As teens, we all have issues with our parents, but Britney’s parents provided her with material things, and not the care and affection that a child expects and deserves from a parent. No amount of money, in my opinion, can buy the comfort felt from a hug, and the reassuring words, I am so proud of you. It is, and will always remain disturbing to me, to think that a once a month hug, accompanied with such a statement, could save a life or lives. What a small price to pay. I do wonder, if parents know in advance where the minds of their children will lie, what they would be willing to do to prevent the suicide of their child.
To think that a little praise, expressed to a fractionally overweight daughter, might prevent her from suffering from bulimia or anorexia is sickening at best. Most teens grow out of eating disorders by the time that they’re in their twenties. The codependency, and the seeking praise from a sexual counterpart, from what Kid has told me, last a lifetime. Some of the stories of where these girls end up, mentally and psychologically, are sickening. It saddens me to think that a different manner of raising a child can make such a difference.
Children don’t come with handbooks. Generations grow up, and raise generations that grow up, and that generation grows up to raise another. I feel that as time has passed, so many technological advancements have been made, and the art of simply raising a child has regressed. To look at the changes from 1913 to 2013, we have made technological advancements that couldn’t even be imagined. As a whole, the mental stability of a high school student, however, has plummeted. Drug addiction, low self-esteem, alcoholism, prostitution, pornography, bulimia, teen pregnancy, pre-marital sex, deceit, theft, lying, manipulation, anorexia, depression, codependency, and the list goes on and on. I’m seventeen, and I know that a great percentage of these problems that teens suffer from can or could have been stopped by a parent that may have just spent a few more minutes a month just saying the right things. Something. Just thinking about what may have prevented Britney‘s suicide makes me lie in bed and cry. As a nation, to think of the amount of people that go through what I am going through right now, hurts. And it hurts me deeply.
In a sense, I believe it gets down to trusting. We, as infants, are reliant on others. We have no one to trust, and we learn early on to trust our parents. We are even told not to trust others. Never trust a stranger. As toddlers, we continue to develop this trust. We become children, and we trust our parents, wholly. We trust that they will always be there for us, to assist us, to make decisions for us, and to provide us with guidance. As teens, because we trust that they have done all that they have the power to do, when things begin to fall apart, we begin to wonder. If our parents, the people that we trust the most, don’t have the answers, who does? We have placed our parents on a pedestal, and there they remain. When they fail, we fail.
Lying on my bed, I logged into Tumblr, wrote a passage, and posted it.
Parent,
As I am growing up, provide me with love, and tell me you love me. Provide me with guidance, and show me the way. Provide me with affection, and tell me you care. Provide me with reassurance, and tell me you’re proud of me. And, as I grow older, give me some freedom. With that freedom, trust in me, the way I have trusted in you, that I will make decisions to make you proud.
Your Child
Chapter 19
The incident
FAT KID. I suspect they’re in the front room. We clear the main room, if they’re not in there, there’s one bedroom on the right. Laundry on the left, that’s it. Bedroom is about a ten by ten, isn’t even supposed to have furniture in it. One exit, visible, in the front room, right side.
Weapons?
No, no weapons.
In, secure the room, get them zip-tied, and it’s over. In and out, five minutes. You straight?
Straight.
The door opened to the left. The first shot was fired as soon as the door opened. Fire was returned, in self-defense. Weapons fire continued from both directions. When the firing ceased, there were two DB in the main body of the house.
It sounded simple. It was anything but. The incident kept me from being remotely close to normal for my entire life. I dreamt that dream, in detail, over and over, nightly, until my mind shut down and stopped allowing me to recall it. The result was no dreams remembered, ever. Not one. Not some simple pink elephant on a picnic table, or a walk in the park. Nothing. Ever. My psychiatrist told me that my mind, without a doubt, still dreams every night, but that same mind will not allow me to recall them, regardless. It’s some form of defense mechanism, she said.
Either way, I was pleased when it stopped. Relieved. I wasn’t changed as a result of the dreams stopping. When they did, I had hopes that things would change. They never did. I live with guilt, tremendous guilt. Guilt that words have no means of expressing. To attempt to explain it is impossible. But. The dreaming. The dreaming stopped. The day-to-day thoughts, however, never stopped. The dwelling. The constant second-guessing, replaying, and trying to piece together what could have been done differently really never ceased.
Living every day with a weird inner understanding, if something extraordinary could be done, some form of absolute magic, that the slate would be wiped clean, and the guilt would be gone. God, in sense, in appreciation for a grand good deed, would take away the pain and suffering. Remove the guilt. Remove the daily reminder that I lived and others did not.
If I had to do it over again, would I? I used to ask myself that daily-actually a few times daily. My response, in the early years, used to be, no, it was self-defense. Anyone with any form of training or understanding would have done the same thing. Today, and in recent years, I will give a different answer. I would have held my hands in the air, taken a round to the chest, and died in the front room. The guilt is overwhelming. Guilt turns to pain, for those of us that have a reasonable amount of common sense. I like to think that I possess a tremendous amount of common sense, therefore, I have a tremendous amount of pain.
