There he was, my boyfriend of over a decade, dead in our bathroom and there I was—my worst fears finally a reality. 

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I had known suicide was possible. Chris’ mental health had spiraled and tragically, there was a family history. Why hadn’t I been able to intervene? I'm a helper by nature. I have decades of experience working with people who are experiencing loss, turmoil and grief. I’ve managed Helplines and facilitated support groups. I have a master’s degree in clinical psychology. However, at this moment, Thanksgiving 2013, nothing could have helped Chris and nothing could help me – except writing.

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Destroyed, angry and lost, as well as physically and emotionally ill, I documented the horrific details of Chris’ death, recounted our troubling times—the betrayals, the vengeful schemes, the cheating—and tried to process conflicting emotions, heartache, anger, and dare I say, a sense of relief. 

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I was still writing a year and a half later. Beginning to heal, my focus was shifting. It was now less about the inward and more about the awkward. 

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My focus was on Jack, the bed-breaker. 

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On Keith, who – at a bar, moments after meeting – proudly stuck both hands in his mouth and removed his saliva-drenched retainers. 

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On the one who asked on our first outing if I was “taken care of down there,” waving his hands toward my nether region, insinuating that he preferred the “clean-cut” look.

On the bleeders … yes, bleeders … plural. 

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On Tommy, who, on a let’s-just-meet-for-a-drink date bravely disclosed he had cystic fibrosis and, sadly, that he was dying. There was no second date with Tommy. I just can’t be the girl whose boyfriends die. 

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This was dating after suicide. My memoir, Let the Words Fall Out, is the first to tackle the topic. It is a raw and honest, heartbreaking and humorous account of the devastating impact of Chris’ suicide on my life, and the to-hell-and-back healing process that was tested when I eventually ventured into the often-ludicrous dating world. 

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It turns out my recently broken, still-fragile self was in a far better state than the weirdos I would keep meeting in L.A. My continued writing, which now chronicled my dates, was again helping me make sense of unbelievable situations.

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Flashing back and forth in time, the memoir juxtaposes the uncomfortable heaviness of suicide with comedic—and also uncomfortable and graphic—dating experiences, bringing unexpected levity to a subject often shrouded in stigma and shame. 

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Let the Words Fall Out explores relatable themes of loss, grief, self-doubt, discovery and renewal. It also offers hope—not just for those impacted by mental illness, suicide or traumatic loss, but for anyone, particularly women, navigating—or curious about—the modern dating experience. Expressing emotions, sharing our most vulnerable selves, and publicly discussing mental illness, suicide and the many stages of grief are more encouraged than ever before, making Let the Words Fall Out an of-the-moment memoir with a message.