Suicide. There it is—the first word in my first article.
This article is written by me. Gordon. Gordo. Huggy Bear Grylls. Trash Panda. Good-go-Gordo. Gordon The Gun. Porcelain Panda. Life-size gummy bear. I could go on with these nicknames I’ve accumulated throughout my career. I spent just shy of fifteen years banging it out in the Canadian Military, honing my craft, giving everything to our country. I am about a year and a half out from my release from the military and am finally in a place where I am comfortable enough to talk about some of my life experiences. I wasn’t told a lot of life hot tips as a young man, and I think we're doing a discredit to our youngin’s by not talking openly about life’s ups and downs. You don’t need to be eighty to have lived. I’m right here at thirty-six, feeling like I’ve lived a full life already. Only now am I putting into practice some of the advice I received throughout the last twenty years. It’s not easy. Nothing good ever is. The experiences I write about are mine. Not yours. Remember that. Also, if you take any of my articles as a base for your understanding/education, please refer to the list of nicknames above. Look at those names, LOL. Do your research. Please don’t rely on me.
Shits heavy what I’ve written below. This is your trigger warning.
I want you to know you’re not alone. There are and have been so many people in your position. New 24 every 24. You get your chance to rewrite your story every day. This isn’t the end.
In 2009, I had an Improvised Explosive Device (IED) explode in my face while deployed in Afghanistan. I got plastic surgery for shrapnel buried in my face at Kandahar Airfield. I lied about the state of my head, physically and mentally. I wanted back to my platoon. After a three-week recovery, I returned to duty. Every time I got in a vehicle, I thought I would die. Like, a feeling in your throat that kinda chokes you up. Makes you try to clear it. Instead, you swallow it down. Scared, nervous, anxious, whatever emotions you can attach to death, I suppressed. Remember in Band of Brothers when that officer, Spiers, says, “The only hope you have is to accept the fact that you're already dead. The sooner you accept that the sooner you'll be able to function as a soldier is supposed to function: without mercy, without compassion, without remorse. All war depends upon it.” It’s true. I found freedom in surrendering. It helped me climb the ladder to the top of special forces. After that deployment, I knew how to flip a switch.
I view that traumatic experience as the Grim Reaper giving me half of a ticket. The ticket to my death. He was, and still is, waiting for the other half.
We always tempt death in the combat arms trade, let alone within Special Operations. Skydiving, mountain climbing, dirt biking, diving and anything extreme translate well to working in high-risk environments. It is a risky job. The training accidents alone are serious fucking business. As I got older (approaching 30), I found that many people around me were dying: family, friends, and co-workers through regular life, accidental overdoses, and war. Then, and still, whenever I put my Dress Uniform on, it was for a funeral. I associate that uniform with death; too bad, it’s a sweet-looking outfit. As combat arms, you want to be the bringer of death. It may sound messed up, but that is your job. I wanted it so bad. This closeness with Death ultimately (or unintentionally) opened the door to suicide and suicidal ideation.
By 2015, I had some serious shit wrong with me. I carried a lot of guilt and shame, even years after my initial divorce. I was a cheating piece of garbage in that relationship. It was a character flaw. It was a moral injury to myself. I didn’t understand how much acting and behaving the way I did would impact me, let alone her. I stole seven years from another person. I appreciate now that time is something you can’t get back. I didn’t handle my personal life well, even during my second marriage. I was a bad friend at times. It was like I had high emotional intelligence interacting with people outwardly, but internally I was doing a piss poor job. Physically, I started to get more and more injured.
Now being heavily researched is the relevancy of Traumatic Brain Injury, TBI, and Mild Traumatic Brain Injury, or mTBI. I played many contact sports throughout high school, college, pre-military, and even while serving. Sometimes, it was playing for a military team. You want to talk about smashy smashy time for your brain? How about Special Forces! Ha! Wow. It is just the tempo. You are always working in a job that includes a lot of exposure to TBI/mTBI – there was breaching, mortars, rockets, hard para landings, sniper rifles, and much more. Normal-ass Special Forces stuff that was deemed safe at that time. Working hard meant partying hard.
