Nine years ago my dear friend walked to the end of the San Simeon pier, climbed over the railing, and jumped in to the icy Pacific Ocean. Her body washed ashore three days later.
Two years ago a relative of mine downed a bottle of Prozac with a fifth of vodka and passed out in her bathroom. She survived, thanks to a random call that woke her husband who found her.
And last month, a kind newspaper reporter I met during a phone interview leaped off Maroon Creek Bridge. He leaves behind a teenaged daughter, a wife, and a confused and grieving community, including several friends of mine of who knew him well.
I imagine we all know someone who has committed suicide, attempted it, or thought about it. Perhaps that “someone” is ourselves.