There’s a certain smell that comes with a dance hall. It’s not unpleasant, some mixture of sweat, dust, delight, consternation, and the leather soles of dancing shoes of every description: Sexy, strappy Latin heels, uber-conservative standard pumps, sleek flats, and jazzy, stretchy pull-ons with a separated sole for maximum mobility. There’s cologne and perfume too, and generally a lot of it, many scents mingled together. It’s the smell of sweaty hands, minty breath (or not so minty, for the unlucky), and passion.

Sensual passion, sure, especially if it’s blues night or a particularly steamy tango. But more than that, it’s a passion for the chemistry of shared movement, shared creation, shared pleasure found (potentially) in each beat of a good rhythmic tune. The potential is part of the allure.

Will it happen? Will I find someone who will glide into and against and in harmony with me in a way that satisfies the deepest, motion-sensored part of my soul? Will I dance with that partner - or many - for hours, until I am gasping for breath and my feet are pinched and burning? Or will I be polka’d off my feet by someone shorter and more wiry than I, who I can barely keep in step with? Will the creeper who would add the sensual to every style want to pull me to the floor repeatedly, will I need a good excuse? Or will my friends - the familiar but reliable - be my dancemates and fill my hunger tonight?

The magic happens in the frame, at least that’s what my dance teacher would always say. You step to your partner with a physical presence that is sturdy but pliable, willing but resolute. Your grip on each other is not a death grip, but neither is it spineless, passive, or wishy-washy. You move, and as you move, you feel and sense and delight in the other’s movement. It’s a duet of two bodies, two minds, two beings who oppose and yet compliment each other in focused, and hopefully shared, enchantment.

The alternative, or absence of this consummation, can taste bitterly of mindless boredom and awkward, moist palms, and too much ice water to drown your sorrows. Therein lies the risk. Do I venture out tonight? But the memory pulls me, calls to my limbs and my toes and my heart until usually ... the answer is yes.

Some days all I can feel is pain and disbelief when I think about Dad. Other days looking at his picture fills me with love and peace and gratitude. I've had some thoughts I have been wanting to share - normally I don't feel like a public venue is necessarily ideal for this kind of thing but given that so much of what has happened has been public of necessity - I want his friends and our extended family to know a couple of things, because I know many of you are feeling pain over this too.

I’m not unfamiliar with suicide. People who are dear to me have taken their own life, attempted to, or struggled with ongoing thoughts about it. I have scattered memories in the past of different scenarios where a suicide had taken place. I work in the mental health field, so there is a lot I have learned about dealing with issues related to suicide and depression.

We have known Dad struggled with depression. For most of his life actually. He battled it vigorously. He exercised, journaled, prayed, studied, attended the temple, served other people, stayed active in his callings and responsibilities at church and in his job. He was constantly listening to or seeking out inspirational music, inspiring quotes, motivating speakers, constantly creating positive and uplifting affirmations for himself to repeat. He was very health conscious, very selective in what he ate. He had taken numerous medications to help with the depression, some of which were very helpful for periods of time. He saw many counselors. He struggled with hearing loss for many years, which contributed to feelings of disconnection from others. He seemed to experience, perhaps especially since the Camp Fire but generally over recent months and years, some cognitive decline that scared him and worried us. Age was beginning to bring some very difficult-to-deal-with new mental challenges that frustrated him thoroughly.

He didn’t ever talk about suicidal thoughts. I never knew he’d had any. I don’t think any of us did, and if there was any inkling of such it was from long ago. He didn’t talk about not wanting to live. He didn’t harp on the negative. He was rather expert at finding silver linings. The night we found his car and his note, and so many of the nights since then, have felt surreal. Like somebody else’s nightmare. Like something that never in a million years was ever going to happen to MY Dad. I think it is fair to say we have all looked back over recent years and months, combing our own actions and efforts to show love to him, grieving that it seems like it just wasn’t enough, that it should have been more. It was not any of our fault, it was no one’s fault. Depression can be a very debilitating illness, not to mention the cognitive losses that often come with age. Taken together, I feel those two circumstances, with any other possible combination of contributing factors, are likely to blame for what happened to my Dad.

Why am I sharing this? Mainly because I have woken up some mornings since then with my thoughts full of people my Dad loved, and who I know love him. People who I know were or still are struggling in life with various things, and who I know my Dad really tried to be helpful and supportive to. Dad was very much a “go after the one who is lost” kind of person. I would imagine some of the people who he tried to be there for and help may feel a deep sense of loss and possibly betrayal and/or anger. I would not blame anyone for feeling such things, these are so often a part of grief and so complicated in cases of suicide. But what I want you to know is that Dad was and is real. He did and does love and care about you. The things he said and taught and showed by example were genuine, are still true, were and are absolutely a very core part of him … there was no façade. There was no pretention. No intentional deception. He was not weak, cowardly, or selfish. He had his hurts, his struggles, his choices, all affected by mortality, by illness and disability, by experience. His choices are made, his chapter on earth has closed, but YOURS is still open. The way Dad took is not the only way out of the darkness. Please don’t be too harsh in your judgment of him or of others who have died in similar ways – it’s truly impossible to understand the depths of a person’s pain without being inside it.

But please, also, don’t entertain even for a second the idea that because even he succumbed, you have to or inevitably will. If you’re hurting, please say something. Please ask for help. Please choose to live and fight. You are needed here. You make things better for others and if you don’t feel that’s true of you, it still can be. The darkness of today or this moment WILL change, lessen, evolve, look different if you give it time and sometimes letting someone know you are struggling buys you just enough of that time to open your eyes, take a deep breath, gather yourself and keep going. I’m not going to post a crisis line here – they’re easy to find. What I am going to ask is that if you are thinking about hurting yourself, YOU, reading this, come and tell me. Or if not me then someone else in your life who you love or who loves you. Don’t let it fester until you can’t fight it anymore. Please.