Beating a Dead Horse- Part Two

Beating a Dead Horse1

Part 22

“I see a line of cars and they’re all painted black, with flowers and my love both never to come back.”3

-The Unseen4

People always think I’m crazy when I say this, but when my dad left I got depressed. Sure, I was glad he wasn’t there to abuse me anymore, but my entire lifestyle had been thrown in a blender and torn into endless chaos. There had been no transition; just No More Dad. I’d grown so used to the pain that I began to hurt myself, not only by cutting but by actually hitting myself until I bruised, I broke my own ribs, fingers, and even my wrist once. But my desperate attempts to make life the same were a lost cause. My mom started to drink, and became abusive towards me. She was depressed and cutting more than ever, and at thirty she treated her problems the same way the girls in my own grade did. She’d never been allowed to grow up. 5

Life just went downhill from there, my grades were consistent failures and I could do nothing to pull them up. My attendance in school was marginal, and I’d already been visited once by a truancy officer. I was seeing a psychiatrist twice a week for my self-abuse tendencies, but nothing seemed to help. Nothing was turning up for us. It seemed to have hit a groove around Thanksgiving, but Thanksgiving Day was the beat all end all of shitty days.6

First of all, I had basketball practice on Thanksgiving. It was not a real practice, more of a shoot around, but my dad had made basketball so un-enjoyable for me that I could hardly stand even that. Even still I was out practicing until around 6 o’clock, and I’d been half-mindedly ordered by my mother to pick something up for dinner on the way home, so by the time I actually got home it was around 7:30. I went in through the garage, kicking off my shoes at the door, and in through the back door. As I entered I felt something damp on my sock feet and looked down. A red substance was soaking my feet. I stepped back, horrified, and went back into the garage. I had terrible images of murder and death racing through my head as I stepped back inside, but nothing in my mind could have prepared me for what I actually saw.7

My mom was standing in the middle of the kitchen, bleeding profusely from her wrists, neck, and ankles. She was leaning against the counter and her blood was running through the tiles. The edges of the living room carpet were stained bright red and I wanted to throw up. I had never seen so much blood in my life, I wonder how she wasn’t dead yet. As I looked at her I realized that must not have killed her quick enough- she my dad’s revolver pressed to her temple. I wanted to tell her to stop, or tell her something- anything- but I couldn’t formulate words I was so terrified. My mind shut down as I watched her; she breathed in and out quickly, I don’t know if she even realized I was there. I took a step towards her and she turned sharply to face me. She looked up for a second then back at me, and just as we made eye contact she pulled the trigger.8

I couldn’t even scream. I watched her slump over and she hit her head on the counter as she went, splashing blood onto the wall beside her. I just stood, leaning against the wall, with my mouth wide open. I didn’t know what to do, my mind was to confused to understand what I had just seen. I had no emotions, except maybe shock. I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t scream, I didn’t even think to call anyone. I just stared. I stared and I stared, and I didn’t move until the neighbor came and screamed for me. Then I passed out. 9

They took her to the hospital, where she was proclaimed dead on arrival, and me to the police station where they attempted to find out what had happened. I couldn’t talk. They sent me home with a social worker until I calmed down, but I couldn’t. Around ten o’clock the reality hit me that I had no one. No one was left for me. I slit my wrists and attempted to OD on the prescription drugs in the bathroom, but she found me and rushed me to the hospital before too much damage was done. I stayed in the hospital for a month under strict surveillance and suicide watch, and I didn’t talk to anyone. Not a word. I couldn’t bring myself to talk about anything even remotely related to my mom, and everything reminded me of her, so I just didn’t speak. They sent me to counseling sessions any way, but they did no good because I gave no insight. In the end they just left me with the social worker to work it out myself. 10

I hate it, but I didn’t go to her funeral. I was in the hospital then, but it kills me that I wasn’t there. I couldn’t stop her, the least I could do is say goodbye… but I didn’t. And I can’t forgive myself. 11