In 2006 a close friend of mine killed himself by slitting his wrists. His mother found him in his apartment after not hearing from him for a while. After she found him, she called me and asked if he had ever said anything about being depressed or wanting to die. I told her he never mentioned anything, and in fact he seemed like a happy guy. I cherish the gifts he gave me, including a mug he made me on which he painted my name and some triangles, since triangles are my favorite shape. Before he died, he gave me a book about the Dalai Lama.
I also had two classmates who were brothers that both died by hanging, though it was said they were accidental deaths caused by autoerotic asphyxiation.
And strangely here I find myself planning my own suicide.