I watched the Anthony Bourdain film, Roadrunner, last night, and it affected me deeply.
I always carry a sadness with me anyway, but something in the iconic Bourdain’s story touched me in a very relatable, very profound and very personal way, and today I feel deep, deep sorrow.
Maybe it’s the loss of my daughter three and a half years ago, the loss of my father six months ago, the near-total lack of support I have received from my family, the gaslighting I have endured my whole life from various sources, or the ever-present feelings of insecurity and self-consciousness and… well… failure. I’m not sure.
Maybe it’s just the loss of a man who meant a lot to me, to my industry as a chef, to millions of viewers and fans – and, yes, perhaps most importantly of all, to his daughter.
I can’t imagine ever even considering suicide myself. But this morning I find myself wondering… surely there was a time when Anthony Bourdain couldn’t imagine ever even considering suicide himself?
If I haven’t considered it yet, aged 56, mired in clinical depression on and off for years, struggling under the weight of abuse and futility and the perception of failure, then I would hope I never will. I stress that right now, writing this, hand on heart, I have NEVER considered ending my life. This is not a cry for help or attention. This is no warning bell for anyone to rush over and try to save me from myself.
I’m just a man trying to express his grief at the trauma and loss in my own life, and Roadrunner – the tragedy of Bourdain’s life – has put that in sharp relief this morning.
Anthony Bourdain had so much to live for, so much success – yet he didn’t want to be here any more.
What a fucking waste. A tragic, appalling waste of a good man who seemingly just wanted to be loved.
I find that so unbearably relatable on so many levels.
