For years the author tried to sort the facts and un-numb, tried to understand who her father really was and how to make the entirely unacceptable somehow acceptable, so that she could live not past it, but with it. He left behind the unsolvable riddle, the countless mathematically imbalanced paradoxes that all suicides leave in their wake. When Joan Wickersham's father decided to end his own life early one morning-he had dressed, collected the paper, made a cup of coffee for his wife, sat down in a favorite chair, crossed his feet on the foot rest, and fired one shot. "Murder attacks the future, suicide the past," a brilliant writer offered to me, just this week, in email. Every year we lose twice the number of parents, children, grandparents, friends, neighbors, colleagues to suicide than we lose to murder.
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