The depression had hollowed me out. I wasn't sad. I was done. Spent. Emptied of will. People think suicidal people hate themselves, or that they've got nothing going for them. It's true for some, but that wasn't my condition. I had everything going for me. I was athletic, charismatic, talented, and my mom even tells me I'm handsome and can read good.
I'd lived the kind of life other people fantasize about: a Division I wrestler at West Point, a vagabond cowboy riding mustangs west with the wind, a rodeo bull rider, a cage fighter in Latin America, a wandering outlaw poet with a dog named Thunder and a tattered passport full of bad decisions.
I bartended in a brothel run by connected guys pushing powder pure as the driven snow in Bogotá, climbed peaks in the Huayhuash of Peru, and drank ayahuasca with shamans in the Amazon. I'd been drunk on euphoria with a beauty queen on my arm, shouting our ambitions from rooftops like the cliché of younger years, waving dopamine and wild sex at the night as if nothing that could make us feel so high could ever again make us feel so low.
Yet here it was: the rebuttal to euphoria. I had a good run. I was tired. I wanted to die. That's how I knew it was real.
So that night, I gave myself permission. Not a cry for help. A clear, cold decision. "Okay," I told myself. "If you can't take one more fucking day, then you don't have to." I even bought what I needed to make it happen. And I still have the letters.
But when I sat down that night to take inventory of my life, something strange happened. I realized that I had crossed off every bucket-list dream I'd ever had—except one.
Wingsuit BASE jumping.