You might have seen the news: More U.S. citizens were killed by guns in 2017 than any year since “at least 1968” (The New York Times, The Hill). As is true every year, about two-thirds of gun deaths in this country are suicides.

Many stories tried to find nuggets of helpful information or warning signs deep in the data, but what stood out to me was the two overlapping trends: (1) all types of death via guns are increasing, and (2) suicides in general are rising regardless of method. While the global suicide rate is falling (Axios), it’s risen dramatically in the U.S. over the past two decades. More people now die from suicide than in car accidents, something that was never true until about 10 years ago. Of note: “The rise is largely among white, middle-aged, poorly educated men”.

In most places, in most times, most people killed by suicide are men (despite women being more likely to attempt suicide). Scientific American writer Jesse Bering tried to explain in 2014 that it’s because men are far more likely to have and use a gun. But this doesn’t explain the particular demographics in the recent data — men of a certain age, a certain ethnicity, a certain educational background.

In an NPR interview last year, researcher Angus Deaton said:

“We think of this as part of the decline of the white working class. If you go back to the early ‘70s when you had the so-called blue-collar aristocrats, those jobs have slowly crumbled away and many more men are finding themselves in a much more hostile labor market with lower wages, lower quality and less permanent jobs. That’s made it harder for them to get married. They don’t get to know their own kids. There’s a lot of social dysfunction building up over time. There’s a sense that these people have lost this sense of status and belonging. And these are classic preconditions for suicide.”

Angus Deaton, 2017

This seems close to the consensus. “Other research suggests that one factor behind the rising suicide rate is an erosion of the privileged status of white men” (The Economist). “A 35-country study by Allison Milner of Griffith University and colleagues suggested rising female labour force participation is associated with increased male suicide rates.”

As I continued to read these stories, I couldn’t help but notice how closely I resembled the at-risk group. For example, I recently joined the age group in question: 45-64. As it turns out: I am white, my paperwork says I’m male, and I am unintentionally 46 years old. Also: I own a handgun. These all put me in a high-risk category for suicide for the next two decades.

A fifth factor is that the middle-aged white men who are dying of suicide also tend to be without college degrees — another match for me. Yet a sixth possible danger sign in my case arises when we taken into account that suicide rates vary by state. Oklahoma, where I lived about 14 years of my life, has one of the the top 10 suicide rates. Missouri and Arkansas — where I lived from 1991 through 2000 — are ranked 13th and 14th, respectively. (I’m now in relatively safe Texas, which is ranked 40th.)

Because my only superpower is needlessly overthinking, I performed a quick self-evaluation. Result: I think I’ll be okay.

Whatever the underlying causes turn out to be for uneducated middle-age white men dying of suicide, it looks like they don’t apply to me. If the explanation is, as The Economist surmised, the “erosion of the privileged status of white men”, that erosion is something I’m pleased about, something I work toward. If it is the “much more hostile labor market with lower wages” of which Deaton spoke, then I am already past that stage — and it was never a new thing for me; it was simply the reality during all my working years. Unlike most of the men who “fit the description”, I’m a pleased-as-punch homemaker and not isolated into my whiteness or maleness.

Something I don’t talk about much is that thoughts of suicide crossed my mind several times in the late 1990s. There remains a heavy stigma around mental illness, depression, and suicide attempts, and the stigma was markedly more intense 20 years ago. Still, I wondered about it, considered possible consequences, and ultimately decided against it.

Stumbling, shaking, giving way, I fell to my knees there,
For once, wanting badly to give in.

Looking back ever so briefly, I saw only torment,
Pain, darkness, the perpetual ache of a life badly lived
Gazing down into the depths, I saw a peace, a final
Resting, a wonderfully long and comforting sleep.

a poem, 1998

I considered my life up to that point to be a failure. I wrote: “I do not love myself”, and “I seem to have problems dealing with and understanding humans”. I postulated that “pleasant times are only an illusion for fools”.

What happens when the eyes are dry?
When I have no more strength to cry?
What happens when it is useless to try?
When the bankrupt heart agrees to die?

a poem, 1997

I wondered: “In which Hell, this or the next, will I feel the harshest sting?”

What turned the corner for me was probability and curiosity. I knew a successful suicide attempt would erase all possibilities of any future, good or bad. I knew good things could be just around the corner; the only chance of experiencing them would be to stay alive. Even if the chances were low, there would still be a chance. I also told myself: if things are as bad as they can get, that means things can only get better. If things can get worse, that means things aren’t that bad now. Either way, good news.

All of these memories tumbled through my head as I considered the new onslaught of numbers. I’m not saying I’m “immune” because I already got close in the past, but it is my opinion that my past experience will be a plus for me if I ever get close in the future.

What about the others? Right now, there are people around us who might be part of next year’s statistics — white middle-age men, yes, but the figure of “about 45,000” suicides includes all types and many age groups. More than half of them don’t have a history of mental health issues. In the past two years, I saw many friends and relatives share this phone number — 1-800-273-TALK (8255) — on social media. It’s the national, 24-hour suicide hotline. There is also a “crisis text line” (text “CONNECT” to 741741). There are resources online, both for people who are themselves considering suicide and for the people who love them. But it’s probably not enough. If it was, we wouldn’t be seeing the surge we’re seeing.

I don’t know the solution, and clearly, neither do the experts, but I am convinced we can do better.