As I stood on the bridge looking out over the sun-glazed waters of the ocean, I couldn't help but wonder what had possessed my dearest to make this fateful jump.

He had been in agony, to be sure. After his return from Iraq, all seemed lost to him. He said as much - often and to many. Still, there were the visits he made to those who were physically wounded, his attendance at group meetings with those who also suffered with post-traumatic stress, the volunteer time he put in at the library reading to small children, and the many lawns he mowed for the elderly.

It seemed like enough, but obviously it wasn't. As the waves broke on the columns below me, I didn't know whether to scream out with his joy or my pain.

To be fair to him, there were also seemingly endless nights of drinking, nightmares, and almost seizure-like recollections that would paralyze him, temporarily and mercilessly robbing him of the ability to get past it all and move on. He would tell me he felt like a child looking into a dark closet, wondering what horror would next stalk his sleep.

He would ask me if it would ever be over, and if so, how would he know. "When you love your life and life loves you back." I felt glib saying it, but it was all I had.

The sun started down behind the horizon and the ocean waves did not tell on him. The water crashed against the rocks, but gave up no secrets. I was left to guess, a dynamic of our relationship that had forever been lose-lose. I could only stand there, still confused, still puzzled by his strange reclamation of self.