Help Steve Austin Stop Suicide
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In 2020, every 40 seconds, someone around the globe will die by suicide. And for every 1 who dies, 25 more attempt. But it doesn’t have to be that way.
Will you help me save lives this year?
I was a pastor when I lost all hope and nearly died by suicide.
But pastors aren't supposed to be depressed, right?
I was a pastor and a lifelong Christian. I loved Jesus with all my heart. And I adored my family. I just despised myself. I was desperate to end my secret suffering.
I didn’t know about counseling or therapy. I didn't know I had permission to tell my truth. I lacked the confidence that God would meet me in the darkness. I was exhausted from a life filled with shame, and a fear-based religion that left me shakily scared of appearing less-than-perfect.
My desperation was partly rooted in the trauma of childhood sexual abuse. Anxiety was eating me alive. Depression was drowning me. And PTSD was like living through a nightmare, wide awake.
And then I lost my job. That was the straw that nearly crushed me. Shame told me I was nothing more than the sum of all my unfortunate mistakes.
A Pastor with a Broken Brain
I knew people who had worked through unthinkable trauma. I had seen how Jesus could heal addiction. Those stories made the most inspiring testimonies during a Sunday morning service. But I had never heard a Christian (must less a pastor) stand up and tell the truth about their broken brain.
I believed the lie that my life would never get better. I was convinced things would only get worse. No one would understand my struggle. No one cared. And I was certain I’d used up every ounce of grace Jesus could muster.
I grew up in fundamentalist church culture, where everything was black and white. There were concrete answers for every question. We had no safe space for doubts, dysfunction, or differences. And anytime I’d ever seen someone confess a personal struggle with mental illness, a team of people prepared to cast out a demon.
My experience with Christianity was one that separated the wheat from the chaff; the healed from the sick; the sinners from the saints. And if you didn’t get your miracle, you just didn’t have enough faith.
I had vegetable oil crosses smeared on my forehead more times than I’d like to admit. I’d been shoved backward by fiery preachers, praying for healing. I’d feigned “falling out” in the Spirit so my friends wouldn’t know what I fake I was. I had done it all, but it seemed that either Benny Hinn was as much of a fake as me, or Jesus was a liar.
I’d soaked my tears with prayers for Jesus to snap His cosmic fingers and fix me, but nothing was happening. The shame was nearly as unbearable as the panic attacks.
Christian ... or Crazy?
No one, other than my wife, knew that I was hiding my prescriptions in my lunchbox and sneaking into the bathroom stall at church. I would lock the door and take my meds like clockwork, scared to death that someone would catch me. I knew I wasn’t doing anything illegal, and these medications were the only thing keeping me functioning, but where I come from, you can either be Christian or “crazy.” You can’t be both.
When Jesus doesn’t snap his fingers and heal everything in an instant, we get uncomfortable and impatient. Stories like mine don’t fit neatly into our boxes. They aren’t nearly as popular as mud on the eyes and dipping in the river seven times and seeing miracles.
My church culture placed great emphasis on the spiritual life. I was raised in a herd-like mentality that demanded outward performance, to the detriment of genuine faith. Because my brain didn't work like other Christians I knew, I learned to blend in and keep my mouth shut.
For those of us with mental illness, the church can sometimes feel cold and unconcerned. We often hide in the shadows, for fear of being thought of as less-than a full Christian. But we continue to stubbornly white-knuckle our commitment to church, hoping to one day be accepted, just as we are.
As I continue to recover from my suicide attempt, I am learning that life isn’t neatly boxed and bowed. When it comes to church, I'm not asking for my pastor to be my psychiatrist. I don't need my Sunday School teacher to try and fix me, or for any clergy person to have all the answers. I just need people to choose kindness, even when they don't understand.
Mental Health Missionary
After years of intense healing work and recovery, I'd made it my life's work to prevent suicide and open the conversation about mental health in faith communities. This year, I’m partnering with 2 publishers to write important books on mental health. The problem is, I need time to write them.
Will you help me save lives this year?
I’ve recently been accepted to a week-long writer’s residency in France. It’s an opportunity most writers only dream of: quiet time in a beautiful setting to do important, life-changing work. The only problem is I need to raise $2,000 to cover the cost of food and international travel. Would you help me?
To make it more enticing, check out these awesome rewards for donors:
$5 - I'll send you my downloadable/printable Self-Esteem Journal
$10 - I'll send you my Self-Care Toolkit
$25 - I’ll give you a personal shoutout on a special edition of the Catching Your Breath Podcast I record during my trip to France.
$50 - I’ll send you a postcard from France.
$100 - I’ll FaceTime you from France to say “thanks.”
$250 - I’ll include you in a special acknowledgment section of my next book.
$500 - I’ll include you in a special acknowledgment section of my next two books.
$1000 - You can choose to whom I dedicate my next book.
If I reach or surpass the goal of $2,000, I will include each of my donors in a special donors-only list, where I’ll update you via video 2-3 times during my trip.
Bio:
Steve Austin is a writer, coach, podcaster, and former pastor whose work has been featured in USA Today, Huffington Post, Relevant, and other outlets. Austin nearly died by suicide after secretly suffering from depression, anxiety, and PTSD, and he has become a leading voice at the intersection of faith and mental health. Austin resides in Birmingham, Alabama, with his wife and two kids, and he loves all things peanut butter and chocolate.
