I was 11 years old when my father shot himself. It is a day that will live in my memory. A crisp summer day. High 60s.
Daddy used a shotgun. He did the act in his brother’s garage. My aunt found the body.
That was the year I became who I would be. My life was heading one way, but after that day, life went another route.
It was as though someone had dumped a bucket of black paint over me. Everything was altered. Colors looked different. The way I talk changed. Sleep patterns changed. I developed an eating disorder.
You don’t undergo the suicide of a loved one then go home and cut the grass.
Likewise, you don’t ever forget the way the sheriff's deputy came to your house, sat you down, and said, “We had to use dental records to identify your daddy, son, because…” The officer cleared his throat. “Well, we couldn’t tell it was your daddy.”
I am not looking for sympathy. I am not looking for help. I’ve had
decades of therapy and lots of help. I’m not looking for anything. Except this:
I write columns for newspapers. They run in the East. The run in the West. And for some reason, people read these columns. Which only shows you how far America’s standards have fallen.
But if you’re reading this, I’d like you to think about something. Today, as you go about your routine; as you feed your kids; as you walk the dog and pick up their doggy excrement in little plastic bags; as you brew your coffee; as you browse Facebook, think about this:
In the last 20 years, suicides rose 36 percent. Ask any cop, paramedic, fire-medic, nurse, or therapist. It’s an epidemic worse than diabetes. Worse than obesity. Worse than the epidemic of pop-country music.
Last year, suicide was responsible for about 50,000 U.S. deaths. About one death every 11…