I head downstairs, the overwhelming scent of mold permeates throughout the room. Garbage and wet clothes are scattered everywhere and makeshift hammocks adorn the ceiling. A dirty rabbit hutch reeks of urine and feces, and the rotting smell of dead mice or some other mysterious animal buried beneath the filthy ruble burns my nose. As the intense aroma penetrates my eyes, they begin to water incessantly, I don’t think I can handle this. With a trash bag in one hand and plugging my nose with the other, I proceed down into the dingy basement. I begin wading through the plethora of items in my path, deciding what to keep and what to throw out, I’m disgusted at what I see, my mother would have never let it get like this. I stand, staring at a massive pile of clothes laying on the damp floor by the washing machine. It feels like just yesterday my mother died and suddenly life went from living in splendor to living in squalor. For me, living in “splendor” didn’t mean living ...
I understood what suicide was at a very young age. After my mother died, my dad struggled to cope. He chronically abused alcohol and would feel deeply sorry for himself. I understand he was only 35 years old when my mother died and he had several children to take care of. My family was by no means wealthy. We lived in a small townhouse. There were 3 bedrooms upstairs with a full bath. There was somewhat of an open concept downstairs. The kitchen led into the dining room and the dining room and living room looked as if it was one large room. My parents separated the two by placing a couch in between them and a sofa table behind it. My mother did not work and my father collected disability. It wasn’t until years later that I learned about his schizophrenia diagnosis.
From what I can remember my dad has always been a heavy drinker but, after my mom died I don’t think I ever saw him without a beer in his hand. Canadian Molson was his preference. If he was desperate he would settle for PBR. To say that alcohol was his vice would be an understatement. I used to think alcohol was the cause of his depravity but I quickly realized he has always had evil living deep down inside of him. He was able to suppress most of his “urges” with medication. When he would drink he wouldn’t take it. Eventually, he used alcohol to self medicate and his prescribed medication was non existent.
About a month after my mom died, my dad was still sulking. He was saturnine in his temperament and the gloomy setting was sure to depress anyone. He usually sat in a recliner in nothing but his underwear. The recliner was placed so you could see the entire living room and out into a grassy commons area in the back of the house. In the corner, near the bay window there was a large tv console. My dad had an impressive amount of records consisting mostly of classic rock. As I have mentioned before, November rain is his song of choice and it seemed as if it was always on repeat. He sits in his recliner in the dark, drinking beer after beer. Honestly, I think it’s pathetic.
He has already been molesting me for quite some time now. The abuse started almost immediately after my mom died and now I’m wondering if it possibly started sooner and I just don’t remember. He is beyond inebriated at this point. He is slurring his words and talking to the voices in his head. He tends to see people that aren’t really there. I don’t know if “they” told him that he should kill himself or if the guilt and shame took over and he felt he had no other choice. Either way, he was bound and determined to kill himself on this particular evening.
All of us kids were in bed. We slept in bunkbeds. The girls had two sets in their room and the boys had two sets in theirs. It was cramped but, we made it work. My eldest sister came running up the stairs. She is panic-stricken. She can barely catch her breath as she scrambles to open the closet door. She quickly throws something on the shelf and says “don’t tell dad where they are.” She leaves as if nothing had happened. Leaving my sisters and I panicked ourselves. I pull the sheet up to my nose. For some reason I feel a sense of security while being encased in my covers. I don’t know what is going on but I know something isn’t right.
I hear my sister yelling at my dad. I can’t make out what she is saying but you can tell she is desperate. He makes his way up the stairs and into our room. He yells at us “tell me where they are.” We keep quiet. You can see the rage mounting on my fathers face. He balls his fists. He presses us again. We remain silent. I can feel my hands start to shake and soon my whole body starts to tremble. He approaches me. I am scared, I am always scared of him. I know he isn’t going to touch me, he would never touch me in front of my sisters. My heart starts to pound faster and faster as he gets closer and closer. He reaches me and immediately grabs my arms. He begins to violently shake me. He asks me again to tell him where they are. The tears are pouring down my face. I tell him. I was so fearful and confused that I didn’t understand the magnitude of what I just did.
He gets the item out of the closet. It is a box of razors. I’m so young I don’t understand what he would want razors for. My sister is on the phone with the police, she is struggling to get words out as she sobs uncontrollably. Curiosity forces me to look and see what is happening. It all happened in a matter of seconds. My dad was sitting on the floor, blood pooling around him. He cut his wrists. He cut deep. He cut from where the palm of his hand meets his wrist to about half way up his forearm. It’s obvious that he cut both arms. I have never seen such a site. Seeing him lifeless on the floor with his arms split open, I swear I can see layers of skin, muscle and veins. I wasn’t bothered by the site of blood or the gaping wounds in my dads arms but, I was disturbed by the mere fact that at 10 years old I have seen more than most people do in a lifetime. For a moment I hoped that he would die. Honestly, I think I prayed for it. I then felt guilty. Would God hate me for not only wanting my dad to die but for praying for it to happen. I thought about what was going to happen to him. Would he live or die? What would happen to us if he lives? What would happen to us if he dies?
The ambulance arrives and they immediately proceed with life saving measures. The police are taking a statement from my sister. No one talks to me, they just want us to avoid looking at the bloody scene I displayed on our bathroom floor. To late! Still today, I can close my eyes and see him laying there in his own blood and still today, I wish he would have died and still today, I feel like an awful person for thinking that way.
My dad survived! We spent a few weeks staying at my aunts house and a few weeks at my Grandmothers house. Once my dad was “healthy” enough to go home, we also would go home. We would go back to the same house. We would go back to life as it was before. Late nights listening to November Rain and bathing in the stench of smoke and alcohol. My abuser lived to abuse me another day. The unfortunate part is, he would attempt to kill himself several times over the next 8 years and he would never be success. I guess evil is hard to kill. Cutting became a thing of the past as he discovered swallowing pills. He realized that if he called 9-1-1 before taking anything his chances of survival would significantly increase. You see, he didn’t really want to die. I truly don’t know what his intention was behind it. I know that it his choices had detrimental consequences, not for him but for his children. The psychological damage alone is challenging to deal with, let alone any other damage that has been created as a result.
If you have thoughts of suicide or feel like you need immediate help, please call the National Suicide Prevention Line at 1-800-273-8225
For other crisis support and resources you can go to The National Suicide Prevention Line Website at https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/
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