It's Been Six Years... and I'm FINE.

It's Been Six Years... and I'm FINE
© Meesa Caudill


vic·tim  
/ˈviktəm/ Noun

1. A person harmed, injured, or killed as a result of a crime, accident, or other event or action.

Victims. Survivors. Those left behind.
"Get over it already."
"It's been _ years. You're still upset?"
"She just wants pity and attention."
"Anyone who wants to kill themselves, just let them."

How many of you have thought these things? Said them? I admit it. I have. Until six years ago.

I didn't understand the anguish, questions, and destruction a suicide leaves behind. I had dealt with losing friends and family members to natural causes, a car accident, and even to homicide. I assumed, like most people, that losing a loved one to suicide was the same as any other death. That you grieve, you go through the stages of dealing with a death, you smile at the good memories and then you get over it.

Sadly, that's not the case. Losing a loved one to suicide is a wound that never heals. For some "survivors" it causes deep depression, some suffer PTSD (primarily those that witnessed the act or the outcome- but even some just from the loss), some just get lost in their own worlds. And then you have the ones like me- the ones who still, after six years, fight with the anger. Those of us that build walls up between other people, that get furious at ourselves when we realize we care too much or feel too deeply- because every emotion we now feel somehow relates to the day we found out we had been abandoned by those we held closest to our hearts.

"Pain comes in all forms. The small twinge, a bit of soreness, the random pain. The normal pains we live with everyday. Then there's the kind of pain you can't ignore. A level of pain so great that it blocks out everything else... Makes the rest of your world fade away, until all we can think about is how much we hurt. How we manage our pain is up to us. Pain. We anesthetize , ride it out, embrace it, ignore it, and for some of us the best way to manage pain is to just push through it." ~ Meredith Grey, Grey's Anatomy

It's been six years tomorrow. 2-27-07. That date will forever be burned into my brain. That date forever haunts me, my mother, my sister, my niece, aunts, uncles, grandmother, cousins, family friends. I have sat here tonight kind of in my own world, trying to get lost inside the tv or internet, and my mind keeps taking me back to this time six years ago.

I can't remember what I was doing the night before my dad took his own life. I remember the last time I saw him- it was at my sister's baby shower on February 11, 2007. I didn't talk to him much that day because his best friend was there and they were trying to stay away from us "cacklin' hens".

I remember the last time I spoke to him - February 23, 2007. It was my then-boyfriend's birthday and we were about to go to Olive Garden for dinner when my dad called me from my grandmother's house to tell me he was proud of me. I didn't understand why he was so proud of me and I rushed off the phone so as to not ruin my evening because I assumed he was drunk and I figured I would just end up emotional. I remember about an hour after that was the first time I felt my son "kick"- that flutter you feel when you're in early pregnancy. I was 14 weeks at the time.

And I remember the day I got the call at work. I remember the weather that day. I remember where I was parked on campus. I remember the stop sign I was pulling up to when my aunt Marie called my phone and told me he was dead. I even remember what I was wearing that day. I remember the look on my sister's face as I walked in the door and she was crying, and I remember collapsing on the floor screaming "Someone's fucking with us! They're lying!!!!"

At that point the memories go kind of fuzzy until the memory of being at the funeral home and begging the funeral director to please let me see my daddy. I think in my mind I felt like I could wake him up. The funeral director wouldn't let me see him, he told me that my dad didn't look very good and they hadn't had time to "fix him up" yet and that I didn't want to see him that way.

Fuzzy again. I know I helped pick out his casket but I don't really remember it.

Then I remember the day of the funeral... getting so mad at my mom because she was on the phone the first time I saw my daddy in his casket. I remember how handsome he looked lying there- the funeral home had done such a good job on making him look like the young, healthy man in my childhood memories- not the tortured alcoholic he had become. I remember vividly the appearance of a smirk on his face- as if he was finally happy, at peace, and even a bit sarcastic about what he had just done. And then everything fades to black again until six weeks later when I found out I had also lost my son.

For so many years after 2007, I've heard many times how "strong" everyone thought I was. Even now, friends will tell me they don't know how I survived that year. And honestly, looking back, even I don't know how.

