A neighbor killed himself. He got in his car and drove to the woods. He walked out into the brush, put a gun to his head and ended some pain. The weight of it fell to the ground with him.
He seemed the cliché. A happy guy, beautiful family, successful career. I would see him walking his Golden Retriever and smoking a cigar, always smiling, always positive about the weather, or ready to talk baseball. He was on the school board, was always busy doing good things for the community like raising money for a new pool at the high school or coaching baseball or being a good father to three kids. He was making a difference.
Everyone who knew him extolled his virtues, which were many. But now we wonder. What had he been carrying that was so heavy he couldn’t hold it in any longer?
What was his secret pain? What was under his skin?
Was there some evolutionary need to hide that pain? To give up his life rather than reveal it? Was dying the better option than living with his agony? What is the shame so great it kills? Or was there just not enough of something in him when he needed that something the most, was there some chemical, some element of life he was lacking?
We are all many strata: DNA, RNA, bones and tissue of ancestors, animal fears and flights, pasts we had no role in, diseases and mental states—all stacking our geology. The slightest tremor brings it all to the surface. What we’ve stood on for years, our crust, in a moment can be broken open, gone. And sometimes we can’t seem to put it back together. Maybe we shouldn’t even try.