In an email, he admitted, “There hasn’t been any food in this house in over a week.” On a street corner, the police picked him up during a psychotic episode. Setting up the empty apartment-all the bedding, furniture, appliances-was too much for him. A year before his death, he left his job as a toxicologist in Colorado and transferred to a new position in Pennsylvania, alone. He’d convinced himself that his wife of 30 years had had an affair, and they underwent a painful divorce. The cops retrieved it from the gorge below, in fine condition.įor Bill, suicide was the culmination of several years of spiraling paranoia. I was 11 when someone stole my Schwinn bike, built like a tank, and hurled it off that bridge. We crossed the Triphammer bridge countless times-on foot, on bicycles, in cars, day and night, stoned and straight. He was 60 when he jumped from a ledge into one of the gorges for which our hometown, Ithaca, New York, is best known. In 2015, the eldest, Bill, killed himself. “In late January,” my medical record states, “Jeff had his first episode of suicidal thinking and related behavior.” From my office, I drove 10 minutes to the White River to throw myself off a bridge and into the ice-cold water. Any way of dying that would hurt my family less than suicide.
Each night, as sleep overtook me, my last thought was the hope that I would not wake up again. It’s strange how much our minds can hurt us. Anything that helped squeeze the hours forward-time marked by the death of the senses, a quashed libido, the same dirty khakis and T-shirt. While in a catatonic stupor, I spent months doing crossword puzzles and watching tennis highlights. In Inferno’s final circle of hell, Dante’s sinners freeze instead of burn, trapped in an icy lake. When well, I could barely imagine being depressed, and when depressed, I couldn’t remember ever feeling well. Clinical depression and ordinary life stood across an impassable ravine. I wouldn’t have changed anything, except my soul-eating depression.īy January 2019, I had lost all hope for recovery. I bathed in love and enjoyed financial security, along with very good health insurance. Outwardly, I was surrounded by everything I could possibly want: a happy marriage, a rebellious teenager, a stimulating job, a warm home in rural Vermont, friends near and far. Then I texted and emailed my closest friends and family to say that I loved them, and sent Glennis a more explicit note, asking her to “come home to hold our daughter.” Ten days earlier, my psychiatrist had emailed my psychotherapist to say, “Jeff appears very depressed with suicidal ideation, thoughts of jumping from something high.”
I realized that no suicide note could alleviate their grief, but-always a perfectionist-I kept polishing drafts.
It was 11 days after my 57th birthday.Īt my desk, I had written and torn up numerous letters to my wife, Glennis, and our daughter, the essence that they remained my be-all and end-all, above and beyond any actions I might take. on January 31, 2019, I left my Dartmouth College office to kill myself.
For support and resources, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 988 or text 741-741 for the Crisis Text Line. If you are in danger of acting on suicidal thoughts, call 911. If you are having thoughts of suicide, please know that you are not alone.
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