My mother passed away on 13 June after suffering from schizo-affective disorder (a type of schizophrenia) for more than twenty-five years. She was 46 years old. Though I was not entirely permitted to do so by the doctors, I flew home for the funeral; later today, I am returning to London.

If that sounds a cold, harsh way to speak of a mother's death, I do apologize. My mother was the single most important person in my life, and the sting of her death--the ache of being an orphan--burns in depths I've only just discovered. I protected her for my entire life--from herself, from sickness, from others--and this last public announcement, clear and clean and glossy, is the last protection I can offer a woman who tried her best to give me a broken world. I did not simply love my mother, I adored her.

In these last few years, I have buried so many people--me, the man who wasn't supposed to live to 30. But I will live to 30, now; I will--and beyond. And because I cherish life, I refuse to ask, "Who's next?"

In lieu of your sympathy and well-wishes, I simply ask you to volunteer yourself or your time to helping people with, learning about, or getting someone aid for psychological and emotional disorders--even if that someone is you.

Because my mother, you see, was the bravest woman I knew.