Anthony Bourdain ended his own life today. And Kate Spade—though I really only recognized her name at first—commited suicide a few days ago. But it’s Bourdain’s death that feels the most cutting to me.

I’m down about it. I feel shrouded in grief this morning and it seems so… dumb… in a way. I mean, I didn’t know the man personally. But something in me was formed through Anthony Bourdain. Maybe not “formed” but definitely more understood. At some point I began reading kitchen/restaurant/food books with a passion. I think it started with Ruth Reichl, but Bourdain was right in there among the first I read. I felt like I had this interesting window into the world of kitchen creatives. I loved hearing them talk about food, write about food, describe food, and I especially loved the remarkable communities built in kitchens. I think this is why Ratatouille is my favorite Pixar film. The toughness of kitchen workers is a trope built in reality, and it was Bourdain who revealed that life to me best. I like to cook just fine—it’s not my calling in this world—but I can read and enjoy cooking books like no one’s business.

I also love travel stories, and Bourdain has long combined his loves of food and traveling to open people’s eyes to the beauty of this planet. I’ve watched him travel all over, his lanky frame and kind-yet-rebellious attitude intriguing me as much as the locales he featured. He was always drinking. Always smoking. Very badass, but it was easy to see the heart underneath the gruffness. By the point I was watching his shows I was a full-fledged adult, so I could also see the heartache underneath the rough exterior. It almost felt too personal, this watching him be tough and insecure all at once.

When I woke up today to news that he had died, I immediately hoped for something reminiscent of Steve Irwin. Perhaps Bourdain died in a plane crash or a bus accident on location for a shoot. Maybe a bad case of food poisoning? No, it was a demon he couldn’t shake. Something that left him so hopeless that life seemed utterly unbearable. The man had been married twice, had a daughter who is only 11. I read a headline recently that he had a new girlfriend and seemed quite happy. No one who read Bourdain’s books or watched him on tv would be surprised that he had demons, but I think we’re all taken aback by news of his death today. What did he have to live for? Us. He has US. We toured the world with him, tasted street foods with him, drank too much vodka with him, and woke up the next day ready to get on a plane and do it all again somewhere else. He had us.

Suicide cannot win, folks. It just cannot win. In a message thread with my brothers I said that suicide reminds me of a book whose last chapters have been ripped out or set on fire. They just don’t exist. Suicide leaves a giant gaping hole where a life should have been. It’s absolutely wrong. It’s empty. You’ve got all the suddenness of a plane crash but the cause is… what now? It’s a lot of nothing. It’s the entire world looking at Anthony Bourdain in the face and saying, “You have us. We like you a lot. We see better because you exist. Now is not the time for you to be done.”

And yet, he is done.

The last chapters have vanished, and there’s only grief left to fill them.

————————————————

Suicide is heartbreaking and mental illness is no joke. Reach out to someone who loves you if you’re having darkness that you can’t shake, and if you can’t reach them or they can’t help you, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255. You are worthy of life and love. Suicide is not the answer.