I cannot say that I don’t understand what might drive a person to take their own life. I have been in a place where I didn’t think I could keep putting one foot in front of the other, but somehow, I did. If I hadn’t, the world would not have Frank or Beckett, and I would’ve missed out on more joy that I can put words to.
Each time I hear of someone taking their life, there is a crack in my heart that grows deeper. It is especially hard when it is someone young, because it is then you wish you could show them a newsreel of the incredible things life would’ve had in store for them, had they only been able to make it through one more night, face one more dawn.
This morning I heard not of a young person, but someone closer to my age, older. I do not know what led him to make this decision, but my heart hurts regardless. I can picture him so clearly. I can remember conversations we had, about art. I remember distinctly the last time I saw him.
As I drove Frank to school, Prince’s When Doves Cry came on the radio, and the pink that coats the mountains on the front range in the morning grew deeper. I held it together until I dropped Frank at the front door of Palmer Ridge, and then the tears started to flow. Not just for this man, but for the terrible loss that comes with this decision.
It is never, ever as bad as it may seem. Never. There is always more joy, more sunrises, more everything. Life is filled with lots of bad, but the cream always rises to the top.
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