I watched the Anthony Bourdain film, Roadrunner, last night, and it affected me deeply.

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.


Shane Pinnegar
Shane Pinnegar is an author, chef and music/pop culture writer who lives in Western Australia. He has a lovely wife, two rambunctious dogs with no respect for personal space, especially on the sofa or bed, twenty-something koi, a flock of itinerate galahs who visit regularly, and a never-comprehensive-enough rock n' roll record collection.

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