On a cold spring morning on Friday, March 28, 1941, Virginia Woolf sat down at her desk in her writing hut and wrote to her husband, Leonard:
â€œI feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier 'til this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that â€” everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.â€
And she, who struggled with what we now know as bipolar disorder, walked down to the River Ouse, and placed stones in her pockets. She walked into the river and drowned herself.
She was not found until April 18th.