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As the daughter of someone who, at 32, “successfully” committed suicide, leaving behind a husband and three children, and as a woman who has struggled with depression myself, I read your cover story “The Story of My Suicide” (10/19) perhaps with more interest than most. I was looking for something—an insight, an ember of hope, a nanosecond of grace—just a sliver of an opening to the black box that is a depressed person’s mind. I did not find what I was looking for in the words of “Anonymous.”

I railed about the self-indulgent, unenlightened nature of the piece to a friend. She read it and suggested, very judiciously, that perhaps Anonymous had not had enough time and space between the event and the writing about it to garner the insights I was seeking. Perhaps.

I thought about writing an angry letter. I wrote one. I thought some more. I decided that the act of writing this story was a creative one. And creation, as surely you must know, Anonymous, is in direct opposition to the destructive act of taking a life—your own or anyone else’s. There is my ember and—perhaps—yours, Anonymous.