I stumbled across a story of a young man’s suicide this morning. He went for a run and never came back. This happened less than a year ago. I have no connection to this young man, well, not really. I’ve never been diagnosed by a professional, but I struggle with depression as well. I’ve always chalked it up to “being an artist,” but I receive simplicity way too strongly for my own good. My memory has hold of too many nights spent weeping for no reason. It also holds hands with many evenings crying over hurts whose wounds should no longer be open, but are and seep painfully.
Reading Roswell Friend’s story was hard. I grieve for his family and applaud their strength. Losing someone is consistently difficult. If that person took their life on purpose the pain is from a different blade. They chose to leave.
What Roswell did, was selfish, but I can absolutely understand what brought him to that place.