When Words Fail

It's not about me. It has never been about me and I know that. So why do I feel so responsible?

I just learned that my former next-door neighbor was found dead in the mountains of north Georgia this morning. He killed himself and I knew he would someday.

Beau and his partner Mark lived across the driveway from me for the 7 years prior to the sale of my house last July. The shared driveway between our houses almost required a reasonably close relationship between us, but we became friends.

Beau was a landscape architect and a good one. When the economy went to hell, he like so many of the rest of us, found himself unemployed. At first he was kind of glad to have the time to lollygag around the house. He worked in the yard, planted vegetables in our postage-stamp sized back areas and worked out at the gym.

But when he eventually started his search for a new job, his world started unraveling. There were no jobs. At around 55 years of age, he began to feel outdated, irrelevant and under-educated.

Beau's was a melancholy personality to begin with and he was always a glass-half-empty kind of a guy. His efforts to manage his unpredictable swings in mood with psychiatry and psychotropic drugs never really produced any long-lasting results. As one year of unemployment became two, he sometimes couldn't manage the climb out of the darkness. He cried. He sulked. He raged. He drank.

Beau knew I had struggled with depression in my lifetime and he knew I would never judge anyone for having mental illnesses. We spent hours over lunches at favorite haunts talking about how miserable he felt. I listened, mostly, and offered ideas about ways to ease his feelings of worthlessness -- lots of them. He would listen intently and even seem to be interested in a few of my suggestions. But he seldom did them.

Deep in my soul I've always known the way this story would end. Beau was so tired of feeling so useless. But last week I saw his partner Mark out walking their adorable beagles and he told me Beau had landed a month-long contract to work on a project for his old company. We both thought we could stop worrying for at least the next month; Beau always seemed to perk up when he was gainfully employed.

This past Sunday morning, Beau told Mark he was going into the office to do a little work. Since Mark is the cook in the family, he asked what time to expect him back. Beau said around 6 p.m. At 7 p.m., when the garage door hadn't whined to signal his return, Mark became more than a little concerned. Why? Because earlier in January, Beau attempted to end his life by taking a handful of his prescribed drugs, something he hadn't shared with me.

Mark had to endure the required 3-day wait before the authorities would take a missing persons report. They accepted it last night, located Beau's unoccupied truck beside a stand of mountain pines this morning, and organized a search party immediately. Mark is waiting to hear from the Lumpkin County, Georgia Medical Examiner to learn the cause of death.

I know I tried every way I knew how to help Beau. I also know what it feels like to be so low as to not want to take another breath. I'm even relieved for him that his pain has now ended for good. But...

If only I could have found the right words.

I'll never again hear that North Carolina drawl or see his slump-shouldered silhouette slowly walking down the driveway, dogs in tow. I'm sorry, Beau. I really tried. Please rest in peace.