On one of the blackest mornings of my life, I assembled...

On one of the blackest mornings of my life, I assembled pills and liquor and wrote a letter to my daughter. I told her I was taking my life and asked her to care for my two sons, ages ten and seventeen.

Earlier I had returned from the hospital, where I had undergone surgery for the third time in a year. Each time, doctors had told me that precancerous conditions prevailed in different areas of my body and were getting worse. I had been suffering for thirty years. In addition to this, my second marriage (the first had left me a widow with six children) was troubled by seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Yet my family was oblivious to my desperation, as I took painkillers, drank, and tried to hide my agony. All things considered, suicide seemed the only solution to everything.

January 17, 1983

We'd love to hear from you!

Easily submit your testimonies, articles, and poems online.