From Afflictor comes this:
The only life coach I ever knew committed suicide.
He and his wife, a psychotherapist, neighbors of mine for a good stretch, killed themselves together, slipping over their heads plastic “suicide bags” they’d ordered from the Internet. A week passed before anyone thought anything and the door forced open. It was incredibly sad and jarring to read about, and I was relieved I’d moved out of the building the year before. Neither were friends, but they were always very polite in the hallway or supermarket. Once inside their apartment, though, the screaming was almost a daily ritual, continuous arguments about self-esteem and emotional needs and disappointment. On the other side of the welcome mat, all the sadness was released. It was so constant, unavoidable to anyone checking mailboxes or using the stairs, that it ceased being a warning sign. It just was.
For some years, the two owned a dog that never listened to them when out for a walk. They’d stand in front of the brownstone and take turns shouting its name, but it refused to follow them home when unleashed, slowly moving further and further down the block until almost out of view. Their exasperation mounted the longer the calls went unanswered – even their pet wouldn’t give them what they needed. Life, it would seem, was the biggest dog they ever met.