Suicide.
That word has always struck fear in my heart.
It is so mysterious, so frightening and so final.
Last week we were all stunned by the suicides of two celebrities.
Purse designer Kate Spade at the age of 55 and celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain at 61. How ironic that his show was called Parts: Unknown.
As I am sure many of you have, I spent the last few days questioning everything.
What could have possibly been so bad in their lives?
Why did they make that choice?
Were there warning signs?
Maybe the absolute worst thing is that there will never be answers – at least none that will make much sense to those left behind.
I didn’t know much about Kate Spade other than recognizing her brand and admiring her handbags. On the surface, all should have been well. She had a family, including a husband and daughter, plus money, fame and success.
Anthony Bourdain was one of those people who most everyone thought had the perfect life. They called him “the Elvis of bad boy chefs.” He travelled the world meeting people, having adventures, drinking wine and eating the most amazing food, and getting paid to do it.
As we all know, or should by now, happiness does not come from a great job, financial success, travel, a spouse, children, nice house, swanky purse or a fabulous meal.
Mental illness does not discriminate.
Whenever I hear of someone taking their own life, I always think, "If only if they had just hung on one more hour, one more day, one more week."
Maybe a phone call would have snapped them out of the moment. Maybe there was an email coming in that would have changed their situation. Maybe the next medication would have brought them comfort.
Nothing ever stays the same. Things would have changed if only they could have hung on.
A few years ago, I got a late night phone call from a colleague – someone I had worked with years earlier. We were just sporadically in touch. We hadn’t seen each other in years. In the call that night, I heard something in his voice. It wasn’t what he said exactly. Maybe it was what he left unsaid. It was unusual for this person to express sentimental feelings, but this night he did. It was something he wanted me to know. I remember saying, “We’ll always keep in touch, right?”
When I hung up, I immediately went to the desk and wrote him a card and letter. Something told me to reach out. It was nothing I could put my finger on, but at some level I knew something was very wrong.
His body was found a week later and doing the math we figured out I may have been among the last people to speak with him. Why would he call me? I wasn’t family. I wasn’t even a friend, really. He had been my boss. What prompted that call? That question has haunted me every day since.
“What should I have done in that moment?”
“What should I have said?”
“Should I have notified an official?”
“Could I have kept it from happening?”
It is not something you want to live with.
When there is a mysterious death, I feel for those left behind. They are the ones who have to live with the nagging questions, the horror, the guilt, the sadness, the loss and the anger.
There is always way more than one victim from a suicide. Their pain may have ended but there’s a lifetime of pain left for those who loved them.
No answers, no peace, just darkness.
If only.
