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and drug problems. He described how two attempts to hang himself didn’t work out—once, the neckties he’d fashioned into a noose broke, and the other time, he didn’t make the rope short enough. On his third attempt to end his life, he thought he’d try a gunshot to the head.
    “I actually missed, if you can believe that,” he said. “All I did was mess up the side of my face a little.” He angled his head so the audience could see a deep, angry scar at his temple and a horrifically mangled ear. “Next stop,” he said, grinning, “was AA.”
    Lock made a mental note not to try that—not that he’d never considered ending his life. A decade or so before, after a break-up with a woman he had dated for almost a year, he did more than casually think about it. He spent hours on the Internet, visiting the Hemlock Society website to read up on the most painless and effective suicide methods. From that website, his research took him all over the Internet and into bookstores. He found a paperback, Final Departure , in which he read about common, non-violent ways people used to kill themselves.
    One approach in particular had appealed to him. He studied the details of assembling a “helium hood” and made note of the supplies he’d need. Certain and fast, just like falling asleep. Before proceeding with his shopping list, he’d toyed with the idea of a suicide note and wondered if he really needed one, and if so, who, besides the police and the medical examiner, would ever see it. To whom would it be addressed? He had no one close to him.
    He’d worked on a goodbye letter and jotted down some bullet points first—addiction, alcoholism, depression, loneliness, the unlikelihood of ever being attractive to someone decent enough to have a family with—and then wrote and re-wrote and wrote some more. He couldn’t get it to say what he wanted it to say, to where it felt right. He thought it sounded like he was whining, and that was not the impression he wanted to leave.
    Lock had then realized a fundamental truth—he didn’t want to die. He simply didn’t want to be so unhappy. He told himself he was long past due getting clean and sober, and now was the time. The right moment had finally arrived. Upon this realization, he poured his remaining supply of alcohol and cocaine into his garbage disposal and flipped the switch. In an instant, it was gone. He grinned and snapped his fingers. Goodbye, suicide.
    He’d gone to his first AA meeting with a neighbor. It had no impact on him, and worse, he hated it. One of the first things he heard was an elderly woman joking that someone, someday, would declare that unceasing attendance at AA meetings was itself an addiction.
    Lock believed she might be right, so what was the point? He thought the seats were uncomfortable, the coffee not hot enough. Nothing stuck. And he didn’t like all the talk about God, which he thought was funny, because he did have confidence that there was some kind of master consciousness at the heart of the universe. He just didn’t call it God.
    Three days later, he was on his cellphone with his coke supplier as he drove to a bar in Philadelphia. He knew where it would inevitably end. But before things came crashing down around him, he would feel very little pain. Hello, oblivion.
     
    But that was then, and although the cravings for cocaine and alcohol continued, sometimes intensely, they were less and less powerful over time. The urges weakened with each passing day. Now he had the tools acquired from AA, and he used them. He had met people he respected who were there to support him. His sponsor told him the key to success was simple—don’t drink, don’t think, and come to meetings. That made sense.
    There had been relapses, but he had stuck with the program. Things couldn’t be more different now, and they were radically better—a year of continuous sobriety and a profession he loved. The job was fulfilling, and he helped the helpless every