There is an epidemic. It claims a million victims annually; leaving 20 million fractured lives in its wake. Those left behind are Suicide Survivors. These are their stories. Their stories are mine. On June 12, 2001, my father scrawled a goodbye note on a scrap of paper and ended his life. For six years I was silent, determined to bury my pain by living life with a full agenda, a strategy that almost worked, pulling me forward in awkward strides. This was his choice. I refused to let it change me. But of course it did. How could it not?