I have become far more understanding after Britney’s suicide attempt. I began to listen to my brothers, and actually consider what they said. Consideration of my friends’ wants, needs, and general comments regarding life was becoming second nature. In the past, I was quick to judge, and somewhat slow to comment. Everyone is entitled to their opinion. Now, I found myself more apt to actually listen, and have no feelings of condemnation regarding a thought, feeling, or opinion that I may not immediately agree with. Britney’s incident has made me a more diverse and understanding person.
I had developed a better understanding of what Kid has been feeling his entire life. It was easy for me in the past to try to explain to him that I understood his feelings. I know now that I did not truly understand them before. It was impossible. Experiencing this loss, first hand, has caused me to feel the same types of feelings that others experiencing this level of loss feel. Britney may not be dead, but she wasn’t alive either. As I stand and rub her feet, I am reminded of what I have lost. I have lost her.
Although I cannot be certain, I expect her parents feel the same way. I would imagine the guilt associated with being a parent and having the same level of loss would be tremendous. For a parent, the feeling of responsibility, following the loss of a child to suicide, would last a lifetime.
If Britney was killed in a car wreck, or by some other natural means, I am quite certain I would be over it by now. Not to sound morbid or lack a degree of compassion, but it’s true. Following the death, I would grieve, accept the death, and recover. If she never wakes up, or if she passes away, I fear I will never actually recover. Suicide, as Kid has said in the past, cuts to the bone.
In a matter of months, I will be in college, and the process of becoming a responsible adult will begin. After college, I will start medical school. The medical school will take approximately seven years. The entire process from beginning to end will take about twelve years. Following that, I will begin my career and practice of being a medical doctor.
At some point in time, I will become married, and God willing, I will have children. I suppose that all parents believe they are doing what is necessary to provide everything that their child needs and expects throughout the active raising of their children. I pray that my exposure to what life has offered me, and my understanding of what I have experienced, allows me to make decisions that will prevent my children from feeling as if suicide is some form of means to end a pain that they are incapable of resolving.
The feeling of pain never leaves. With every beat of my heart, I am reminded that it remains. It festers within me like an infection. Life’s antibiotic for pain associated with how we feel is communication. Communication with people that have or have had the same feelings or exposures to life that I have, will allow me to make the necessary repairs to myself. Repairs that may allow me to make it through a day with an understanding of what they may have done to minimize their pain. Broken people helping broken people.
Chapter 21
Semper Fi
DAVID. The time following Britney’s suicide was extremely difficult. The community, as a whole, began to change. Parents were more attentive of their children. It was an odd mixture of being more guarded, yet giving more freedoms. Parents, teachers, bosses, almost everyone, seemed to be a bit more careful of what was said and done. What was requested or recommended. It is difficult to believe that a suicide could bring a community closer, but it sure seemed that it was happening.
I had met with Dr. Baritz once since the suicide and twice since Michelle and I talked about my heterosexuality. Initially, when I told her I was heterosexual, she didn’t accept it as fact. The more she listened, the more receptive she became. I told her about Michelle’s friend, Fat Kid, and she had reservation about his clairvoyance, but agreed with his diagnosis regarding fear of failure. She seemed somewhat disappointed that she hadn’t caught it earlier, but we had some meaningful discussions about my fear of failure, and we were working on making measurable progress. Knowing, she said, was half the battle to conquering the problem.
In the last six weeks, I have given considerable thought to what I want to do with my adult life. I feel as if I am a new person, and I see changes in myself daily. I am less stressed about day-to-day living, and have been exhibiting far less OCD tendencies. I still tug on my pants, I suppose, but I wonder how much of that is actually habit, and how much is subconscious. The fact that I am now conscious of it is a step in the right direction. Michelle was instrumental in my realization of some of the things about me that I never would have realized on my own.
Good friends, friends that really care, are a once in a lifetime thing. The thought of this school year ending and our friends going in different directions is a difficult thing for me to come to terms with. We carry our memories with us for as long as we choose to, and I intend to carry the memory of my friends with me for a lifetime. The realization of me becoming an adult, and needing to make changes in my life to do so has become, or at least is becoming, a reality.
Progression. I learned to walk, I learned to talk, I learned to read, and I began school. Every year, at the end of the year, I feared the coming year. We were going to learn something new. We would be required to do something more; become more intelligent, to be more adult like. Every year, I would ask someone, an upperclassmen, a question like, “How difficult is fifth grade? I heard it was really tough.” I would wonder, as the New Year approached, if I would even make it through it. Every year, I felt the same way, and every year I made it to the next. Before long, I needed to learn to drive. I was certain I would be that one kid that never learned. My first time behind the wheel of a car was a scary experience for all of those involved. Again, I was certain that I would not be able to master driving. In time, I did, and now I drive as well as any other senior in high school.
We reach points in time in our lives that require us to make progress toward being responsible; a responsible teen, responsible high school student, responsible adult, responsible college student, responsible employee, and a responsible parent. I feel now, that the change from going to high school and becoming an adult is the first actual step that we take, as individuals. We have been walking and making progress all of our lives, but this step is the first that we take, alone. Doing something alone scares me, and I doubt that I am alone in this feeling. I may fear it more, because of my fear of failure, but I would guess now, knowing what I know, that we all have a little fear of failure. Some more than others, that’s a given.