It wouldn’t be fair for those who lost their lives for me to bow out of this world by my own hand. Suicide. No. I owe it to those whose lives were lost to endure this pain. Or. Until I make right with God.
But. This isn’t about that, it’s about the dreams. The dreams stopped, and there haven’t been any dreams for well over a decade. Not one, until tonight.
I woke up, and sat up in bed. I was a little uncertain of what had just happened. When I cleared my thoughts, I walked into the kitchen, and took a pen out of the drawer. I have no idea why I went to the kitchen for a pen, but that’s where I ended up. So, with pen in hand, I walked to my desk, got out a post-it note, and wrote down the majority of the content of the dream. On a fucking post-it note. It was 3:20 a.m. I know that for sure. I always look at my watch when I wake up. It’s some odd habit. As soon as I wake up, I have to know what time it is. Have to. So, 3:20 a.m., I had a dream, wrote down the contents, and took my pen back to bed with me.
I lay there in bed, on my back, and stared at the ceiling for some time. Maybe fifteen minutes. I reached toward the nightstand in the dark, found and grabbed my phone. I sent Michelle a text message. Michelle. Good news. I will tell you later. Maybe in a week or two. I will swallow this and see what it tastes like. Talk tomorrow. Kid. I continued to lie in bed until I fell asleep. I suspect that it took another thirty minutes. It seemed like an eternity at the time.
The next morning, when I woke up, I felt odd. I wasn’t sure as I was waking up, if what I had thought happened, happened. I was pretty sure I had a dream. Either I had a dream that I had dreamt and wrote it down on a post-it note, or I had dreamt, and wrote it down on a post-it note. I walked to my desk, and looked. Sure enough, on the desk lay a post-it note with my handwriting on it.
I sat at the desk for a considerable amount of time and tried to decide if I wanted to continue to dream. I did miss dreaming, but I didn’t miss all of the things associated with dreaming. I had the recurring nightmares associated with the incident, which I wasn’t interested in r
eliving. Also, as a child and as an early adult, from time to time, I had dreams that would end up being reality. They were a forecast of sorts. Some form of view into the future. I really didn’t like thinking about the ‘looking-into-the-future’ dreams. Truth be known, they kind of crept me out. The future dreams, as fate would have it, were as different when compared to a normal dream as night would compare to day. There was no misunderstanding when I had one of them. At the time I had one, I knew what it was. I would immediately identify it, if applicable, as one of those dreams. I stood up from the desk, convinced that I had no interest in ever having a dream again
I wandered into the bath room, and got on the scale. A perfect 319. Not bad for morning weight. I was pleased. Smiling, I got off the scale, and brushed my teeth. I hopped in the shower, and then got dressed to start my day. I imagined a cup of coffee was in order, a few emails, and talk with Michelle, to see how she and Britney were doing. After the suicide attempt, I had called the hospital, and left word to call me if there was a significant change, but my experience told me that I couldn’t always rely on the staff at a hospital. I hate hospitals. I hate the staff. Pretty much everything that has to do with going into a hospital freaks me out. Generally speaking, I can last all of about ten minutes in one.
I was worried about Michelle. She was merely 17 years old, and had been through a tremendous amount in the last three or so days, and she worried me. She was a strong girl, and I wanted her to be able to live the rest of her life without the daily guilt that I harbored.
I got on the elevator, and went downstairs to the parking garage. Walking to my parking stall, I was confused, as my car wasn’t there. I had forgotten the incident with the passenger side window, and my car was at the dealership being repaired. The BMW dealership had graciously provided me with a new M5 to drive while they fixed my car. I tossed my bag in the car, and fired it up. The 600 horsepower engine roared as I pulled out of the garage.
Attempting to maintain any reasonable speed in this car was impossible. It had a six speed transmission, and six hundred horsepower. Who, in their right mind, could drive this car without incident? In a few minutes, I was headed up the entrance ramp to the freeway, and merged with traffic at 110mph. A few short minutes later, I was exiting the freeway, and just a few blocks from the coffee shop.
Parking the car in the lot felt surreal. I had not been here since the day that Britney hung herself. I had literally, for the last three days, sat home and wallowed in the guilt associated with the suicide of my former girlfriend, and of Britney. I had not shared my increased degree of guilt with Michelle, nor did I feel that there was any value in doing so. I grabbed my bag, got out of the car, and headed for the coffee shop to start my day. As I approached the front door, I turned and looked at the new car admiringly. Maybe a new car would make me feel better. One hundred and twenty thousand dollars isn’t too much for a little potential peace of mind, especially if it travels at 200 miles an hour. I admired the car for a few more moments, and walked inside.
I stepped in line and pulled my phone from my pocket. Checking it, I found no missed calls or text messages. Michelle, I am sure, was sleeping late and was probably still deeply depressed. As I stood in line, I heard a familiar voice call out my name.
“Kid, the usual?” Liz asked.
“Yes, please, Liz. Thank you,” I responded, smiling.
