This is more of unpublished Vol. 2. The next 3 chapters deal with my attempted suicide at the age of 15. It wasn’t a question of “if I would try to kill myself,” but “when?” I am not suicidal at this point in my life. I have put that demon down. Teens are the most susceptible demographic IMO, but you know, they don’t have a fully developed brain either.
Depression is rage turned inward. Suicide is an expression of that rage against self. Or can be. It’s also a hopelessness. Hopeless that anything will ever be better or different.
I can verify; it does get better. Get help at any cost.
The Day I Decide to Kill Myself
I am wandering around the basketball court. It’s gym class and I am lost. A girl is dribbling the ball up and down the court, complaining that no one is trying. No one is paying attention to her as she plays by herself, weaving in and out of reluctant, zombified teammates and opponents. No one even tries to defend the goal. I would call this forcible sport. No one gives a shit. This isn’t real basketball. This isn’t a game for points that leads you to a championship. This is gym. Required by the state.
The girl is abusive. She is hateful and accusatory. I was randomly selected to be on her team and she is disappointed by my performance so far. She tells me that I’m worthless. You’re not even trying. You’re lazy.
These are all things that my father says. We would all rather not have to change into shorts and tennis shoes in the middle of the day to sweat and mangle our makeup and hair. We would all rather not have to look at each other naked or shower together. We would all rather be somewhere else living life and not playing basketball. Except for this girl.
And what does it matter anyway? What does it matter if I play basketball in gym class? It doesn’t matter because I will never play on a team. I will never be this girl’s friend. An afternoon class of basketball will never change anything. It won’t earn me money. It won’t make me lose weight. It won’t make a boy fall in love with me. What is the point?
If I had any courage or care, I would say:
Bitch, pass the ball and maybe somebody could have a fucking chance.
But nice girls don’t say things like that. Nice girls don’t say anything at all. Nice girls let people walk all over them. I’m not really nice though.
I’m supposed to be nice. Being nice is what separates me from my father.
I’m just scared. I’m not scared of this girl. I’m scared of not being able to stop once I let go of all mannered society and beat this girl until she’s bloodied and unconscious. I am afraid to become what terrorizes me at home. I’m afraid that if I mess up then I will lose
my mother’s acceptance. My mother never taught me to stand up for myself, even when it was necessary. She taught me to take it. She taught me to keep it inside. She taught me through her own silence and inaction.
If I behaved like my father then no one would love me, not even my own mother. I can’t take any more abuse; in school, at home, in life, from this girl.
And I cannot be unloved by my mother.
I cannot go unloved one more day; by this girl, by my father, by the boys I want, by the world in general. I am completely alone and I want to die. There is no other option. I will kill myself today. When I get home, I’m taking the aspirin.
Algebraic Expressions (Basic Algebra Made Me Want to Kill Myself)
I am sitting in algebra class. I am completely uninterested in basic algebra and the teacher makes the material even more pathetic with his ridiculously poor presentation skills.
He’s actually a football coach who has to teach to have a job. No one pays
attention to this man. We all talk freely in his class. Also, we pass notes openly, seldom
listening to his demonstrations. He is a sad man who doesn’t require any of us to actually respect him. I am brazenly resting my head on my small desk as I listen to the conversations around me.
A girl behind me is whispering about taking an entire bottle of aspirin.
It makes your stomach bleed. That’s one way to kill yourself.
Why are they talking about suicide? Would it really work? How many aspirin though? A whole bottle of how many? Fifty? Five hundred?
That could really kill you? I asked as I slightly turned in my chair.
I am at home now. No one else around. I am scrambling through the cabinet above the refrigerator for the aspirin. There. A whole bottle. There are some missing, but the bottle says 500 tablets. Probably at least 400 left. Maybe 300. Surely that will kill me. I gobble them down. All at once. Chewing, swallowing, crying. Then I wait. I only wait for a few minutes before I panic. I don’t want to die.
I am laying in a hospital bed. I am drinking Ipecac (which is the sound you make after taking it) and liquid charcoal. I have an IV attached to my right hand. I have a pan on my stomach. 2 nurses, 1 doctor and my mother are staring at me, waiting for me to vomit. Everyone’s being nice to me.
My mother is stroking my hair and the nurses are showing me sympathy. The doctor is highly interested in my stomach contents and is excitedly anticipating their arrival.
Drinking the charcoal is better than having your stomach pumped, the nurse reassures me.
They have to stick a tube down your throat and then pump the same liquid down the tube.
Well, at least I wouldn’t have to taste it. That might be better. This ain’t no chocolate shake, bitch. I think this, but I just give a wincing smile while I chug-a-lug. The doctor keeps checking the pan.
I shake my head no. I don’t feel nauseous at all. I begin to wonder what the charcoal is doing. Does it just absorb all the bad stuff? Does aspirin really do anything to you?
Am I supposed to throw up? I don’t ask a lot of questions because I’m embarrassed to
A nurse asks me if I need to be admitted. My mother is there and I shake my head no. She asks me if I still feel like harming myself. I don’t.
No. I made a mistake.
My mother makes it clear that I will be safe in her care. She doesn’t think that I need to stay. They release me. I haven’t vomited yet, but they say it’s only a matter of time and if I don’t get rid of everything soon, I should return.
I stand up and walk to the nurses station, ready to leave. I should go to the bathroom before we leave.
I am sitting down. Without warning, I have to vomit. No time to pull up my pants, only enough time to stand, turn and bend. My throat tightens, my temples vein, my eyes tear and my stomach, back and chest spasm until the black is gone.
