EDITOR'S NOTE: This story includes descriptions of a suicide attempt. If you or someone you know is having thoughts of suicide or is in emotional distress, contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK(8255) or at suicidepreventionlifeline.org.
In the summer of 2012, LPGA Tour veteran Christina Kim wrote a personal blog post about her experience with depression, anxiety and suicidal thoughts. It was the first time she went public with her story. After earning her Tour card in 2003, Kim became infamous for her bold style, contagious laugh and outgoing personality on the golf course. In 2004 and 2005, Kim won two victories on tour and found herself living out her dream as a professional golfer. For the next five years, she'd remain on top of her game. But after experiencing injuries in 2010, the California native struggled with her ball striking and began to question her self-worth and value. The next year, Kim thought about attempting suicide.
This September during National Suicide Prevention Month, Kim shared her story of mental health as part of the LPGA's Drive On campaign dedicated to celebrating the hard work, focus and tenacity of the women on tour. As Kim enters her 20th year on tour, she explains in her own words how she found strength in publicly talking about her thoughts of suicide and why mental health remains a daily topic for her.
WHEN I WAS younger, my mother used to tell me, "Even in the darkest of nights, there will be a beautiful sunrise."
It wasn't until I was in my darkest of nights that I could fully understand what my mother meant when she uttered those words. Of course, it could be viewed in various ways. At times, I thought it just meant that the world is going to carry on with or without you. But I don't view it that way anymore. I look upon it more as when you're in the darkest depths, just remember that there will come a time when things get better.
My darkest depths came in the spring of 2011.
At the Nations Cup, a Ladies European Tour team event in Alicante, Spain, I struggled on the links. I missed several six-foot putts for par. I couldn't hit a green. My back injury was on the fritz, and my ball striking was the worst it's ever been. During a practice session after my round, I broke down in tears. I couldn't stop crying. My boyfriend Duncan tried his best to comfort me, but nothing seemed to help. I was in the middle of it. The moments of brilliance that I experienced early in my career were becoming more and more rare. The last few years, I struggled physically on the course and that impacted me mentally. And in that moment, I didn't know what was going to happen next.
That evening during a players' party, I just wanted to be alone. I didn't care about the music, food, wine, laughter. None of it. I just wanted to be alone. Alone with my thoughts, I found myself walking towards a corner balcony on the second floor overlooking the ocean. I gazed down and leaned over. There I was alone with my thoughts. The thoughts about ending it all. The thoughts about stepping over the wall of the building and plummeting two stories into the ocean. In that moment, drowning seemed like my only option. I was so close to ending it. I wanted to end it. But while I was trying to be alone with my thoughts, my cellphone kept ringing. It wouldn't stop. Duncan was trying to find me. If it wasn't for his flurry of calls, that would've been my last night.
I walked away from the balcony. I found Duncan and we left. When we got back to our hotel room, he sat me down and said, "Something's not right, we need to talk about it." Then he added, "I am here to listen. I'm not here to judge." A few minutes passed and I kept telling him, "No, no, no. I'm fine. I'm fine. I promise, I'm fine." But he continued to sit there and wait. Then it happened, I felt safe. I felt safe to finally break down in front of him and tell him what was going on. I told him what had just happened on the balcony. How these thoughts weren't new, but this was the first time that I was ready to end it all. He held me. He listened to me. It scared him, just like it scared me. And then he said, "We need you to get help somehow."
The next day, I got on the phone with Dr. Bruce Thomas, the medical director of the LPGA and one of the few people that I held in my circle of trust. I wasted no time and got right to it. "Dr. Thomas, something's not right," I said. He told me that he wasn't going to be a sports psychologist. He wasn't going to tell me about my emotions. Instead, he talked to me about the chemistry of my body. He provided insight on how I've been a professional golfer for a decade, and I've been going nonstop. "You're basically like a car that's ran out of fuel. Your fuel is serotonin. And the amount of stress that you've been under and the high-pressure situations that you've been in, and always having to be on, whether competitively or emotionally, you ran out of gas. That's OK," he said.
I needed medical help. I needed a clinical diagnosis. I needed medicine. I needed that support system. It took some of the burden off me because it was no longer me rocking in bed in the fetal position saying, "What's wrong with me?"
I learned that part of my emotional toolbox is knowing that fear is inevitable. But fear is something that you can face, whether it's with the community or with the people that you love. The other part of my emotional toolbox is knowing the importance of communication. It's not just about communicating with others when things aren't feeling right. It's about communicating with myself.
I had to learn how to slow down and focus on the small victories. Some days those small victories are waking up, getting out of bed -- little things like that. The small victories can turn a crappy day into an OK day. And sometimes they'll take the OK day to a decent day and then sometimes the decent day turns into a good day. And by the end of the week, I'll look back and go, "Did I have seven decent days in a row? Yeah, all right. That's a pretty good week!"
When it came to golf, a lot of my mental health depended on my game. My value and worth were directly tied to my game. Played good, felt good. Played bad, felt bad. I've had a couple of anxiety attacks on the course, and in those moments I have to turn my world as small as possible. I focus on my breathing, reminding myself that this will pass and being as forgiving and kind to myself as possible. After all, I'm doing my best. I'm trying to do my best.
There were times when if I'd tell myself, "Well, if you didn't miss that two-foot putt, you would've shot 65 instead of 66." And truth be told, I know I'm capable of making that two-footer and shooting 65 instead of 66. But that's not what happened, and yet that doesn't mean I still didn't do my best. Kindness and clarity have allowed me to realize that sometimes it's not going to turn out the way I want it to on the golf course and that's OK.
I always say that very few sports are as analogous to life than golf because you can prepare, do everything "right," drive down the middle of the fairway and still end up in a divot. Sometimes it just doesn't matter what you do. Life, like divots, happen. And when playing golf during the depths of my darkness, I wanted to pretend like everything was OK but it wasn't. I was known for my outfits, my big personality, my laugh on the golf course. And during those dark times, I didn't have the strength or willingness to admit that I was struggling. So, I tried to fake it. I put on the same clothes. I made sure that I was laughing. I didn't want to burden anyone else -- just myself.
I've always had a great sense of self-love, but I don't think I ever understood my own worth. My score on the golf course didn't equate to my self-worth. It's a combination of self-loving and self-loathing. I needed to learn how to be my own best friend.
In the last 10 years, I've only won one tournament. I got my Tour card at the age of 18. And now, at the age of 38, I can say my goals on Tour remain the same as day one: I want to win. I want to prove to myself that I can still be at the top of my game. There's no reason why I can't have a third Renaissance. Technically, I already went through my second Renaissance when I won the Lorena Ochoa Invitational in 2014 and felt like I was back on top. I'm starting my third Renaissance, and I'm so excited by that. I have so much more in my arsenal by way of my mental health.
It's been 10 years since I went public with my story. Eleven years since I came close to taking my own life. I still experience moments of downward spiral. I am still learning how to be kind to myself. How to be patient with myself. How to be my own best friend. But it's the learning since that moment in April of 2011 that provided me with the wisdom to catch myself today when I'm on a downward spiral. I view that as a sign of strength. A sign of awareness. and I think that's amazing.
No matter what, I always remind myself of my mother's words. And that there will come a time when things get better.