Some truths need to be said out loud.
⚠️ Content Warning:
This post contains open and unfiltered discussion of suicide, depression, emotional isolation, and male mental health.It is not a cry for help. It is a lived truth.
If you are in immediate danger or crisis, please reach out. In the U.S., you can contact the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline by dialing 988.
I shouldn’t be here.
A number of years ago, I had a heart attack that killed 14% of my heart.
Since then, I’ve nearly died more times than I can count—extreme dehydration, kidney and liver failure, infections, collapse.
But the truth is, those weren’t just medical emergencies.
They were the result of something deeper:
I’ve been trying to die since I was young.
And no, I’m not speaking metaphorically.
I mean actually trying.
In ways both obvious and quiet.
I remember sitting on the couch as a kid with a bowl of microwave popcorn drenched in extra butter. My mom looked at it and said something like,
“You know all that butter’s going to kill you one day.”
And I thought,
“Good.”
I didn’t say it out loud. But I meant it. I knew it even then.
Quiet Suicide
There’s a kind of suicide no one talks about.
I call it quiet suicide—and it’s everywhere.
It’s the kind where men just… disappear.
Not all at once. Slowly.
They stop showing up.
Stop reaching out.
Stop caring.
Stop existing in a way that can be felt.
And society doesn’t know what to do with that. Especially when it comes from men.
Even the language around this topic is distorted by discomfort. Podcasts like 2 Be Better—which I actually like—can’t even say the word suicide out loud on YouTube without risking demonetization.
But I’m not worried about monetization. I’m worried about honesty.
So I’ll say it.
I don’t want to be here.
Not always. Not often.
Some days, not at all.
The Rules Have Changed. But No One Gave Us a Map.
I can’t speak for all men, but I absolutely hate so much about the world I was born into.
Growing up, I was taught—early and often—that showing emotions made you weak. That boys were supposed to be stoic. Tough. Silent.
That pain was something to swallow—not share.
I’m not blaming my parents. I’m not blaming anyone. This was just the culture.
Men were expected to be MEN. And being a man meant surviving without feeling.
But now the world’s asking for something else.
And honestly, it should.
We need to be softer. Better. More aware. Women, especially, deserve so much more from us.
But here’s the part people skip over:
Most of us were never taught how to do that.
And now we’re being told to catch up—or be ashamed.
So we’re stuck between two impossible versions of masculinity:
- The one that raised us.
- And the one that wants us to be better, but doesn’t give us space to stumble.
And a lot of guys—especially the ones carrying unresolved pain—just… check out. Quietly. Fatally.
Even Surrounded, I Was Alone
The other night, I had dinner with my parents, my stepsister, and my son.
It should’ve been grounding.
Instead, I felt invisible.
No one really talked to me.
I know I seemed tired—I was.
We were eating at 7 p.m., and that’s basically bedtime for me these days. I wake up at 2:30 or 3:00 a.m. to write before work. But that wasn’t the whole story.
Inside, I was dying.
Not physically.
Emotionally. Spiritually. Existentially.
And no one saw it.
That’s not their fault.
I’m an expert at hiding it. I’ve had years of practice.
But let me say this clearly:
Hiding your pain isn’t strength. It’s survival.
And it is not a healthy way to live.
Say the Word
We have to talk about this.
We have to say the word: suicide.
We have to stop pretending that avoiding the conversation will save us.
It won’t.
It’s already killing people.
And it’s killing men in particular, because we’re not taught how to ask for help until it’s already too late.
I fear movements like the INCEL crowd—not because I agree with them, but because I get it.
I understand what it feels like to be shut out emotionally, spiritually, sexually.
To be told you’re privileged, but still feel completely unseen.
We’re told we “have everything.” That we should step aside. That we had our time.
And maybe that’s true.
But knowing that doesn’t erase the grief, the trauma, or the deep ache that so many of us carry silently.
So Why Am I Still Here?
Because something in me still wants to speak.
Because maybe someone out there feels the same way and doesn’t know how to say it yet.
Because I believe in saying the hard thing—even when no one else wants to hear it.
I’m not here to inspire.
I’m here to be honest.
If you’ve ever looked around the room and realized that no one knows you’re hurting, I just want you to know:
I see you.
You are not weak.
You are not broken.
You are not alone.
The Hard Truth
Yes, you’ll probably be okay.
But it’s going to suck.
And you’re going to have to fight for it.
Every single day.
This isn’t a redemption arc.
It’s survival.
And that’s still something.
And if you’re reading this, then you’re still here, too.
That means something.
Let it mean something.
Frank M. Anderson's Writing 
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