It’s like a horror movie. I vomit black liquid all over the toilet, the wall, the floor. I begin to clean the charcoal from all the surfaces and then it comes again. More black. Now I wait just a few minutes before I start to clean again. It takes several paper towels
to wipe most of it away. I’m not able to remove all of it. I’m ashamed to tell the nurse.
She is thankful. She is not at all disturbed by the condition of the bathroom.
I ask for my hospital admittance bracelet that they cut and trashed. We head home.
I realize that I was so desperate for affection that I was willing to go to great lengths to get attention of any kind. I am dying on the inside to be held, kissed and loved. I just want to be seen. I don’t want to die. I just want to be loved. At any cost, by anyone.
I spent my youth
Away from Home.
Wishing my friends
Were sisters of my own.
I didn’t like family.
Beat up and tortured,
Push comes to shove.
We lived in the country,
Away from town.
If there are no neighbors,
Does abuse make a sound?
My heart goes back
To that scary place.
And my throat gets tight
At memories I chase.
It wasn’t all bad.
I remember some good.
Days spent hiding,
Deep in the woods.
Green creek banks
And rich, black dirt.
Flowers and water
To wash away the hurt.
But no amount
Of River or Plain
Can wash away
That mountain of Pain.
So many nights
Unable to dream.
And tears begin to stream.
Scars that shine
In the cracked moonlight.
Open them again
Without a fight.
In my mind, I walk
With shoe-less feet
To my childhood house,
Down that lonely street.
I reach the drive.
Kick the stones.
Look at the mess.
Hate my bones.
Turn around, get out.
Don’t look back.
This is your chance
To bury the black.
Run! Run down
To the end of the road.
Stop. Take a breath.
There’s time to go slow.
I walk through the night
Away from the past.
I can see the dawn
Coming up at last.
This isn’t a race.
There’s no finish line.
Each step is important.
This path is mine.
Work-Around (Chapter 1)
This is the house of my first through fourth Christmases, shark-jumping Fonzie, corn-eating contests, black vinyl swivel chair spinning, lipstick wall drawings, measles and melee. This is the house where I ironed my fingers, melting the baby flesh from my tiny knuckles, forever scarring my left hand. This is the house that leaves many wounds and scars. This is the house where I came into being, came to my conscious mind, came to the realization that I was in danger from the people who loved me.
I like to hide. I hide in an accordion trunk. I hide in the dryer. I hide in a closet. I hide in a hole in the yard by the basement window, dug by my mother. Because it’s there. I hide inside a plate of food and I eat all my peas because it makes their voices stop.
If I eat enough, deep down inside, I can’t hear their voices anymore. I feel peaceful. It’s quiet. I’m happy. The pathway to perceived happiness gets laid by the chemicals in my brain and I am helpless to stop it. I’m not even aware of the biological processes that are creating a life-long addiction. It has formed and that path will be worn over and over and over again. Food equals love. To survive this chaos, I have found my work-around. I will survive this. But just barely.
Read the rest of the book here. If you’re a member of Kindle Unlimited it’s free! It is free for everyone from time to time, I’ll let you know when it is. Or if you’re an impoverished author like me, email me at email@example.com for your free copy. But you have to share your story with me as payment. 😉
Never raped; never robbed.
Never threatened, molested, accosted or mobbed.
Never needed a gun.
The only man to ever abuse me
Was my dad who always accused me
He owned 2 guns.
So if you ask me, “Do you want a gun?”
I would say, “No. Why would I need one?”
I’m beginning to wonder though.
If everyone who needs a gun
Buys a pistol. Rifle. AR-15. Grenade-lobbing launcher…
How will I protect my body? My daughter’s body?! My rights?
My right to exist.
How will I defend myself against those who have an entire arsenal at their disposal?
Do I want to live in a country
where I am required to arm myself
against those who would hunt me?
(Because they are paranoid
that the world is coming for:
and most importantly,
No more alabaster cities that gleam,
We’d be no better than 3rd-world regime.
The kind that grabs power by force.
The kind that keeps boots on the necks of the poor.
The kind that muzzles our boisterous press.
The kind that punishes peaceful protest.
The kind that installs corrupt institution.
The kind that criminalizes sacrosanct Constitution.
I don’t want to live with that.
I don’t want to die with that either.
I will never need a gun.
Never needed a passport either…
This is an imitation poem of Wordsworth’s I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud. Same amount of syllables in each line and follows the a-b-a-b-c-c pattern in the stanzas. I started this poem in a college creative writing class in 1995 (it had a different direction then, I was too young to finish). Gah! So long ago.
I was wrapped lonely in a shroud.
This veil of silence sealed my thoughts.
When all at once, I lived out loud.
Finally cut my tangled knots.
I’m free to swim and find my way.
Searching for a glimmering ray.
Under the ocean, lost in waves,
Grabbing for air in panicked gasps.
Rolling around this sea of graves,
Spitting out endless, hardened rasps.
Tossed upon the rocky-black storm,
Nothing but pain to keep me warm.
Break the surface-a flood of light.
Nothing familiar, no one near.
Erupt to shore like birds in flight.
Collapse in the sand without fear.
I made it–not just to survive–
To taste the world and come alive.
Plant my flag and settle the hurt.
Find the shells that echo my heart.
Wash away all the grit and dirt.
Burning the past is oh-so smart.
Now all the
ties lies have come undone.
No race un-run; no war un-won.
Smooth those ruffled feathers.