Peter and I were married on Feb. 14, 1988.  And looking at these pictures right now, my heart is breaking all over again.  We were supposed to be together until our lives ended naturally - or whatever.  We never discussed that - most people don't - especially newleyweds.Peter was bipolar, but I didn't know that, and I couldn't get a doctor to treat him or even diagnose him.  They all thought that he was just find, although one doctor did prescribe antidepressants for him.  He couldn't be off them for even 24 hours.  He was always talking about suicide, but said he'd never do it - he was "too chicken."

God, I loved him so much, and we had so many plans, but on Aug. 12, 2003, he was gone.

Years don't matter.  You never heal.  You never feel 'better'.

I did book interviews, newspaper interviews, reported his doctor to the College of Physicians and Surgeons, where the doctor was declared negligent.  And then I had to stop and try to move on with my life.  But it never happens because suicide is the absolute worst.

So hold your loved ones tight, and when you notice or see even the smallest detail that is truly out of place - don't get paranoid, but do get help.  God bless all of you who are suffering.

Bertha Hanschke