I read this book over the weekend with so. much. grief.
The intro by Andrew Solomon alone had my stomach in gloomy knots.
Typically at the end of a book, you have some resolution. Some explanation. The author or main character will explain how the conflict was ok because it was meaningful and there were life lessons and so on.
But there's none of that here. Ms. Klebold continues to be heartbroken and stunned and struggling for absolution.
And as the reader, I'm left with more apprehension than when I started because it's only reiterated that no one is safe from mental illness (no matter the parenting style, or religious practice, or exposure to substances, or trauma, or ANYTHING) and there is no cure.
What if one day it's my child that causes so much hell? What if one day it's my patient?
