Claire Brosseau is desperate to die.
She is 48 years old and has had a life she calls an “an embarrassment of riches.” She has a vast network of friends, a devoted family, the steadfast adoration of a small dog. She has performed to raucous laughter in some of North America’s most prestigious comedy clubs and festivals, acted in movies, written brutally funny television shows. She has traveled, shopped, danced and known herself to be deeply loved.
She also suffers from debilitating mental illness that decades of treatment have not tamed. Sometimes she is so crushingly sad that she sobs until her bones ache. Sometimes she feels as if she were standing on a ledge, flipping minute by minute between being sure that if she jumped she would actually fly, and wanting to hurl herself as hard as she can onto the ground.
