It's strange to be here, hesitating as I type the final page to my book. I was never a writer. I'm a fire-fighter, and a father. My wife was the one who journaled obsessively and created emotions so beautifully breakable they made my heart weep.
People cautioned me against publishing this, saying it was too soon, that I needed more time to heal, to process, to think. After all, it's only been three years.
But for three years, I could not sleep. For three years, something festered in me so strong I knew I had to get it out. Not for myself, but for Andrea, and all the people in the world who have gone through the same things.
Because it's been three years since my wife, Andrea, left.
It's been three years since she was diagnosed.
It's been three years that I've wasted trying to make sense of all of this.
All I have left are Andrea's notes, and all I know is I loved her.
Andrea had schizoaffective disorder, bipolar type.
This is our life, and this is how we lived.
- Mike Abel