I am ready to make decisions that allow me to make progress in life, decisions that will allow me to be the best person that I can be. I want to accomplish something. I want to feel as if I have done something, and stand proud of myself, regardless of whether or not anyone else is proud of me. I am beginning to believe that I have the ability to accomplish anything, within reason, that I decide that I want to accomplish. I cannot have anyone decide for me, and I won’t make decisions based on what I feel others want me or expect me to do. I must make these decisions solely on my wants and needs. I suppose I am fortunate that I have parents that allow me the freedom to make decisions on my own.
I have three offers from colleges, and my parents are asking me what I am going to do. It’s about time that I must make a decision, and begin making plans to relocate to the college, as they are all out of state. I am not scared, but there’s a reasonable part of me that has a fear, a fear not of failure, but a fear of change, and a fear of making it through the rest of my life alone. Not that I am going to lose my family, or lose my parents, but that, after this summer, I will be expected to be making my own decisions. Making my own progress. Just like my progress as a child from first to second grade. Third to fourth. The changes as a child that I feared every year. Now, it’s a new version of change. At least as a child, we had the summers to get ready for the change. As an adult, there are no summer vacations. You just do it. As Michelle says, Time passes, and things change.
My parents were, after Britney’s suicid
e, very supportive of me, and had indicated that whatever I decided in regard to where I wanted to go to school, they would support me. It was comforting to know wherever I decided, or whatever I decided, they would support me. I just want the decision that I make to be the one that is best for me, not necessarily what is best for them, or what they expect. My new beginning in life, my new realization of who I actually am needs to be considered in this decision. To be quite honest, this decision comes at a difficult time, because in many respects, I feel like an infant, as if I am in the infancy stages of understanding the abilities of a new me.
I feel as if my parents made decisions in the manner in which they raised me that weren’t necessarily great ones. They, compared to other parents, had little or no experience when they raised me, as I was an only child. They made decisions with no way of knowing the effect. A trial and error, I suppose. I am not making excuses for them, or justifying any shortcomings, but just considering what is realistic. I sit now with a small degree of fear that I will do the same thing. I do not care to raise children that are raised in the exact same manner that my parents raised me. My bad memories of growing up will not be repeated in raising my children, but the good ones will. I would like to think that we are not a product of our childhood, or of our parents, but a product of the environment that we are exposed to, and our ability to discern right from wrong.
Friday night, lying in bed I prayed. I asked God for the ability to make decisions regarding his will, and his understanding of what was best for me. I fell asleep after a few hours of reclining, praying, and thinking. Normally, I fall asleep in five minutes. That Friday night was different. When I woke up, I was ready for a new beginning, a step into what would be a new world, a world that would welcome me, and give me the capacity to succeed and measure that success. Just like the life that I have lived to date. I got up, showered, and got dressed. I then went downstairs to talk to my parents.
Walking into the kitchen, I smelled my mother’s cooking. Although I didn’t normally eat what she cooked for my father, I decided this morning that I would. We could eat together as a family.
“Mom, I will take some of whatever you’re cooking, it smells good,” I said, as I leaned and kissed her cheek.
“Oh, good morning, David, how did you sleep?” she asked.
“Great, thank you mother,” I responded, as I walked to the table and sat down.
“Your father will be in soon. He just went to shower. He just got home from his morning run. I will add some eggs in this for you,” she said as she cracked the eggs into the bowl.
I sat quietly as my mother continued to cook. As my father came into the kitchen, I was finishing reading the paper. He sat down about the time my mother started to put the plates on the table. As she placed the plates on the table, my father spoke for the first time of the morning.
“Scrambled eggs, bacon, and wheat toast. Now that’s a man’s meal, son,” he said, looking down at the plate, and back up at me. He drew a long, slow, deep breath in through his nose, smelling the food.
Mentally, I shook my head, knowing now that my father had shortcomings. “Yes sir, it sure is,” I responded.
We sat and ate, and as we did, I began to talk of my future, and of the decision I had made the night before. It had been a decision I think I made the first time that Dr. Baritz and I spoke after the suicide, and after my realization that I wasn’t homosexual.
“Mom, Dad, I have been thinking about my future, about my offers from colleges, and about what it is I am going to do. Can we talk?”
“Let’s hear it son, isn’t that right Mary?” my father said, his mouth still half full of eggs.
“Yes, Joseph,” my mother said, without looking up from her plate.
“Well, I have considered what I think all of my options are, and what each option offers, and I have made a decision,” I looked at both my mother and my father independently, shifting my gaze back and forth as I spoke. “There’s no disrespect intended in my decision, but I have been told since my eighteenth birthday that I am an adult, and I am expected to act as an adult. My decision, I am afraid, is made.”
“Well, Christ, let’s hear it son. Jesus, enough with the production, where are you headed?” my father said as he picked his teeth with his fork.
