The little girl was three years old when her father died of cancer and from that day forward her life would never be the same. She didn�t know it at the time, but there would be no �happily ever after� for her.
Her childhood home environment became violently abusive, incestuous, and alcoholic. Her mother spent a lot of time in the bar or with boyfriends. Even during her several marriages, the mother would often disappear for days leaving the little girl behind with stepfathers who were physically and sexually abusive.
The little girl was physically safe as long as other people were around. Yet she had numerous stitches and a broken collar bone from private sessions with her mother. On at least one occasion, the little girl�s mother participated in the sexual abuse of a step father. On another, the mother sexually assaulted the little girl with a hair brush as punishment for touching herself in the bathtub.
In spite of the nightmare of violence, it was the mental abuse that troubled the little girl the most. There was no show of love or affection. Anger was the only emotion ever expressed. Her mother mentioned frequently that she hated and resented the little girl�s presence.
The little girl grew up to become my mother. Yet in many ways that little girl remained trapped in the hell of her past, bound by the chains of abuse and lost forever.
In one conversation I had with my mother, she told me, �My mother blamed me for, among other things, my father�s death, her broken marriage, and her general unhappiness. Apparently, my efforts to please were unsuccessful. I remember mother telling me once that although she did not want to marry Bill, she married him to give me a father, and that the abuse she suffered at his hands was on my behalf. This �father� sexually abused me, and later abandoned mother for another woman�.
My mother was removed from the home when she was thirteen, but that was not soon enough. She had begun to drink excessively by the time she was nine. For the remainder of her life, she would battle with binge drinking, drug use, and terrifying flashbacks.
I witnessed one of my mother�s flashbacks shortly after my daughter was born. I was living with her at the time and she had been locked in her room all day. I started to get worried, so I went to check on her. First I knocked on the door and said, �Mom, are you alright?� There was no answer. I paused for a few seconds, debating what to do. I decided to go in. I slowly opened the door and found the room extremely dark. I could hear her crying, yet I couldn�t see her. I turned on the light, but still couldn�t see her. I listened closely and realized the crying was coming from the closet. Confused, I slowly opened the closet doors apprehensive of what I would find. I found her curled up on the floor in a fetal position, with a brown paper bag over her head. I knelt down and touched her on the shoulder.
�Please don�t hurt me; I will be a good girl. I promise. Please don�t hurt me�, she said repeatedly in a child like voice.
I was stunned and unsure of what I should do. I realized that this was a situation out of my area of expertise, so I ran downstairs to get the phone and called her therapist. Luckily, the therapist was available and she knew what to do. The therapist explained to me that my mother was having a flashback, which meant my mother literally thought she was that abused little girl again. She told me to take the phone upstairs to my mother and that she would handle the situation.
I went back upstairs and knelt next to my mother. I said, �Chris, you have a phone call.� Since she thought she was a child calling her �mother� would confuse her. I placed the phone next to her ear and held it there until she took it herself.
The whole process took only ten minutes. For me it was ten frightening minutes, yet for my mother it was a lifetime of frightening minutes. Her existence consisted of a lifetime of pain and abuse that are beyond comprehension.
My mother made several suicide attempts before succeeding. The first one that I know about happened when I was just five years old. A friend of the family happened to stop over that day and found my mother passed out on the floor, a burnt hole in the carpet from her cigarette and me crying over her body. She had taken an overdose of pills, washing them down with a bottle of scotch. I do not remember it consciously, but do believe it is buried in my subconscious as that could explain why suicide has always intrigued me.
It could also explain why I myself took an overdose of children�s Tylenol around the age of six. I couldn�t have specifically wanted to kill myself, as I did not even know what death was then. I believe that I was just mimicking behavior that I had been shown.
I was 23 years old when my mother successfully took an overdose of antidepressants, sleeping pills, and alcohol and changed my life forever. As anyone who has been close to someone that completed suicide knows, there is no other pain like that felt after the incident. This is something the new survivor learns very quickly in the days after the numbness from the initial shock wears off.
I hate it when people refer to suicide as "touching your life." Suicide never merely touches. It roars in and wipes out giant portions of your life, crumbles your beliefs, smashes your dreams, shocks your senses, makes mince meat of your emotions, redefines your sense of logic and fairness, and leaves you trembling in the middle of the havoc with little to hang onto for balance. It did all of those things, and many, many more to me and my family.