Now, six years later, I work at the coroner's office and I occasionally see those same tortured expressions that I'm certain my mom and I had when we walked into that funeral home for the first time. I occasionally see and hear that same anger I feel to this day in the voices and faces of the people that have to visit my office. Every time I see that pain, I want so badly to stand up and hug those left behind and tell them that it gets better. I want to tell them that they'll get over the horrible hurt they're experiencing. I want to tell them that it all goes away. But I can't.

Because the truth is- none of it ever does. Those of us left behind just figure out our own ways of dealing. Every. Single. Day.

Constant reminders of what we're missing, constant reminders of the day we got that horrible news. Reminders of the pain our loved ones were experiencing.

We know that that day changed us forever, and not for the better. We know that we are now damaged, and we're hurt, and we're angry, and we're ripped to shreds on the inside.

And the truth is that a "survivor" rarely feels comfortable talking about these things with people, even our closest friends. Because we don't want to burden anyone with such emotions, we know no one understands and that we seem like we "play the victim" or that we are "seeking pity". We are "depressing people" who "hang on" to too much. Honestly, I don't think any of us want pity. All of us look for a release.

My release, most of the time, is my writing. Unfortunately not everyone has the ability to write their emotions so they find other ways. When I can't write and I feel like my head is a mess from the non-stop war in my brain, I anxiously await the weekends so that I can get silly with friends, drink, and go completely numb. Healthy? Of course not. But being a "survivor" of losing a parent to suicide isn't healthy and we all just deal with it the best way we know how.

Am I as "strong" as people have told me I am? Not even close. I think I've just become a new person. And that new person is "just fine".

Where the Grass Grows on Tears - Survivor of Suicide

Where the Grass Grows on Tears
© Meesa Caudill


We talk to stone and spill our hearts,
not knowing whether we're heard.
Many regrets, unspoken goodbyes,
lives left behind filled with hurt.
Flowers and trinkets and tokens of love
placed with care on the ground.
Praying that one day our loved ones can rise
and see that we still come around.
We cringe on anniversaries,
flashbacks of moments frozen in our minds-
the last words they spoke echo in our brains,
the pain never erased with time.
Photos make us smile, but also make us cry-
videos tear us apart.
Wishing we could just touch their skin,
hear their voice, reanimate their heart.
But instead we're left here wondering
about the what if's, how's, and whys.
Wishing we could have just one more day
to convince them to save their own lives.
No chance for goodbye, no more "I love you's",
just lots of anger and pain through the years.
You left us here to sleep for eternity
in the land where the grass grows on tears.

©Meesa Caudill

4 years, 6 months, 3 days...

Not one day has passed, not ONE, that I haven't thought about my dad.

Not one week has passed that I haven't had at least one dream with him in it, be it a nightmare or bittersweet.

And not one moment goes by that I don't wish with everything in my still-broken heart that he was still here.

It's been four and a half years now. The pain is more tolerable now, or at least I've learned to live in denial like a pro. It still hurts though, even if it doesn't feel like it's killing me. It's only unbearable when I really allow myself to think about the details. I don't do that very often. I still hear that I need professional help to deal with it, even though it's been so long now. And a few months ago I finally allowed myself to admit that those who have told me that are right.

Often times, before I write one of my notes, blogs, or statuses about him or my son, I wonder if people are sick of reading about it. I don't understand why I even care. So many times throughout my days, I walk around with a smile on my face or trying to make jokes in order to make everyone around me feel good. I try not to show my true emotions because I know most people don't know what to say and it makes them uncomfortable.

So many times I've wondered what he was thinking in the split second before he pulled that trigger. I know he was arguing with his mother about my mom. Was he angry? Was he hurt? Or was he just so sick of the bullshit that he just didn't care anymore? Did he think about me? Did he think about what he was doing to my mom, my sister, his grandchildren? Why didn't he leave us a note? He knew he was going to do it. Why didn't he call?

