The Rabbit Hole of Suicide: A Veteran’s Journey
Timothy Pena • October 10, 2025
Suicide ideation is a tug-of-war. One side whispers, “Let go.” The other side reminds you of the unfinished business
On December 22, 2021, I woke up exhausted—not the kind of tired a night’s sleep could cure, but the bone-deep fatigue that comes from years of invisible battles. Police wellness checks had become routine, with young officers standing at my door, weapons ready, trying to decide if I was a danger to myself. Life no longer felt like living; it felt like waiting.
That morning, with a zip tie in my hand, I thought the decision was final. But suicide is never a straight line. Doubts kept circling me: What about my will? What about Molly, my dog? What about the food in the refrigerator? Even in the darkest moment, hesitation lingered.
Then a friend arrived. She didn’t bring therapy manuals or government forms. She didn’t try to convince me of anything—she simply said, “Hey buddy?” and offered lunch. That human connection shifted the balance. I realized that if I was still worried about loose ends, maybe I wasn’t ready to go. That day didn’t end in tragedy—it ended in survival.
Exactly one year later, on December 22, 2022, I moved into my own apartment in New York City. The symmetry was not lost on me: a date once tied to despair had become a marker of renewal. Unfortunately, just five weeks later my uncle passed away from lung cancer.
But surviving in New York meant confronting a new battlefield—the shelter system. For veterans, it was less a refuge than a warehouse. At Borden Avenue Veterans Residence, men who had served were packed into cubicles or open bays, fed scraps, and denied access to benefits promised under the VA’s Grant & Per Diem program.
Bureaucracy deepened the wounds. What should have been quick tasks—approving vouchers, sending emails—dragged on for weeks. Veterans left the program and never returned. Some, I fear, chose suicide.
The result is a perfect storm: indignity in shelters, systemic neglect, and the crushing weight of PTSD, TBI, depression, or substance use. In 2023, 6,195 veterans died by suicide. Forty percent were under VA care when they died. These are not isolated tragedies—they are systemic failures.
For me, suicide was less about despair than doubt. I doubted the system, doubted whether anyone cared, doubted my own strength. Yet within that doubt lived survival: Am I ready? Do I truly want this to be the end? Who will feed my dog? Small questions became lifelines. Doubt can become the thin line between life and death.
My journey did not stop at survival—it became a mission. Today, I advocate, write, and challenge systems that treat paperwork as compassion. Suicide must be spoken about—not as weakness, but as reality. It must be addressed not only with therapy, but with logistics, dignity, and action.
Today is World Mental Health Day—a time to remember that one conversation, one simple act, can change everything. Veterans and civilians alike need to know that they are not alone, and that doubt can be the thread that keeps life intact. It’s been a tough week for me after being betrayed by fellow veterans simply because I dare to speak out on this important subject. They would rather see me dead than show tolerance.
When I speak with veterans, I share what my friend once told me, and what I later told my uncle when he admitted his own weariness: “Hold on. We’ll make a plan. You are not alone.”