Suicide has been alternately described as both the ultimate in selfish acts and a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Those were two of the arguments I frequently used when talking to suicidal callers in my more than eight years of volunteer work on a suicide hotline in Houston, Texas. Even as I was saying these things to callers—and I do believe the statements to be true—suicide is also a valid option. People just simply get tired of living and decide checking out is better than continuing to fight against what is often a life as frustrating as that fellow doomed to pushing a huge boulder up a very steep hill.

The death of Hunter S. Thompson by his own hand, while depressing, is also not as enigmatic as other suicides might be. In fact it might be exactly what one would expect from someone like him. Who knows what was really going on in his life to cause him to decide, “today is the day I cease to exist.” In the end I think this is what pisses people off the most about relatives and friends who commit suicide. They will never really know why.

On the surface Thompson had been luckier and more successful than most. A nice home in upscale Aspen, Colo. numerous friends, a more than a comfortable lifestyle, and due to those continually discovering his fine writing, a measure of immortality at the relatively young age of 67. To those of us still struggling to achieve all of those things (and who probably won’t ever achieve them) it would appear that Thompson had it all.

Thompson also had a long-standing and well-documented love of firearms—often running afoul of the law for shooting them off indiscriminately. One thing you have to admire about him is that he lived as he wrote. He did not stand outside of himself and invent a character; he was that character.

Years ago when both Thompson and I were both young, I first discovered his writing in Rolling Stone. I was a charter subscriber to the magazine, looking forward to each issue because it served up perspectives on current events not to be found anywhere else. My journalistic soul was envious of the talented writers who created the fact filled and well written essays served up each week. Thompson’s acute observations of the culture of those days will stand the test of time. Few writers possess the talent to successfully document world events with such accuracy, wit, and acerbic and entertaining commentary.

These writings appeared years before this once fine magazine became a slick corporate tool, which now interests people I would have nothing in common with. Today’s Rolling Stone would be no place for the likes of a writer like Thompson. The pages of personal ads alone leave no doubt that profit has triumphed over content and while there is not a thing wrong with profit, it can be achieved without catering to the lowest common denominator. Mother Jones, a socially conscious journal, debuting a few years after Rolling Stone, has remained a strong force in the marketplace as a non-profit magazine funded by contributions, subscriptions and endowments.

Me and countless others will miss Hunter S. Thompson. It was somehow comforting to know he was in the world and might any day unleash some new writing for all of us to digest. His death could be used as another argument for gun control, but he would hate that. I salute him for going out in his own time and in his own way. His admirers would expect nothing less. His was a life well lived with a quick and final end—something all of us hope for and few of us will achieve.

More from Leah Stratmann