Sometimes we die, not from the initial blast of a love one’s betrayal but, from the little shrapnel that takes its time moving through our bodies. Moving slowly, as we struggle to cope with the trauma of that wound. Moving purposefully, in-spite of the efforts we make to start over, pick up the pieces, and begin again. And moving painfully; even as all of those watching the “train wreck” of your life begin to lose interest at signs of your recovery. It moves until it reaches the heart. To add insult to injury; the cause of that death is, more often than not, misdiagnosed. Suicide? No, just the effect of an untreated wound.