My uncle Johnny suffered from depression, and his wife left him and took their children. In the hottest month of summer in Phoenix, he shut up his apartment, turned off the air conditioning, put a pillow over his head and took his own life. My father had to drive several hours to claim his brother’s ashes and clean out the apartment. We then drove across the country to deliver my uncle’s ashes to my grandmother.
My father still has the gun used. It is taken apart in the smallest pieces, in a gun safe my father never opens. He will never get rid of it for emotional reasons I will never understand. I am bipolar and have chosen never to own a gun because of what my Uncle Johnny did.