It’s All a Little Surreal

This is my eighth season working for the Boston Red Sox, my first as Director of Baseball Communications & Media Relations. As a Massachusetts native who grew up in a household obsessed with baseball, it’s fair to call this my dream job.

I’ve experienced hundreds of “pinch-me” moments over the years as a behind-the-scenes member of the Red Sox organization. In 2018, I even celebrated a World Series championship with Red Sox players, coaches, and other front office members inside the visiting clubhouse at Dodger Stadium. Wearing a t-shirt drenched in champagne and beer, I struggled to believe I wasn’t dreaming as I held the World Series trophy, the Holy Grail of my profession. It was, to that point, the happiest moment of my life.

Seventeen years before that magical night, I tried to kill myself.

I don’t remember how old I was when I first thought about not wanting to live anymore, but I’m pretty sure it was before I had heard the words “suicide” and “depression.” I can recall lying in bed at a young age and saying to myself before falling asleep, “I hope I don’t wake up tomorrow.” As a kid, I didn’t know exactly what I was feeling. The thought was, essentially, When I’m sleeping, I don’t feel sad.

When I was old enough to realize that I was depressed, I didn’t know how to tell anyone about how I felt. During my junior year of high school, my health teacher issued students a questionnaire in class one day. The final question stood out, a drastic change of tone from those preceding it: Have you ever thought about suicide? I hesitated and looked around the classroom; I knew the answer but couldn’t bring myself to tell the truth. All of the other students had finished their questionnaires and returned them to the teacher. Not wanting to stand out, I lied and turned in my paper.

If I had answered truthfully and informed my teacher that, yes, I had thought a lot about suicide, I’m sure school officials would have done everything they could to help me. But I was afraid of what the next steps would be. My parents would find out. I’d have to talk about my feelings. Would I have to get professional help? Would my classmates see me as weak? Would the school allow me to remain on the sports teams? There were too many unknowns. I didn’t want to go down that rabbit hole, and I didn’t want to dump my problems on anyone else. They were my problems. No need to bother anyone else just because I was sad.

Also, I didn’t know how I would answer the obvious question: Why aren’t you happy, Justin? I didn’t really have a good answer. It was hard to explain. On the surface, I’m sure I seemed “fine.” I played sports, did well in school, and generally got along well with everyone. But I was struggling and alone, poisoned by something that had replaced any traces of confidence with severe insecurity and doubt. I hated most things about myself. I felt worthless and insignificant, and I was very hard on myself. I was a Nobody. My classmates, meanwhile, seemed to fit perfectly into a world not built for me.

As far as I was concerned, the thoughts I was having were unique to me. I don’t fit in here … How does everyone else make it look so easy? … I’m never going to be happy … There’s no point in going on … Nobody would even miss me if I was gone … I’m just getting in the way … It’ll be easier for everyone if I’m dead. And so on, and so on, and so on. I didn’t have a role model or a guide, or any evidence that I could ever be happy. It’s like that saying, “If you can see it, you can be it.” If there was a path to happiness, I didn’t see it. So, I figured, what’s the point of going on if I’m always going to feel depressed and alone? I decided ending my life was the best option.

I’ll keep the details private for now, but the day I tried to kill myself remains the worst day of my life. That night, I went to bed in an unfamiliar building under the watch and care of strangers. I felt like a failure, even more alone and defeated than I was when the day began. As I had done many times, I thought to myself, I hope I don’t wake up tomorrow.

Fast forward to 2018, my fourth year working in Boston. Baseball players were no longer idols or heroes; they were co-workers and friends. I had a key to Fenway Park and lived close enough to walk to and from work each day. I flew on the team plane, stayed at the team hotels, and opened doors that read “Authorized Personnel Only.” I felt like a wide-eyed kid writing a book report about what it’s like to work for my favorite baseball team, always appreciative of the incredible access I had somehow been granted. The job was amazing but exhausting, with workweeks sometimes surpassing 100 hours. On many mornings, it felt like I was sleepwalking to Fenway, the childhood version of myself grabbing my adult hand and dragging me along Boston sidewalks, eager to get to the ballpark to watch a baseball game.

On October 28, 2018, shortly after the final out of the World Series, all of the long days and late nights paid off when I found myself in the middle of the post-game chaos I had previously only seen on TV as an envious baseball fan. Music blaring. Players singing. At once, dozens of champagne bottles popped and the Dodger Stadium visiting clubhouse transformed into a blurry scene of euphoria. With an ear-to-ear smile bursting through my playoff beard, I made my rounds to congratulate players, my senses scrambled as I carefully minded each step on the floor’s beer-covered plastic lining. When pitcher Rick Porcello gave me a hug and told me I was part of the journey with the rest of the team, I fought back tears and told him I was happy for him.

As the party subsided, the World Series trophy somehow made its way to me. The most coveted prize in Major League Baseball. It was heavier than it had always appeared on TV. Far more delicate, too. I held it with both arms and let it rest gently against my chest, fearful of dropping it. I never wanted to let it go. It didn’t make sense that I was there; it was too perfect.

Wanting to share the experience with friends and family back home, I posted pictures of the celebration on Instagram but struggled to write a caption. Eventually, I stopped trying to think of something clever and instead let my feelings flow out of me. “The simplest way to say it,” I wrote, “is that I’m just happy. I’m so, so happy right now. It’s all a little surreal.”

It’s cliché to say “I’m a different person now,” but it’s true. I don’t recognize who I was twenty years ago. I’m not ashamed of that person; I’m just amazed how much I’ve grown since I was a depressed 17-year-old. I’m exponentially more confident. More comfortable with myself. Prouder of my accomplishments and more forgiving of my failures and flaws. More caring and optimistic and hopeful, always believing that everything will be okay and that better days are ahead. My happiness is sustained, no longer a temporary stop on the emotional rollercoaster I rode in high school.

The simplest way to say it is that I’m happy to be alive, excited for each new chapter that comes my way.

If you’re struggling with depression or suicidal thoughts, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. I hope you find the strength to speak with someone—a friend, a family member, a professional. Anyone. It’s much easier said than done, I know. But I hope you try.

At the very least, I hope you see my story as proof that things can get better. Just because you don’t see a path for yourself, it doesn’t mean one doesn’t exist. It took me a long time to find my way, and it wasn’t easy. I struggled and stumbled many times, but my current life was worth the wait. I’m married to the girl I was too nervous to talk to in high school, we love our daughter more than anything in the world, and I have my dream job, all things my 17-year-old self would have believed were impossible. And I’m able to appreciate my life even more because the journey wasn’t easy. But you have to keep going, believing things will get better. I believe that for you.

Take care of yourself. And take care of each other; you never know who’s quietly struggling. You never know who desperately wants to speak up but can’t. And you never know who’s one bad day or lonely night away from not wanting to wake up tomorrow.

J.P.

If you or a loved one need help, visit: https://samaritanshope.org/