Liz was about five foot six, and varied, depending on her mood, and the time of year, from 105 to 115 pounds. She had auburn hair that was, when I met her, to the middle of her back. She had cut it a few years ago, and it remained the shorter length, which was now shoulder length. Her skin, regardless of the season, remained smooth and pale. I looked into her eyes on the first day she worked at the coffee shop, and quickly identified her as a person that could use a friend. Over the years, we had developed an odd friendship, but a friendship none-the-less. No one really understood Liz, but she wasn’t a person to understand. She was a person to experience and absorb, and I had spent the last four years enjoying doing so. I reached into my pocket to get my money clip, and pay for my coffee.
“I’ve got this one, Kid. Glad you’re back,” she said, smiling, as she handed my cup to the barista.
I thanked her and walked to the station to receive my drink. As I waited, the barista nodded and smiled. Soon, he handed me my drink, and wished me a nice day as he welcomed me back. I walked to my normal seat, sat down, and got out my laptop. After powering it up, and logging onto the Internet, I logged into my email account, and found no new emails. I sat and looked around the coffee shop.
I contemplated what I was feeling, and attempted to quickly decide what it was exactly. I had a feeling of serenity and accomplishment. Try as I might to be perceived as repulsive complete asshole, people liked me. For who I was, not what I was. A person would be hard pressed to find anyone who had the capacity to be more appalling than me. Yet. People who were exposed to me, and had an opportunity to experience and absorb me, liked me. I sat here as proof that my weight didn’t matter. Being obese, having a foul mouth, appearing arrogant, short-tempered, anti-social, and having an ego the size of the Madison Square Garden wasn’t enough. The people that knew me liked me. This being fat business wasn’t doing the trick.
I sat in that chair, weighing 320 pounds, and one chocolate bar away from a heart attack. My natural weight would be 185, if I didn’t try to be obese. For me, it was hard work being this big. It took tremendous planning, eating, and lack of exercise to be this large. My problem the day of Britney’s suicide, I am certain, was a heart attack. I didn’t like thinking about it, now that it was over. As I sat there, my views on life began to change. The heart attack from a few days prior was making me feel strange to be here, and to be appreciated. Maybe it was Britney’s suicide. I wondered of the possibilities of the dream making me more of an emotional wreck. I couldn’t decide. As I thought about the dream, I decided I was overdue for a drive. A 200 mph drive. I logged off my laptop, powered it down, and placed it in the bag.
On my way out the door, I noticed the new trash can beside the entrance. I stepped a few feet away, and tossed my cup at the opening. A complete miss. I steadied my bag over my shoulder, shook my head, and walked to the car. I backed out of the stall, and shifted into first gear. As I released the clutch and began to roll forward, it was obvious to me just how comfortable this car really was. Within minutes, it seemed, I was back at my condo.
Standing in the elevator, I looked at my shoes, black Converse canvas sneakers. The soles were worn through. The toes were worn off. Whenever it rained, the water soaked through the bottom of them into my socks. I could not bring myself to spend the money on a new pair. I had these things forever, and I just loved them. I lifted my foot, and looked at the side. I could see my sock through the opening that was worn through the shoe. I put my shoe back down just as the elevator opened on my floor.
I walked into my bedroom and packed a quick bag for the road. Khakis, white tee shirts, socks and toiletries. Road trips relax me in a way that nothing else really can. I could always think better on the highway, and the faster, the better. I lifted my head, looked around the condo, and inhaled slowly through my nose. Nothing at all looked familiar. It was as if I was in someone else’s home. I exhaled as I continued to look around, trying to remember just how long I had lived in this space.
My laptop on one shoulder, and my overnight bag on the other shoulder, I walked into my office and grabbed the post-it note. I folded it and placed it in my pocket. As I headed to the door, I looked around. Feeling as if I forgot something, I stood and stared. One more pass through the house revealed no necessities. Passing the kitchen counter on the way out, I stopped.
I stood in the kitchen, looking down at my raggedy shoes. After another deep breath, I exhaled, turned and headed for the door. Walking past the kitchen counter again, I reached into my left pocket and grabbed my chocolate supply. I stopped and grabbed the door to exit. As I did, I dipped my shoulder and dropped my l
aptop in the entrance. I stood for a long moment, looking at the computer bag. I released my grip on my right hand and dropped the chocolate bars beside it, locked the door, and left.
Chapter 20
Trust me
MICHELLE. Finding Britney hanging in the garage had become part of who I was. Feelings of finding her haunted my every thought. The recurring thought, what if I would have… The what if thoughts didn’t necessarily start and stop in the garage that day. What if I would have sent the pictures to Kid earlier? What if I would have identified some of her issues or taken her seriously earlier in life? The guilt and the wonder consume me.
While it was becoming increasingly difficult to do so, I continued to go to see Britney at the hospital. I felt that I had to go there. It wasn’t a feeling of respect that made me go; it was more out of necessity, and probably a little hope. Sitting there, I would rub her feet, filled with hope that she would wake up. Wake up and make all of this some form of an odd dream. I left, each time, filled with disappointment and guilt. I continued riding this emotional roller coaster, wondering how long it, or I, would last.
My talks with Kid, after this happened, have been far less frequent and I cannot decide if it is him or me that has made communication seem awkward. He had initially tried to determine how he had become involved, exactly. How Britney could have lived here in East Brunswick
Broken People Page 17