On a cobweb afternoon

In a room full of emptiness

By a freeway I confess

I was lost in the pages

Of a book full of death

Reading how we'll die alone

And if we're good, we'll lay to rest

Anywhere we want to go

—“Like A Stone,” Audioslave

I saw a post today about Chris Cornell, the recently deceased front man for the bands Soundgarden and Audioslave. The article spoke about how Cornell’s reflections, meditations, and obsessions about death could be viewed as a book of prayers. “Many of Cornell’s songs are filled with Christological and sacramental imagery,” writes Christopher Hadley. I agree with Hadley’s astute observation that Chris raised two voices — one of against religious institutions capable of abuse, and another that spoke of spiritual experiences, that sought peace and guidance from a Creator, and that lifted up a beautiful and haunting rendition of Ave Maria. As Hadley writes, “His voice was that of many seekers. One hopes he will continue to be a consolation to them, even now that he is gone.”

I just reposted a meme on Facebook: “Don’t make a permanent decision based on a temporary emotion.” Sound advice. But what about folks whose suffering and ties to despair are years in the making? What about people whose pain is so debilitating, and yet so carefully hidden, that they finally decide to end their lives, alone? The recent suicide of Chris Cornell deeply affected me. His death was so sudden and unpredictable, even though the lyrics and titles of Cornell’s songs gestured to a struggle with and . I was never comfortable with certain song titles, such as “Pretty Noose”—a sonic explosion of rage and hostility that was oddly refreshing in the 90s and early 2000s, when I could still afford the luxury of being both young and angry, but also communicated imagery. “And I don’t like what you got me hanging from….” I was haunted by this title even when it was released— more so now following Chris’ sudden departure. No stranger to social media, Chris had posted ordinary updates and posts hours before he hung himself in his hotel room. Late into the next day, when I heard about the specific method, I was crestfallen.

Chris leaves behind a wife and three children, a manager and band mates, and millions of fans left to ponder the usual, predictable, lurid questions. “Did anyone know? If they’d only known, could they have stopped it? Did he leave a note? What are his family, friends, and fans to make of his suicide?” According to CNN, Chris Cornell's closest confidantes said there were no warning signs that he would take his own life following his Detroit concert. "Nobody saw this coming, his band mates didn't see this coming. It's totally out of character for the Chris that I've known and worked with for the last 10 years," his longtime manager, Ron Laffitte, told CNN ahead of Cornell's private funeral in LA. "It's incredibly bizarre. I have to think that something threw him off the tracks ... he must have been out of his right mind."

Laffitte said he spoke to Cornell daily. On the afternoon of his death, they discussed plans for him to perform at the 2017 Global Citizens Music Festival this September in New York City: “I would say the last couple of months, he was as and happy as I can ever recall him ... He was so excited about all these things and a new record we were going to put out in the fall.”

In addition to his songs about suffering, I wish he had shared the depth of his pain with a friend, his wife, a helping professional, or a random stranger, so that his isolation, his utter aloneness, could have been aired, so that it could have been engaged, and perhaps transformed. We don’t know the depth of people’s suffering, the silent struggles they endure daily, their intimate familiarity with despair, and their sudden fervent desire to die. Sometimes, we don't know, because we asking. Perhaps we fear they will provide authentic answers, that they will tell us the truth, if we wait patiently for their heartfelt responses. My advice is to ask real questions. Then wait. For the real answers. We owe the people whom we care for that much.

Kyle D. Killian, PhD is author of from Columbia University Press.