture a couple of times. I made my decision right there: “I am going to jump now, nobody cares!” She walked away; I turned around, looked at the traffic, darted to the rail, put my hands on the rail, and catapulted over it.

Falling head first, I changed my mind—I didn’t want to die—and dropping at 32 feet per second and speed rising, I thought it was over. I was 19 years old and I was as good as dead. The water came up fast and hard, but I had thrown my head back, thinking that if I fell feet first, maybe I’d have a chance. Turns out I did. I went down into the water about 50 feet, but I was alive, I WAS ALIVE!! I swam to the surface unaware of my injuries, thinking I must be dreaming, this can’t be real, so I pinched my right cheek.  It was very real, too real. I waded in the water and something brushed by my leg, I thought it was a shark, but it turned out to be a seal and it was helping to keep me afloat.

The Coast Guard arrived on the scene within minutes. They were like angels pulling me from the water’s raging currents. They brought me to their Marin port, where an ambulance took me to Marin General. The doctors told my father I had a 50-50 chance of living through the night. They operated on my back, fitting me with a metal plate and cage. I had shattered two vertebrae and the pieces had gone into my organs. The doctors saved my life. I had to learn how to walk again.

It’s been a long hard struggle, but one that I have proven to be up for. I have been in three psychiatric wards in four years, but now I am doing just fine. I love God, I love my family, I love life, and most important, I love myself.

My health is fine now but I had to learn how to walk again and I had to enter a psychiatric ward soon after I was able to walk. I can now walk without a cane and even run. My mental state has not been better since before my diagnosis. I spent time in two psychiatric hospitals, one in 2003 and one as recent as 2004, but I started speaking in publicly in 2001 and I received an award that year from the Board of Suicide Prevention for helping to give teenagers an alternative to suicide by sharing my experience. It is interesting to note that I became a suicide prevention speaker because of two clergymen who guided me to do so. One was Franciscan Brother Goerge Cherry and Monsignor Mike Harriman from St. Cecilia’s Church.  Both mentors guided me to “give back that which I have received.”

To all you parents out there, if your child ever hints about suicidal ideation, or says anything like, “I don’t want to be here anymore,” or “I don’t like this life,” or “I don’t belong here,” take them seriously and get help. Also if your child begins to seclude him- or herself from family and friends, let your child know you are there and that you understand and care. Remember to be a friend, not just a parent. I am grateful to be alive.

John Kevin Hines works at School of the Arts in San Francisco. He is on the Psychiatric Foundation of Northern California’s task force to build a suicide barrier on the Golden Gate Bridge. He also holds a member seat on the Mental Health Board of San Francisco. He speaks to schools, foundations and hospitals about mental illness, his survivor story, and erecting the barrier on the bridge. He cares deeply about suicide prevention and loves life to the fullest degree.