And so many times I get angry with everyone. I'm angry at almost his entire family. I would go through and list everyone and my reasoning behind it but I won't allow myself to do that. I'll wait until I can afford a shrink to go through my list one-by-one. All I can say is that I hope each of them feel the pain I do, tenfold, every day. No matter how much I love them, I blame them for my dad not being here. I know that a psychiatrist will assure me that I'm just fucked in the head and there's no one to blame but him, but I will always see things differently.

I wonder who will walk me down the aisle if I ever get married again. I don't even know if I'll ever be able to without him. He always said he wouldn't "give me away" twice. Guess he wasn't lying.

If I ever have another child, he won't be here. He left when I was pregnant with my son and that kills me. Didn't he even want to meet him if I had made it to full term? Did he think we'd be better off without him???

Although it's been over four years, the pain has become more tolerable but the questions remain. And the anger... the anger sometimes sears through me, so much so that I feel like I could burst into flames.

I am angry at the world.

Writing Is My Therapy, My Soul

Okay, okay... so going to see the sappy, tearjerker Dear John has my head spinning again. My mind is often in a tornadic state but with so much going on from day to day I can rarely figure out one thing to focus on in order to clear it out of my head. From the stress of dealing with work shit to trying to be there for friends and family to just trying to go into zombie mode so that I don't think about things- I rarely ever take the time to think about what the hell is going on with myself other than the stuff that is directly in my view on the day to day.

Doing things like watching a sappy movie suck because they make me do the one thing I hate...cry. But they actually help overall because they make me stop to think about things. Like tonight.

This is a weird week for me anyway. Those of you that know me very well know my thing with 22 and 222. Today was 2-22 and thankfully nothing crazy happened. (Whew!) I still have yet to figure out what significance that has but still weird either way.

I
"It's possible to go on, no matter how impossible it seems, and that in time, the grief . . . lessens. It may not go away completely, but after a while it's not so overwhelming."
— Nicholas Sparks (Dear John)

This Saturday is the three year anniversary of my dad's suicide. It's so hard to believe it's been 3 years. Tomorrow is the three year mark of the last time I spoke to him. It was my ex's birthday and we were on our way to Olive Garden. I was pregnant and so hungry and my dad called me from my grandmother's house in London. He was talking about going into rehab and asked if I'd come see him if he did. He was being pretty repetitive, as most people are when they're intoxicated. I felt like I was being rude for staying on the phone on my way out for a dinner date with my boyfriend so I was trying to rush him off the phone. He went on and on about how proud he was of me. I remember asking him why because I felt like a complete failure. I didn't have a career- was going through a divorce- and was pregnant by a man who was not my husband. But he insisted he was proud of me anyway and told me about a dream he'd had about his grandchild I was pregnant with at the time. He had had a dream of taking him fishing and said he was definitely going to be a boy and was going to be chubby and be "Papaw's boy". Before we hung up he told me he loved me. I would have never dreamed that that moment would be the last time I would talk to my daddy.

He didn't say anything hinting to what he was going to do and even seemed like he was in a decent mood, but he had made suicidal threats before and I believed that bullshit about "if they threaten it they'll never do it, they just want attention". I found out 4 days later that it's not true. When someone threatens suicide they will do it at some point when they finally reach what they think is more than they can handle. On February 27, 2007 my daddy took his own life in front of his alcoholic mother with a .22 Ruger (there's that fucking number again). I was 14 weeks pregnant. He left no note.

So now, three years later, I sit here with tears running down my face missing my daddy and wondering if there is anything at all I could have said to make him change his mind. Did he feel like we didn't care? Did he think we hated him? Did he think his baby girl was too grown up and didn't need him anymore and that I didn't want to talk to him? Did I break his heart when I rushed him off the phone to go to my oh-so-important dinner date? The path of destruction from a suicide is an unexplainable one. A hole left in the souls of the people left behind that nothing will ever fill and a hurt in me no man will ever come close to healing. And none I have met yet that are brave enough or strong enough to even try.

II
"Just when you think it can't get any worse, it can. And just when you think it can't get any better, it can."
— Nicholas Sparks (At First Sight)

February 27th was the end of the world to me. The man I always thought was superhuman showed me that it's not really true when people say God won't put more on you than you can handle. He gave my dad more than he could handle. If it were true that God wouldn't do that then no one would ever feel the need to end their own lives. And just when I thought I couldn't handle anymore my life took an even more tragic turn for the worse.

