A little more than four years ago, my oldest son Rob shot and killed himself. He was 28. He suffered from depression, bipolar disorder, and alcoholism. He also had conflicted feelings about being adopted. Whip-smart, devilish, and funny as fuck, Rob could be a pleasure to hang with, but he lived his whole life with a pain that never left him. When he was a little boy he told me, "I have a space in my heart that never closes." In the days after his death, I was crushed yet oddly numb. The whole thing felt surreal and for a long while nothing made sense. Then, little by little, the anesthetic fog lifted and it became painfully clear: Rob was dead. End of story. |
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