It was all gone. Everything. Every piece of furniture. Every book. Every Pot. Pan. Fork. Kitchen knife. Sold or given away. I got into my car and pulled away. For the first time in my entire life I was homeless, but not without hope.
Closing a Door to the Past to Make a Future Possible As the one-year anniversary of the tragic killings that…
“He’s just doing this for fame and fortune,” someone recently said about me after learning I’d been writing a book for the past year. But that just isn’t true. I’m speaking and writing now because I have something important to share. The truth. And what I’ve come to learn about my late wife, about depression, PTSD and mental health — including my own.
Every generation, it seems, is impacted by the death of someone famous, a tragedy that makes a permanent imprint on your brain recording exactly where you were and what you were doing. And it’s even more tragic when they make the decision to end their own life.
My wife, Jennair, had been treated for depression for years. Yet I was surprised when her psychiatrist diagnosed her with PTSD.
Nobody wants to think about suicide, much less talk about it. But I find myself compelled to. Suicide can be preventable if you know the signs, and more importantly, do something about them. Sadly, I and others didn’t know enough or do enough. And now we’re all paying the price.