A few weeks after losing dad my doctor was trying to put me in a better state of mind for the sake of my health and my baby. So she did a 'sneak peek' ultrasound and I found out he was a boy. I was happy about that yet it made me sad because I couldn't call my dad with the great news that he was going to have the grandson he told me he dreamed about. I wanted so bad to pick up the phone and tell him that he was right- but I couldn't. But still, I was happy. I had been trying to decide between a few names and finally decided on Aiden Blaine. I thought it sounded so masculine yet modern and like a hero from a novel. I couldn't wait until my official 20 week ultrasound so that I could record it and show my mom and sister.

My son's father had to work the day of my official ultrasound so my best friend Mel went with me. It was Tuesday, April 10, 2007. Six weeks to the day exactly of when my dad took his life. After waiting for what seemed like forever in the waiting room we finally got called back. They don't do VHS recordings anymore so Mel had my digital camera and was recording the tv screen that the ultrasound was showing on. After a few minutes the tech asked her to stop recording and left the room. What seemed like another eternity passed before the tech came back with the doctor close behind her. Moving the machine around my abdomen again for a few minutes, the doctor got a disturbing look on her face and told me my son no longer had a heartbeat.

My choices were to either wait it out and let nature take its course or be induced and give birth to my baby boy at 20 weeks. I was admitted to the hospital and induced and my sleeping angel was delivered a little after midnight on April 12. His cord was wrapped. They estimated he had already been gone for at least a week so he wasn't even developed to the full 20 weeks yet. They called it a 'miscarriage' instead of a stillbirth so I didn't even get a death certificate or a funeral. It took weeks for him to be buried and for me to find out where. There was no closure. No chance to say goodbye. And the only photos I got are of his hands and feet because when the nurse asked me if I wanted pictures of his face I was too doped up to give it any thought. I was already crushed and this was the final blow.

I went back to work a week after losing my father so tragically and now I was going back to work a week and a half after losing my baby boy. I couldn't afford to take the time off I probably needed. When I went back to work I had an email that said "I know you're going through a lot but this is a crucial time and I need you to be on top of things." Yes, I'm serious.

So not only was I crushed and destroyed but I was angry and didn't even know who to be angry with. I had no time to deal with myself and no time to figure out how to grieve. Sure, I cried. But for the most part I did it when I was alone because no one else wanted to hear me. I was angry to the point of not even being able to be around my mom for a while other than an hour or so at a time because I couldn't deal with her talking about my dad. I couldn't handle her pain because I wasn't even able to handle mine. I felt like my son's father didn't really care and even wondered if he was relieved. Honestly, as time has passed, I've come to realize I was probably right.

What I would give now to hold my son. To know what color his eyes would have been or the color of his hair. To be able to kiss his dimples he would most likely have inherited from me. To be able to hear him say 'ma ma' or 'da da' for the first time. To be able to tuck him in at night. To have the 'boring' life of staying at home to cuddle with my baby boy and watch cartoons. He would be 2 1/2 now and although he'd be in his "terrible two's" and I'd be exhausted I'd give the world to have that chance.

III
"I finally understood what true love meant...love meant that you care for another person's happiness more than your own, no matter how painful the choices you face might be."
— Nicholas Sparks (Dear John)

Love. Undying, unconditional, real love. Most of us have had it at least once in our lives. And most of us let it go without realizing it until it's too late. We always think the grass is greener on the other side and that there's more to life than what we have at our fingertips. We always want what is beyond our grasp without realizing what we hold in our arms already. There is a part in the movie where John and Savannah are writing to each other looking at the full moon knowing the other is too- and thinking about each other so it's almost like they're together. That part of the movie took me back in time. I had a love like that once. But our 'full moon' were electric poles. (I know it sounds silly but think about it... almost all electric lines in this country are connected.) That love and I would talk on the phone when we were many miles away from each other and each go outside to touch an electric pole at the same time. That way we were connected physically and not just on the phone. We were young but it made perfect sense at the time. And to this day when the thought crosses my mind I still wish I could go touch an electric pole and know that I wasn't alone. At that moment I was home... and God how I miss that feeling.