I almost forgot our good friend, alcohol. Err. Let’s change it to substances. Once you start involving substances in your life, narrowing down what is going on with you will be extremely difficult. Alcohol is a depressant. All the drugs and booze mask your actual signs and symptoms, providing only temporary relief that comes with some shitty side effects.
Sweet, so now we have the broad strokes of ol’ Gordo’s special suicide sauce recipe.
I was on my Joint Terminal Attack Controller (JTAC) course. The course so far had been terrible. It is hands down the most challenging regular force course I attended, and I would put it against other Canadian Armed Forces (CAF) courses-wide for difficulty and attrition. It was like your brain was on a seventy-five pound, twenty-kilometre timed rucksack march daily. I was voluntold to do this. Not like I was all excited about nerding out about planes and shit. Nah, but I knew this would be my conduit to killing terrorists fastest.
This is where things become a lot.
We were on our Air Control portion in Wainwright, Alberta. It is a senior course in the military, which meant more Gucci accommodations. I think it was the Yukon Lodge. It was a Sunday morning. I had had another night of battling with my ex-wife, all while on this god-forsaken course. I thought slitting my wrist with the pristine Leatherman multitool I had recently been issued would be a good idea. I just wanted the pain to stop. The moment I saw the amount of blood, I knew I had fucked up. I wrapped my wrist in a towel. I texted one of my coursemates that I needed the truck keys, and I drove to the Wainwright hospital, where I received three stitches across my wrist and was informed that they would call the Military Police and my Chain of Command. Anything suicide-related was reported immediately. I told them NO! I was in the Special Forces, was working on a piece kit, and accidentally slipped trying to work the molle. Some shit along those lines to make them believe me. Whatever I said worked. They discharged me with no other involvement.
I went back to the course. The next day was my final control. I had passed every single assessment on that course, which was really fucking hard. Every single goddamn test. Fucking smashed er’ out. Well, I failed that final control—no more top candidate for you. I passed my retest, but the damage was done. If you’re not first, you’re last.
That was my entrance into living a duplicate life. One where no one would understand the depths of my pain. Only the Grim Reaper. For years I fantasized about dying on operations, maybe a parachute malfunction, anything that would allow me to die with my honour. I spent many nights sleeping in the barracks with my shotgun next to me and learning the taste of metal from the Glock in my mouth. Self-harm. Disguised so no one could see it.
I was in a destructive cycle. I wasn’t self-centred; I was work-centred and spouse-centred. I could only find my value from the responses and reactions of other people. So, I would work hard, but whatever I did always came up short. Or, at the very least, not what I expected would be the outcome. See? See how I relied on some outside influence – a person or maybe an institution - to give me validation. Work was a gong show, and then I would come home to a contentious relationship where it was the same. I needed others' validation for my happiness. This doesn’t work long term.
I had a house in Virginia Beach, VA, where my ex-wife was in school. I would work as much as possible, then punch out south for extended stays. I had a crazy job, and to think I had that freedom while in the military. I would work a lot, which meant I travelled a lot, and when I was back in Petawawa, I would be living on the base in the barracks. Not good guys. Rolling blackouts in the summer, sketchy heat in the winter. There was a feller who killed himself in another barracks on base. I drove by that guy's car for months. Like, over six months. Every fucking day. It was a shitty reminder. Maybe whoever is in charge can try to do a better job getting that shit squared away, please.
