I’m not sitting down typing this to give you the statistics you already know, go on a tangent about the American man’s toxic masculinity, or give you the link to a fucking Logic song because you’re better than that, and I’m not a cuck.
I’m here as a kid that has wanted to kill himself for prolonged periods of time before. I’m here as a person who’s experienced panic attacks so severe they’ve been hospitalized north of five times, and a guy that probably understands you better than any of the schmuck motivational speakers IFC or your school has forced you to listen to before. I’m typing this because maybe for five minutes, you need to feel seen. People say you’re not alone, they give you phone numbers, and they list off names of resources that you can use through your school or an organization with the enthusiasm of Nick Saban on a press conference after buttfucking Vanderbilt 56-7 week two. They do these things because they have to…and we all see through this. What they don’t understand is that no part of me or any of you guys want to talk to a fifty-something-year-old white lady that resembles Phyllis from The Office who doesn’t want to be there when we’ve hit our breaking point for the second time in a month.
Mental health makes no sense. You could have the ideal life on paper: a stable family, affluence, a significant other, and still struggle to get out of bed, let alone socialize with people without boozing or getting baked. And for a lot of guys in fraternities with declining mental health, that is the glaring issue. We don’t feel like we deserve to feel depressed or anxious, which makes it that much harder. You take all of this and combine it with the fact that the world isn’t exactly in love with white guys right now, and you’re left with a generation of young men who use an illadelph as a binky.
It’s awesome that we can post things about mental health on social media without any stigma attached (#BellLetsTalk being the most influential), but it’s time for us to put our money where our mouth is. It’s time for us to acknowledge that the guys man enough to go to therapy/seek professional help are braver than most of us. You don’t have to be some born again Christian who stops getting fucked up to see some sort of light. When I first started leaning on my boys, it felt weird as fuck. At the beginning, I felt like I was going against everything my mind was programmed to do from the first time I was told that I was the man of the house. And the initial awkwardness of looking at one of my boys and telling him that I was struggling, it’s the same feeling as when you go to get a raggedy old t-shirt after cumming in a one-night-stand’s bellybutton, it’s fucking bizarre, awkward, and weird. But … I’m so happy I did because it saved my fucking life. The nightmare scenario in your head where you look like a little bitch who’s making his friends uncomfortable, that’s about as real as a Zeta who doesn’t love blow…it doesn’t exist. And I can tell you personally that it’s much easier than the feeling you get when you listen to Mac Miller and rip a dab pen in your room alone.
Your buddy who got dumped and has been popping beans like they’re tic tacs, he needs you right now. Your friend who’s acting abnormally out of pocket, and the one that’s weirdly quiet, they could use a tallboy and a conversation. And sure, they might try and change the subject when you start asking them if they’re doing okay, but it’s your responsibility as one of their boys to get some real answers with no bullshit. I’m not saying every die game has to be a therapy session; I’m just saying I’m sick and goddamn tired of seeing thoughts and prayers posts for suicides that happen on greek row and beyond.
Speaking from someone that has come too close to considering ending their life too many times, it’s time for us to step up for ourselves and one another because that’s all we have.
“Everyone who can stand, stand now. If you can help others, do so.” -Welles Crowther