A few years ago, on Christmas Day, a friend was celebrating with her family when they heard a single, loud pop outside. They didn’t think anything of it, but soon the sound of sirens filled the neighborhood. Their neighbor had walked out to the back patio and shot herself.
The other morning, I sprinted three blocks in a suit and dress shoes to catch my bus and just barely made it before the bus pulled away. As I walked down the aisle breathing heavily, I passed a young, striking, African-American woman, who spoke in a high, Disney princess-like voice and asked, “How is your day going, sir?” I walked past her and bluntly said, “Not too well.”
In almost four years of writing my blog, I’ve never had this happen. On Tuesday, guest writer Rachel Wilhelm posted a dark, but lovely, tribute to her sister, Errin, who died in 2010 after a long battle with mental illness. I thought that was it.
If you’re a regular reader, you should know that today’s essay is slightly disturbing. It is an honest, painful glimpse into the life of guest writer Rachel Wilhelm, whose sister died in 2010 after a long battle with mental illness.