The cold of the stock was immediately noticeable. It was lighter than I thought it would be, and the hammer looked easy to pull. I still don't know what 9mm was referring to. My hand was slightly trembling when the gun store clerk let me hold the Glock, but he didn't notice. In Arizona, it's easier to buy a gun than borrow a book from the library. That's the last time I held a gun. I had detailed plans to commit suicide so that no one, including EMTs, would be traumatized.

How did I get there? Growing up, I knew I had depression, but in Utah, mum’s the word. My narcissist mother once told me to "fight it," inferring that I can defeat depression by thinking about it. Trying to fight depression like that is like trying to fight a ghost. I did go to therapy, but I didn't tell my therapist the truth. I did benefit from the therapy a little, but when my second wife abandoned me and took our cute little Jack Russell terrier, I had to make a choice: get busy living or get busy dying.

I made a ten-point plan to understand and help my mind:
1. Get sufficient sleep. 
2. Exercise every day.
3. Eat healthier food.
4. See a therapist twice per month.
5. Take antidepressants.
6. Read self-help books.
7. Admit my problems every day.
8. Meditate once per day.
9. No drugs or alcohol.
10. Write in a journal every day.

This plan wasn't about getting over a divorce, it was about survival. My anxiety and depression had gone on long enough. Slowly, and surely, keeping those new habits put my anxiety and depression in a manageable place.

Now, I have dreams of owning a beach house, flying with a jetpack, and maybe being a father. The sad truth is, I believed my mother that doing nothing about my mental health was the best route. I don't give a shit how mentally "strong" someone is. We are all vulnerable to these conditions. And, if someone has the opinion that you're weak for getting help, would you really want that person in your life? My mother and I don't speak, and it's for the best. And I'll never go to a gun store again.