jeff smart

Before My Friend Took His Life, He Mailed Me a Letter Blame Covid, isolation, or economics, but many men my age are struggling with how life has turned out By Charlie LeDuff (@Charlieleduff) My friend took his life last week. He wasn’t the first friend to do that over this past year. He wasn’t even the second. A lot of guys my age are struggling with the idea of suicide. It’s reached a level of crisis in America, the scientific papers say. Brought on by the Covid-19 pandemic and its aftermath. The scientific papers cite factors like isolation and economic hardship. That’s just a fancy way of saying life hasn’t worked out for some guys of my generation. Not the way we were trained to imagine our older selves when we were boys, anyway. My friend’s name was Mickey. Mickey’s letter arrived at my home a few days after he ended it all. He wanted to explain things. He wanted to apologize. “I’m sorry,” the letter began. “I will be discovered in the garage, behind my car, in the recycle bin, for ease of removal.” That really struck me. Mickey—always the urbane and cultured man—had literally thrown himself away. “For ease of removal.” In the letter, Mickey detailed how he had exhausted his savings and was unable to find meaningful work after being dismissed from his job during the pandemic. Mickey had worked for three decades in international trade and logistics. Now, having reached the upper limits of middle-age, the phone wasn’t ringing anymore. He was broke. And the credit companies were squeezing him. “Combined with a significant loss of confidence and hope, I’ve given up,” he wrote. “This is not the position I expected to be in at this point in my life, and it is simply too much to continue.” Mickey left just enough for the cremation. He was 61. Mickey had no wife, no children, no live-in lover that I know of. But he had friends and family who loved him. Depression can make you blind, I suppose. And why didn’t we see Mickey’s depression? The grind of the day-to-day difficulties dulls the senses, I suppose. So Mickey spent his last hours, alone, addressing envelopes and scratching out his own obituary. Imagine that. Writing your own obituary. I suppose this is my attempt at his epitaph. Mickey was a decent and honest man. If the meaning of life is to be found in one another, then without you, life will have less meaning for those you leave behind. The world is a poorer place without Mickey in it. But I’m a richer man for having known him. If you feel at the end of your rope, friend; or if you’re considering a rope or a rubbish bin, please call. That’s all. Just start with a call.