“I’m going to the recruiter’s office after we’re done eating, I am going to be a Marine,” I said, both hands firmly on the table beside my plate.
My mother let out an almost inaudible, “Oh my,” at the same time my father spoke.
He looked directly in my eyes as he spoke, and spoke very soft and stern, “Son, becoming a Marine isn’t something you do for anyone other than yourself. Don’t do this for me. Do you understand?”
I stood from my chair, and as I did, my father began to stand. I looked him in the eyes and spoke, “Sir, this is a decision that I made, for me. I am doing this. All alone, with no help from anyone else. It’s what I want, and I feel it’s where I belong. My decision is final, I am doing this.”
At that time, for the first time in my life, my father hugged me and said the following, “David, son, I am proud of you.”
And, as I hugged him, for the first time in my life that I can recall, I was proud that I was his son.
Chapter 22
The ride
FAT KID. I have lived the majority of my adult life not necessarily respecting figures of authority. As a young adult, I respected authority, but now, I did not. I always tried to treat people in a position of authority with respect, but that didn’t mean they deserved it or had earned it. It’s just the way I was taught as a child to treat people. Police officers fell well within the limits of the professions of authority that I did not respect. It took a really down to earth cop for me to truly treat him with respect. I have no earthly idea what a cop would have to do to actually earn my respect.
“Did you realize that you were swerving from lane to lane?” the officer asked, peering at me through his sun glasses.
“I did not, no,” I responded as I attempted to plug my telephone into the phone charger.
“Well, I suspect you did not realize it because you weren’t watching the road,” he responded, as he pulled his glasses down a little bit.
Attempting to plug the cord in, and get my phone charging, I didn’t respond immediately, nor did I feel the need to do so. I never quite understood the feeling of necessity to kiss a police officer’s ass. Everyone did so, for fear of some form of repercussion if they did not. I was not one of those people that felt that need. I was never intentionally rude, unless they were complete assholes, but I wasn’t unnecessarily nice either.
“Sir, you were weaving in and out of your lane, you were speeding, and you did not immediately pull over when I activated my lights and sirens. Additionally, it appears that you were attempting to elude me. I will need to see your proof of insurance, and registration.”
I thought for a moment before I responded. I hated cops. They certainly all weren’t idiots, but they all acted like idiots. I was driving a car with a dealer’s tag on the back. Obviously, it was a demo, a rental, or a loaner. The window sticker was still in the rear window. And seriously, trying to elude him? This car could easily go 200 miles per hour. I didn’t try. Had I tried, I would have succeeded. I contemplated pressing the gas pedal to the floor, just leaving him standing there. By the time he realized what had happened, and reacted, I would be four miles away. Instead, I responded.
“This car is a loaner car. My car is in the shop. I do not have a registration, as it is not my car. Also, I do not have an insurance card, because it is not my car. Lastly, I wasn’t attempting to elude you. I didn’t see you,” I responded as I placed the cell phone, charger inserted, on the passenger seat.
“Well, maybe if you weren’t fucking with your phone, I would not have pulled you over. Driver’s license, please,” he said in a monotone voice.
From time-to-time, something happens that makes us realize that we need to become humble.
Humility can be a good thing, in moderation. Acting humble or swallowing a little pride can be tough, depending on the circumstances. I was feeling as if I was being fed my pride with a stick as I tried to muster an answer for this guy.
“Sir, I have a driver’s license, I just do not have it with me. It is inside the glove box of my other car, the one in the shop,” I responded apologetically.
Removing his glasses, and placing them in his pocket, he responded. “You are required to carry your license with you at all times. Are you aware of that?”
“Yes, sir, I am,” I responded as politely as I could force myself to.
“Well, why are you in this car while your license is in the glove box, of all places, in the other car?” he asked, placing his hands on his hips. His right hand rested a touch lower, close to his service weapon.
“Sir, it’s a really long story. I apologize, but that’s where it is,” I responded, trying to focus on his Adam’s apple, and not look him in the eye when I responded.
“I want to hear it. In fact, I am going to require that you tell me,” he said as he raised one eyebrow. Although it probably didn’t, I felt that his hand crept closer to his pistol.
“Well, okay, you asked. I run an Internet blog where I help people get through problems in life that they may not be able to get through alone; alcoholism, drug addiction, teen pregnancy, suicide, bulimia, anorexia, obesity, bullying, and parental issues. And, here’s the story. A few days ago, I was certain that I was going to die from a heart attack. I was in the coffee shop responding to emails from my blog. My heart was acting funny, and I began to sweat. I’ve considered death a lot, and have always wanted to die in a manner that left a mark. Something that would make people stop and pay attention, or make them gasp in disbelief. So, I was sure I was going to die on this morning, and when I died, I wanted to create a huge fuss at the coffee shop I was going into. I wanted the paramedics to have a hard time identifying me when they arrived, so I left my ID in the car, and tossed my car keys in the trash on the way into the coffee shop, making it more difficult for them to find the ID,” I paused for effect. He stood, attentive, and stared at me. He apparently wanted more, so I gave it to him.
Broken People Page 18