By 2017 I found solace in the bottle. It was effortless to access. It is so destructive. To this day, I know that it calls for me. Addictions are a real thing. It’s insane that we glorify alcohol but still have a stigma around cannabis. Back in Virginia Beach, I found myself drinking a king can of white claw outside my dog groomer, waiting to pick up my dog. It was lunchtime, and I was drinking to get drunk and do chores. Like, what in the fuck. When I got home, my ex-wife would be pissed. The next day I went to Alcoholics Anonymous (A.A.), and woah, I heard the craziest stories. The insane drug, criminal, police interactions, etc. that people were sharing. I was like, what am I doing here?!?! With THESE people! At that moment, though, I realized who the fuck am I to come here and judge these people. They were just trying their best. I was fucked up if I was there too. It humbled me. I used A.A. off and on for over three years. They were a spoke to my wheel that held me up. I am not religious, and no one is asking you to be. It sounds crazy, seeing that the program is based on religion, but I would go to get the strength I needed to get to the next day. Oh, and I’d bring a couple of bucks for coffee.
On March 16th, 2021, the border between Canada and USA closed due to Covid. Ok. That was a crazy time to be living on a base. When the vid’ hit and they shut down the border, there was no way I could go home. Bro, the base?!?! The grass was so long! It was like some apocalyptic movie. If you’re not tracking, basically, the entire military shut down for a while. Easy way to save money and “keep people safe.” Amazing gig for those members with families and probably a well-deserved break for some. But man, if your primary residence was the barracks during Covid… You were FUCKED. So many members were put in this position. I can’t stress the amount of mental strain this put on these people, myself included. In a building of approximately one hundred people, there were four. Everything was shut down. What a wild time to be alive. #nawt
Around that time, I was prescribed Venlafaxine, an anti-depressant. That messed me up a lot too. For a guy who was OK with doing recreational drugs, it felt so strange to be taking these pills. SSRIs, or Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors, are a class of drugs widely used as an antidepressant. These can be extremely helpful for some people. But they can also be dangerous. I do not think these should be given to anyone who drinks. SSRIs have severe consequences if you drink while on them, if you don’t take them properly, you can damage your brain. I did both of those. I don’t know what they thought would happen with guys like me. I could see it in treatment, but I was in the ‘real world.’ Freedom. No discipline. It scared me. After reading more about the side effects, I dosed myself off them as responsibly as I could. I didn’t want to tell my Doctor at the time. I don’t know why.
Suicide is scary as fuck.
I think my first-night high altitude jump was at around 15,000 feet. I was the number one man in the stick #Huskyboy. When the ramp lowered, it was just black. It was one of the craziest things I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t see anything other than black; ok, maybe different shades of black, but you get it. That shit is scary. But hey, you got a parachute on (technically, two *arms up emoji*), and it’s all good. So, it is. You conquer your fear. Use it to perform. Even be a better version of yourself. Well, suicide for me felt like that jump. But no safety, no parachute, no confidence, no performance. Just scared. Standing on the edge, staring into the darkness. Nothing but black.
The biggest reason I never followed through with it, that I can think of consciously, was the thought of someone having to find me. That could mess someone up. I didn’t want to hurt anyone else. Just myself.
I used many lifelines. Lifelines? Yeah, something that keeps you afloat to last another day. Sometimes they can be referred to as coping skills. Think of a bike and the wheels that keep it up. Spokes hold up a wheel. Each spoke represents a coping mechanism. Good food, therapy, exercise, friendships, healthy sex, support groups, reading, and sports are healthy coping mechanisms that make for solid spokes. Junk food, social media, being sedentary, T.V., porn, alcohol, drugs, suicidal ideation, and self-harm are all unhealthy coping mechanisms that make for weak spokes. Both tires need strong spokes to hold you up. I get it. Use whatever you have to stay upright and alive. But, you must recognize that harmful coping mechanisms come with their challenges, like weak wheels that can throw off your balance.
My psychologist was my most significant help. I feel like psychologists and therapists are misunderstood, or at least how to best utilize them. There is still so much stigma (even in the civilian world) about seeing one. This man who helped me wasn’t trying to put me through a program or anything like that. He was impartial, educated, and knew how to hold space for me. It was the first time in my life that I could just talk about how fucked up I thought I was. That in itself was worth it to see a psych. My primary care doctor was also influential. He was a therapist for me as well.