To learn more about Steve, visit catchingyourbreath.com today.
Will you help me save lives this year?
I was a pastor when I lost all hope and nearly died by suicide.
But pastors aren't supposed to be depressed, right?
I was a pastor and a lifelong Christian. I loved Jesus with all my heart. And I adored my family. I just despised myself. I was desperate to end my secret suffering.
I didn’t know about counseling or therapy. I didn't know I had permission to tell my truth. I lacked the confidence that God would meet me in the darkness. I was exhausted from a life filled with shame, and a fear-based religion that left me shakily scared of appearing less-than-perfect.
My desperation was partly rooted in the trauma of childhood sexual abuse. Anxiety was eating me alive. Depression was drowning me. And PTSD was like living through a nightmare, wide awake.
And then I lost my job. That was the straw that nearly crushed me. Shame told me I was nothing more than the sum of all my unfortunate mistakes.
A Pastor with a Broken Brain
I knew people who had worked through unthinkable trauma. I had seen how Jesus could heal addiction. Those stories made the most inspiring testimonies during a Sunday morning service. But I had never heard a Christian (must less a pastor) stand up and tell the truth about their broken brain.
I believed the lie that my life would never get better. I was convinced things would only get worse. No one would understand my struggle. No one cared. And I was certain I’d used up every ounce of grace Jesus could muster.
I grew up in fundamentalist church culture, where everything was black and white. There were concrete answers for every question. We had no safe space for doubts, dysfunction, or differences. And anytime I’d ever seen someone confess a personal struggle with mental illness, a team of people prepared to cast out a demon.
My experience with Christianity was one that separated the wheat from the chaff; the healed from the sick; the sinners from the saints. And if you didn’t get your miracle, you just didn’t have enough faith.
I had vegetable oil crosses smeared on my forehead more times than I’d like to admit. I’d been shoved backward by fiery preachers, praying for healing. I’d feigned “falling out” in the Spirit so my friends wouldn’t know what I fake I was. I had done it all, but it seemed that either Benny Hinn was as much of a fake as me, or Jesus was a liar.
I’d soaked my tears with prayers for Jesus to snap His cosmic fingers and fix me, but nothing was happening. The shame was nearly as unbearable as the panic attacks.
Christian ... or Crazy?
No one, other than my wife, knew that I was hiding my prescriptions in my lunchbox and sneaking into the bathroom stall at church. I would lock the door and take my meds like clockwork, scared to death that someone would catch me. I knew I wasn’t doing anything illegal, and these medications were the only thing keeping me functioning, but where I come from, you can either be Christian or “crazy.” You can’t be both.
When Jesus doesn’t snap his fingers and heal everything in an instant, we get uncomfortable and impatient. Stories like mine don’t fit neatly into our boxes. They aren’t nearly as popular as mud on the eyes and dipping in the river seven times and seeing miracles.
My church culture placed great emphasis on the spiritual life. I was raised in a herd-like mentality that demanded outward performance, to the detriment of genuine faith. Because my brain didn't work like other Christians I knew, I learned to blend in and keep my mouth shut.
For those of us with mental illness, the church can sometimes feel cold and unconcerned. We often hide in the shadows, for fear of being thought of as less-than a full Christian. But we continue to stubbornly white-knuckle our commitment to church, hoping to one day be accepted, just as we are.
As I continue to recover from my suicide attempt, I am learning that life isn’t neatly boxed and bowed. When it comes to church, I'm not asking for my pastor to be my psychiatrist. I don't need my Sunday School teacher to try and fix me, or for any clergy person to have all the answers. I just need people to choose kindness, even when they don't understand.
Mental Health Missionary
After years of intense healing work and recovery, I'd made it my life's work to prevent suicide and open the conversation about mental health in faith communities. This year, I’m partnering with 2 publishers to write important books on mental health. The problem is, I need time to write them.
Will you help me save lives this year?
I’ve recently been accepted to a week-long writer’s residency in France. It’s an opportunity most writers only dream of: quiet time in a beautiful setting to do important, life-changing work. The only problem is I need to raise $2,000 to cover the cost of food and international travel. Would you help me?
To make it more enticing, check out these awesome rewards for donors:
$5 - I'll send you my downloadable/printable Self-Esteem Journal
$10 - I'll send you my Self-Care Toolkit
$25 - I’ll give you a personal shoutout on a special edition of the Catching Your Breath Podcast I record during my trip to France.
$50 - I’ll send you a postcard from France.
$100 - I’ll FaceTime you from France to say “thanks.”
$250 - I’ll include you in a special acknowledgment section of my next book.
$500 - I’ll include you in a special acknowledgment section of my next two books.
$1000 - You can choose to whom I dedicate my next book.
If I reach or surpass the goal of $2,000, I will include each of my donors in a special donors-only list, where I’ll update you via video 2-3 times during my trip.
Bio:
Steve Austin is a writer, coach, podcaster, and former pastor whose work has been featured in USA Today, Huffington Post, Relevant, and other outlets. Austin nearly died by suicide after secretly suffering from depression, anxiety, and PTSD, and he has become a leading voice at the intersection of faith and mental health. Austin resides in Birmingham, Alabama, with his wife and two kids, and he loves all things peanut butter and chocolate.
To learn more about Steve, visit catchingyourbreath.com today.
Organizer
Steve Austin
Organizer
Alabaster, AL