I remember so clearly how hard it was to make all the calls informing everyone of her death. I was torn between telling the truth and hiding the fact that it was suicide. I feared that I would be blamed, that somehow I had failed as a daughter. I feared that the value of my mother as a person would be tarnished. I did not know what to say to the endless voices that would ask, "Why?" or to the brave (or ignorant) people that would ask the even more dreaded, "how?"
Actually the "how" questions I could answer. I was all too aware of what happened that day. I can remember like it was yesterday, instead of six years ago. I remember how I felt coming home to find her lying on the couch, her body cold and breathless. I can still see the empty pill bottles scattered on the floor, the half empty bottle of scotch on the coffee table, and the cigarette that had fallen on the floor, leaving a burnt mark in the carpet. At times, the sound of a zipper will cause me to envision the paramedics zipping her up in the body bag.
I remember the last words, �I love you honey, have fun� as I headed out to go dancing. I still have some guilt over going out that night. I often think, �If only I would have stayed home�.�
My mother�s death and my struggle to conquer the effects of her suicide, inform the fabric of my life - how I see, how I behave, and most importantly; how I feel. I fight the depression that is her legacy to me and look for a resolution that I may never find.
The life my mother lived was one of pain and suffering. She carried this burden inside her for years; but one day, she simply could not carry it any more. She knew that if she just stopped, closed her eyes, and let go the weight would go away forever. So, she killed herself.
The saying, �Time heals all wounds� is not necessarily true for suicide survivors. Time is necessary for healing, but definitely not enough for we can never be totally whole again. She may have ended her pain, but her end reciprocated the beginning of my pain.
I share this story in hopes that if you or anyone that you know is suicidal, that you will stop and think before you act. Remember that you are not the only one that your actions will affect. My mother�s suicide not only affected her life, or my life, but that of my children�s as well. Only the future knows if our live�s will end with a �Happily Ever After�.
Once upon a time there lived a father, a mother and a little girl. They were, by all accounts, a happy family. Then the father died and everything changed. The mother was very sad and angry too at the loss of her husband. She began to resent the little girl who reminded her of her loss. The mother began to drink heavily and to seek comfort from other men. She and the men abused the little girl. No one was happy.
The little girl was three years old when her father died of cancer and from that day forward her life would never be the same. She didn�t know it at the time, but there would be no �happily ever after� for her.
Her childhood home environment became violently abusive, incestuous, and alcoholic. Her mother spent a lot of time in the bar or with boyfriends. Even during her several marriages, the mother would often disappear for days leaving the little girl behind with stepfathers who were physically and sexually abusive.
The little girl was physically safe as long as other people were around. Yet she had numerous stitches and a broken collar bone from private sessions with her mother. On at least one occasion, the little girl�s mother participated in the sexual abuse of a step father. On another, the mother sexually assaulted the little girl with a hair brush as punishment for touching herself in the bathtub.
In spite of the nightmare of violence, it was the mental abuse that troubled the little girl the most. There was no show of love or affection. Anger was the only emotion ever expressed. Her mother mentioned frequently that she hated and resented the little girl�s presence.
The little girl grew up to become my mother. Yet in many ways that little girl remained trapped in the hell of her past, bound by the chains of abuse and lost forever.
In one conversation I had with my mother, she told me, �My mother blamed me for, among other things, my father�s death, her broken marriage, and her general unhappiness. Apparently, my efforts to please were unsuccessful. I remember mother telling me once that although she did not want to marry Bill, she married him to give me a father, and that the abuse she suffered at his hands was on my behalf. This �father� sexually abused me, and later abandoned mother for another woman�.
My mother was removed from the home when she was thirteen, but that was not soon enough. She had begun to drink excessively by the time she was nine. For the remainder of her life, she would battle with binge drinking, drug use, and terrifying flashbacks.
I witnessed one of my mother�s flashbacks shortly after my daughter was born. I was living with her at the time and she had been locked in her room all day. I started to get worried, so I went to check on her. First I knocked on the door and said, �Mom, are you alright?� There was no answer. I paused for a few seconds, debating what to do. I decided to go in. I slowly opened the door and found the room extremely dark. I could hear her crying, yet I couldn�t see her. I turned on the light, but still couldn�t see her. I listened closely and realized the crying was coming from the closet. Confused, I slowly opened the closet doors apprehensive of what I would find. I found her curled up on the floor in a fetal position, with a brown paper bag over her head. I knelt down and touched her on the shoulder.
