I've never been a suicidal kind of guy, but in Colorado during the earplug phase, I understood it.  In fact, I imagined a kind of suicide just about every day because all the skeletons were out of my closet and dancing around, leaving beer cans and empty pizza boxes all over the vestibule of my soul.

Every sordid tale in this labyrinth gave itself a body, latched onto my ankles, and wanted to drag me down. Every fear and insecurity. Fatherhood was not going well. I had one kid who screamed all the time and another who (thanks to diabetes) required constant monitoring––one fuckup in our insulin dosing and he could be in the hospital. Could have killed him. Too much pressure. I've never sworn so much in my entire fucking life.

"I'm gonna blow my fucking head off," I'd say to myself when the tension got too high––and sometimes mumble aloud, or maybe even shout. I don't remember. Then I'd imagine the shot to my temple and the pain would go away. Then the head would grow back and I'd feel better for awhile, calmer.