Lived Through This
He Thought We’d Be ‘Better Off’
Two years ago, my husband of 18 years took his life. I’m still coming to terms with why.
My charming, brilliant, handsomely dimpled, fun-loving husband of 18 years and father of our three sons, ages 12, 13, and 16, killed himself on July 2, 2018.
He was 46.
Was it situational depression after nearly a year of unemployment following previous decades of professional ups and downs? Was it undiagnosed mental illness? Was it noble devotion? Sacrificial, as his letters suggested? Was it desperation?
Or was it, as our oldest son, Logan, said, “A lapse in judgment?”
Or, as our middle son, Grady, asked, “Did Dad love us too much?”
I think it was some combination of all of these.
How much is the life of a father of three boys and a husband worth? Is there a number that makes sacrificing oneself an acceptable, “viable” idea?
Of course not. It’s absurd.
But this is the scenario in which we find ourselves. Trying to make sense of the nonsensical.
On that terrible day, our family became part of a grim national statistic. According to the Centers for Disease…
