I didn’t know Anthony Bourdain like some of you did. I admired him from afar. I knew he was a world traveler, a chef, a brilliant storyteller, a dad, a former heroin addict and the boyfriend of Asia Argento. I’d see the CNN commercials for his show and say, “Man, I have to see that,” but I never did. Never had the time or the energy to set the DVR.
When we lose someone to suicide I think, “Damn, he/she lost the war.” Or, “I never would have thought that he/she was fighting the same war that I’m fighting.” But then I remember that depression is so easy to mask. There’s that wide smile for the public and the tears for when you’re alone; the tears that run down your face like a hard summer rain.
Millions across the globe fight the same war and millions lose each year. In America we lose, on average, 44,965 people to suicide each year. That’s 7,000 more people that can fit into Boston’s Fenway Park. On average, 123 people commit suicide each day.
It’s an epidemic.
