I have been reading this good suicide book of a daughter describing her father's ctb and I found this nice passage that really stood out and spoke to me :
"In the airport, coming home from vacation, he stops at a kiosk and buys grapefruits, which he arranges to have sent to his daughters. They will stumble over the crates waiting on their porches when they get home from his funeral.
It's the last week of his life, does he know that ? At some point, yes. At the moment when his index finger closes on the trigger of the gun, he knows it with certainty. But before that ? Even a moment before, when he sat down in the chair holding the gun-was he sure ? Perhaps he's done this much before, once or many times : held the gun, loaded the gun. But then stopped himself : no. When does he know that this time he will not stop ?
This is what my father did. He got up, showered, shaved, and dressed for work. He went downstairs and made a pot of coffee, and while it was brewing he went outside and walked the long driveway to pickup the newspaper. He left the paper folded on the kitchen table, poured a cup of coffee, carried it upstairs, and put it on my mother's bedside table. She was still in bed, sleeping. Then he went into his study, closed the door, and shot himself."
"In the airport, coming home from vacation, he stops at a kiosk and buys grapefruits, which he arranges to have sent to his daughters. They will stumble over the crates waiting on their porches when they get home from his funeral.
It's the last week of his life, does he know that ? At some point, yes. At the moment when his index finger closes on the trigger of the gun, he knows it with certainty. But before that ? Even a moment before, when he sat down in the chair holding the gun-was he sure ? Perhaps he's done this much before, once or many times : held the gun, loaded the gun. But then stopped himself : no. When does he know that this time he will not stop ?
This is what my father did. He got up, showered, shaved, and dressed for work. He went downstairs and made a pot of coffee, and while it was brewing he went outside and walked the long driveway to pickup the newspaper. He left the paper folded on the kitchen table, poured a cup of coffee, carried it upstairs, and put it on my mother's bedside table. She was still in bed, sleeping. Then he went into his study, closed the door, and shot himself."