�Please don�t hurt me; I will be a good girl. I promise. Please don�t hurt me�, she said repeatedly in a child like voice.
I was stunned and unsure of what I should do. I realized that this was a situation out of my area of expertise, so I ran downstairs to get the phone and called her therapist. Luckily, the therapist was available and she knew what to do. The therapist explained to me that my mother was having a flashback, which meant my mother literally thought she was that abused little girl again. She told me to take the phone upstairs to my mother and that she would handle the situation.
I went back upstairs and knelt next to my mother. I said, �Chris, you have a phone call.� Since she thought she was a child calling her �mother� would confuse her. I placed the phone next to her ear and held it there until she took it herself.
The whole process took only ten minutes. For me it was ten frightening minutes, yet for my mother it was a lifetime of frightening minutes. Her existence consisted of a lifetime of pain and abuse that are beyond comprehension.
My mother made several suicide attempts before succeeding. The first one that I know about happened when I was just five years old. A friend of the family happened to stop over that day and found my mother passed out on the floor, a burnt hole in the carpet from her cigarette and me crying over her body. She had taken an overdose of pills, washing them down with a bottle of scotch. I do not remember it consciously, but do believe it is buried in my subconscious as that could explain why suicide has always intrigued me.
It could also explain why I myself took an overdose of children�s Tylenol around the age of six. I couldn�t have specifically wanted to kill myself, as I did not even know what death was then. I believe that I was just mimicking behavior that I had been shown.
I was 23 years old when my mother successfully took an overdose of antidepressants, sleeping pills, and alcohol and changed my life forever. As anyone who has been close to someone that completed suicide knows, there is no other pain like that felt after the incident. This is something the new survivor learns very quickly in the days after the numbness from the initial shock wears off.
I hate it when people refer to suicide as "touching your life." Suicide never merely touches. It roars in and wipes out giant portions of your life, crumbles your beliefs, smashes your dreams, shocks your senses, makes mince meat of your emotions, redefines your sense of logic and fairness, and leaves you trembling in the middle of the havoc with little to hang onto for balance. It did all of those things, and many, many more to me and my family.
I remember so clearly how hard it was to make all the calls informing everyone of her death. I was torn between telling the truth and hiding the fact that it was suicide. I feared that I would be blamed, that somehow I had failed as a daughter. I feared that the value of my mother as a person would be tarnished. I did not know what to say to the endless voices that would ask, "Why?" or to the brave (or ignorant) people that would ask the even more dreaded, "how?"
Actually the "how" questions I could answer. I was all too aware of what happened that day. I can remember like it was yesterday, instead of six years ago. I remember how I felt coming home to find her lying on the couch, her body cold and breathless. I can still see the empty pill bottles scattered on the floor, the half empty bottle of scotch on the coffee table, and the cigarette that had fallen on the floor, leaving a burnt mark in the carpet. At times, the sound of a zipper will cause me to envision the paramedics zipping her up in the body bag.
I remember the last words, �I love you honey, have fun� as I headed out to go dancing. I still have some guilt over going out that night. I often think, �If only I would have stayed home�.�
My mother�s death and my struggle to conquer the effects of her suicide, inform the fabric of my life - how I see, how I behave, and most importantly; how I feel. I fight the depression that is her legacy to me and look for a resolution that I may never find.
The life my mother lived was one of pain and suffering. She carried this burden inside her for years; but one day, she simply could not carry it any more. She knew that if she just stopped, closed her eyes, and let go the weight would go away forever. So, she killed herself.
The saying, �Time heals all wounds� is not necessarily true for suicide survivors. Time is necessary for healing, but definitely not enough for we can never be totally whole again. She may have ended her pain, but her end reciprocated the beginning of my pain.
I share this story in hopes that if you or anyone that you know is suicidal, that you will stop and think before you act. Remember that you are not the only one that your actions will affect. My mother�s suicide not only affected her life, or my life, but that of my children�s as well. Only the future knows if our live�s will end with a �Happily Ever After�.
