His life had ended, by his own hand. Perhaps this was the peace they were all searching  for? The stigma of living with mental illness seemed too much of a burden for him to handle, a great deal too hard to own. Of course no one could comprehend why he had taken his own life, but she knew he had given up his search for sanity, given in to the schizophrenia and the bipolar illness that crippled his heart and mind, the very essence of his soul and being. Making sense of his death was the hardest, not knowing if she could have stopped it, not even knowing if she would have wanted to. She found his letter in the bin, with pages of rambling words, of his inner pain and torment, of his love for her, full of words she had yearned to hear from him, he too scared to risk opening up; the sharing of his inner turmoil. He wrote of the agony of never being able to get rid of this pain no matter what he did or what medication he tried. It must have been like a living hell, surviving an unbearable cancer that nothing seemed to heal, nor took away the pain. His final act broke her heart, yet the overwhelming belief that his death had been an escape from mental illness, his only way of avoiding the never ending stigma and pain, lingered on.