I took about a 3 to 4-gram dose of psilocybin (magic mushroom) with two of my best friends that first summer of Covid. My wife then had become my ex-wife, and I was at an all-time low. The high was cathartic. It was fun, obviously, but there was something there, hiding in the back, waiting for its time to come forward. You see, you can’t hide things from psychedelics. That’s why psychedelics are becoming prevalent in therapy and mental health today. The medicine (drug) does a lot of work to bring your trauma to the forefront. It allows you to look at it and, if you’re ready, to work with it. Well, here ya go, buddy - for me, it came over me like a wave. The tragedy, my life: I was medically releasing from the military, my wife just left me, my American immigration package, it was all down the drain. It felt like a castle of sand in my hands.
My buddies wrapped their arms around me and consoled me. It was going to be OK.
I genuinely wish I had the option to work with Ibogaine, 5-meo, or Ayahuasca etc., when I was at my lowest. These powerful psychedelics can shake your tree and help to heal it. There are so many ways these medicines are delivered. I believe extreme individuals should go for the more robust modalities. *Personal Opinion*
It took years to crawl myself out of the hole I was in. I lived day by day. Next 24. Next 24. They add up. You try your best a lot of the time. Not all the time but enough of it. Soon night changes to day. Leaving the Military and, in particular, Petawawa was the final key. Leaving that environment, so much pain, love, hurt... It was overwhelming. I strongly suggest a change in location if you want to enhance your self-recovery. It was necessary for me to get away from it all, to find better-coping mechanisms and stronger spokes.
It’s hard fucking work to dig yourself out of it. It never leaves you. I don’t think it ever will. That’s suicide. But, (living through) it has made my days brighter and my life much better. This is Post Traumatic Growth. We, as a society, are so focused on PTSD. FUCK THAT. How about some PTG. For real, dood. Let’s stop being victims; let’s take back ownership of our minds. You have a parachute on (technically two). You can get your confidence back.
Suicide gives me pause these days—the same kind of feeling in the throat after the IED. I have to choke it down. I know how a lot of those people have felt.
It’s not worth it. Keep your half of the ticket. You have the power to make the Grim Reaper wait.
I haven’t thought about suicide for myself in quite some time. Getting out of Petawawa was the nail in the coffin. Since then, I have done so much work on myself. This road isn’t a road of recovery. It’s about SELF-recovery. No one’s coming. You need to put the work in. At the beginning of 2023, I went to Tijuana, Mexico, to take the medicines Ibogaine and 5-meo. Upon arrival home from this treatment, I started Cognitive Processing Therapy with a Psychologist. The effectiveness and growth that I achieved from the combination of working with psychedelics and therapy was profound. I am a believer.
I think it’s time to try some other shit. I’m not saying we eliminate SSRIs or traditional treatments and medicines. But for fucks sake, people are killing themselves. So, let’s figure this out.
K, big dawgs. That was a savage bit of information I just gave y’all. A big part of creating All The Way was, in part, for my therapy. Expressing this shit that’s been stuck inside me, wanting to get out. I hated the feeling of being owned in the military. I have my own opinions, and I don’t want to change them, regardless if it’s for my reasons or if I am representing an organization. All The Way is ours and represents the commitment to be better – in all aspects. Having hard conversations like my story above is what leads to real growth. Calling things as they are. Speaking truth. Making it digestible. Just like mission planning. Label the risks.
Thank you, guys, for taking the time to read my article. It was a heavy one. If you are in a dark place or know someone contemplating suicide, there is help out there. Seek it.
Talk Suicide Canada – 1 (833) 456 4566 Quebec – 1 (866) 277 3553
Wellness Together Canada – 1 (866) 585 0445 Youth – 1 (888) 668 6810
Live life ALL THE WAY,
Gordon