I never saw Willie without a smile on his face. I never heard him raise his voice in anger, only in laughter. He was a kind and gentle man with mirthful eyes. He was funny and creative with a love and talent for comedy and for creating professional quality puppets. His very existence was about fun.
Last week my friend Willie took his own life. My heart hurts and my head is still swimming.
Until a few years ago Willie was married to my son’s wife’s sister. He was part of the big happy family. Even after the divorce Willie remained part of the family by virtue of the Thanksgiving dinners, the Christmases, birthdays, and all the changing of seasons through the years he shared with us. 
Willie still lives in his beautiful children. He loved those kids more than they know, more than life itself. I know this to be true but I’m having trouble making sense of it.
How much could he have truly loved his children? Isn’t suicide the ultimate selfish act of weakness?
I’m ashamed to admit that when I learned what had happened this was my knee jerk reaction, a harsh judgment borne of shock, ignorance of his suffering and my inability to grasp the severity of his pain.
My wife chastised me because she knows that I know better.
I’ve grappled with my own demons. I have some experience with clinical depression though I never reached the depths of Willie’s hell.
We all have dark places within us that lie behind doors that should never be opened.
What I learned of myself over the years is that I could hold on until the gloom passed. It’s not easy. The insidious truth of depression is that when you are in its clutches you are helpless to care about anything, even your own depression.
You’ll do anything to make it stop.
Many of us blame the victims of suicide because they hurt us and that pisses us off. Those who knew and loved him best sometimes blame themselves at the same time, heaping torture on top of the grief.
It’s all pointless and destructive, of course. The will to live is the most basic of all human instincts. Nobody can take that away from us except our broken selves.
I don’t believe Willie was a selfish coward, though I’m also aware that he was no saint. Others knew him better than I and their memories and feelings are as valid as mine, maybe more. But I do know for certain that he was, in part at least, the funny, loving man I remember.
That’s the Willie I choose to hold onto.
I’ll always remember him with a smile.
