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Jake Parkinson
“It was back in April when the suicidal ideation got to its worst. My marriage was really rough; the separation messed me up, and my marriage was ending. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to keep myself safe, so I had a friend drive me to the hospital. I thought I would just go to the access center for a couple of hours, but after they talked to me, they said, ‘You’re not leaving. We’re putting you into the behavioral med division, and you’ll be here for at least a week.’ I was so mad. I had a life and goals. There was no way I could spend that kind of time there—it was an absolute nightmare.
“Going in didn’t feel good, but it was interesting how it stripped me down to my bare humanity. It was the first time I couldn’t wear a mask or hide the pain. I would sit there with a group of people during lectures and just start sobbing. I get embarrassment chills just thinking about it. I felt so transparent; all the dignity I had built up was gone. For the first three days, I felt like I was in a living hell.
“After those first three days, I finally slept for the first time and was getting consistent meals. I started having conversations with people, and that hell of the hospital turned into this indescribable haven. There were three or four patients who were almost identical to me in age and struggled with anxiety, depression, and ADHD. We all realized that none of us wanted to die; we all desperately wanted something better but felt incapable of finding it. When I recognized that, everything changed for me. I thought, ‘Oh, I don’t want to die; I feel like I don’t know how to live.’
“Before that, I’d write maybe one song a year. When I felt better in the hospital, I wanted to write, but
they didn’t have many instruments, just a piano. I kept pestering the nurses until someone let me play. The only song I’d ever written on piano was ‘Temporary’—a non-romantic love letter to a friend struggling with suicidality, meant to say, ‘Hey, I know it’s hard, but it’s temporary. Just hold on.’ Then I felt like throwing myself off a cliff. I couldn’t sing it. I’d only play the chord progression.
“Every day, more people showed up to listen. I found out later that an older lady actively recruited people to come. She asked me to play something I’d written and eventually convinced me. I told her, ‘Okay, I’m going to play this once, and then it dies here.’ I sobbed as I played, realizing how deeply I still felt for my friend and how much I wished someone had told me that same message. When I finished, I turned around and saw her crying. She said, ‘Don’t you dare keep this from everyone who needs to hear it. This isn’t your song; it’s my song.’
“In that moment, I realized why I’m drawn to music; it moves me. She kept bringing people in and saying, ‘Play the song.’ The more I played, the lighter I felt, and it made sense that my purpose is to connect with people through my mess and wounds. Vulnerability is how we connect.
“It was my last night when I played the song one more time. The room was packed with patients, doctors, and nurses. I don’t know if I’ll ever experience that level of genuine performance again; we had nothing to gain. As soon as I left, my number one goal was to release that song, and it’s out now—it’s called ‘Temporary.’”
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"As a songwriter, one of my favorite things to do is to take someone’s story and put it to music and rhyme. Whether you have a special occasion coming up, a special person you’d like to surprise or you have a special idea in mind, let’s make your song together."
