I woke up this morning to a text from a close friend. "We are coming into town. My son took his own life last night."
I had reached for the phone to turn off my alarm which was set early so I could do some morning writing. But I had not planned to write about this.
When I read my friend's words, a familiar taste came into the back of my throat, and I tapped into an immense sadness I had not felt for several years.
Three years ago I contemplated taking my own life. The circumstances then matter less than the thoughts I believed about why that made sense. As a result, I lost my passion for food, and with that an easy thirty five pounds. What remained was a dark web of thoughts and a ravenous appetite for death.
I found relief in watching things burn and reading Rilke's Book of Hours. So night after night, while Alex tucked the kids in for bed, I sat outside in front of the fire pit and wrestled with God, the words in front of me, and life.