I had already started the mental countdown to the anniversary of my friend's death. The one year mark since he called me so he wouldn't be all alone in his decision. The days of frantic phone calls and bargaining and begging. The final, terrible, phone call. Another call, a few days later from his father, in tears, wanted to know what to do next. The box that arrived with his cook books and his art. The endless days when not starting the day chatting with him reminded me of what is lost.
And, to make someone else's pain all about me, the suicide of Robin Williams is making it a whole lot harder for me to keep these tears in check. The talk about suicide. The updates from friends and the media. The others who are making another's pain their moment to make the 24-hour news cycle.
The fact is, suicide is the last option. My friend tried everything. He lived on borrowed time for years, knowing the pain his suicide would cause. He wanted the pieces to fall into place so that he could banish the idea of death. He was in agonizing pain. He had been for most of his life. And, every day I hope, as hard as one can hope for such, that he isn't anymore.