I was thinking about holding, holding, holding… and not holding; in heaviness.

Peter Bruun

Before British author Virginia Woolf finally succumbed to her demons, she wanted to be sure that her patient, loving husband Leonard knew he’d been the best partner she could ever have imagined. She left two letters before she walked into the River Ouse with her pockets full of stones. The first was to her sister entreating her to comfort and reassure Leonard, and the second directly to him, her partner of 30 years who had nursed her through many prior breakdowns. As she began to hear the voices again and felt herself slipping, she did what she believed best for all – him most especially. She couldn’t put him through another one of “those terrible times,” one from which she believed she would not recover. “You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good,” she said. “No two people have ever been so happy as we have been.” Knowing she owed all of her happiness to his loving kindness, she sought to free him, and in doing so, ended her own pain.