Angela and I moved to Tennessee from California in 2003.
We had everybody together, six kids in the house—her three and my three [then aged 9 to 15]—and my ex lived just a few blocks away. There was always chaos because we had so many kids, but it was a blast.
When we moved, Angela had a lot of allergies, and the allergies would trigger migraines.
Her migraines were so bad that she would black out and have to go lie down.
A devastated Allan put his career on hold, only to find that the best medicine was his music.
He poured out his agony in the recording studio, resulting in 2005’s heart-wrenchingly personal album .
But you have to be an advocate for yourself and take action, like calling a suicide hotline.
After she died, I couldn’t write, I couldn’t do anything, I was a mess.
I was just packing stuff up one day, and a buddy asked me what I was doing.
It was about 12 o’clock at night, and she came over and sort of hassled me about what I was watching. I took care of it all.” She sat there for a minute, and she said, “Would you go get me a Coke? Looking back, Angela took care of everybody but didn’t make it to the doctor to take care of herself.
Then after she walked away I thought, “Wow, that was way out of character.” She just made no sense. I wanted to be close to her in case she needed something. I feel like I’m sick.” So I went into the kitchen and heard a loud pop. I had a gun safe underneath the bed, and she had taken out a pistol, stuck it in her mouth and pulled the trigger. I found out her doctors had asked her to go and see a psychiatrist, and she did not go.