But now, years later, past loves are happy in their own lives and are creating new memories. As for me... well, I'm not so sure. I've come to the conclusion that I have been going through a rebellious phase of some sort. I've tried to do some soul searching to try to figure out why I've turned out like I have but with no answers. I even question if I will ever be able to truly feel anything for anyone again. That is yet to be determined... I'm still waiting to feel 'home' again. I keep repeating in my head and it's become kind of common in my writings that "Home is where the heart is" and I know that until my heart is healed from whatever it is that keeps it in this state I'm destined to be a wanderer. Until then I'll just remain broken and live each day trying to put myself back together. I just wish I knew a better route than the one I've been taking.

IV
"When you're struggling with something, look at all the people around you and realize that every single person you see is struggling with something, and to them, it's just as hard as what you're going through."
— Nicholas Sparks (Dear John)

I know that the more I think about these things throughout this week and the next few weeks, the more emotional I will get. The slightest things like the weather being the same as the day things happened will spark an anxiety type feeling and possible brief tears. I know that throughout these next few weeks I will carry on and laugh as I always do and possibly not even show if or when something is bothering me. This is why I write. I sit alone in my apartment and can cry if I want to without feeling like I'm burdening anyone with my emotions. I can blog on this note without worrying about what someone is thinking of me and my inability to properly deal with my own issues. I can rant and rave in writing without being interrupted or having to deal with anything else in the world except my own thoughts. There are no pitiful looks of sympathy, no cheap words of how 'everything happens for a reason', and no awkward moments of people not knowing what to say.

This is my therapy.

Psychiatrists? Who needs 'em?

I have a keyboard.

Two Years

It's been two years- two years ago today-
that you put that gun to your head and took your life away.

It's been two long years- two years that I have cried
because it was two years ago today that my Daddy, my world, died.

You left us no note, only hearts torn to shreds-
with millions of questions going through our heads.

We begged for you to get help- we cried, we prayed...
but I would've begged a million times more if it would have made you stay.

With two grandsons on the way you had so many reasons to live-
but instead you took your own life thinking you had no more to give.

You had no idea you were my hero, the reason I strived to do my best...
you thought you were a failure, couldn't see how you were blessed.

Your silly grin brought so much warmth and your brown eyes full of love-
especially when you talked about your family that you were so proud of.

Now looking in the mirror I see those same eyes but they're not as warm-
they're a bit cold, distant, unfeeling, the soul behind them brewing a storm.

I lost you, my son, my world, my life, my heart - just within weeks-
it takes every ounce of energy I have daily to keep the tears off my cheeks.

You could have never imagined the hole you left in me when you died-
one that can't be healed or filled up no matter how many tears I cry.

Not only did I lose you and my son, but I lost your family as well-
I think they blame us- hate us- think we put you through hell.

But we tried so hard to help you, loved you- maybe too much-
but you couldn't see past your demons, the alcohol was your crutch.

God- what I would give to go back two years and a day
so that maybe I could stop you, give you a reason to stay.

But on this day all I can do is miss you, cry, & pray that you're in Heaven...
it's been two years today- February 27.

A Letter to My Daddy 38 Days After His Suicide

Well Dad, it's been 38 days since you did the unthinkable. 38 days.
38 days of heartache.
38 days of holding back the tears.
38 days of trying to be strong.
38 days of being numb.
38 days of missing you.

Mom, Bobbie, Kourtney, and Gregory are ok. Mom and Bobbie fight more now it seems. I think it's because everyone is so angry and hurt, and none of us know where to direct it or how to deal with it. Me, I'm the same. I hide. I write. I pretend it's not true. It helps sometimes, but then there are times like this morning when I can't hold it in anymore and I break. I try not to, but the tears won't stop.

I found out that you were right, Dad. I'm having a boy. I wonder if he'll have blonde hair and brown eyes like you said. I can hear you now saying "See, you'll learn to listen to your ol' crazy daddy every now and then" and see you with that goofy grin because you'd be happy you're having another grandson. Unfortunately, I can only see and hear that in my heart because you're not here.You were supposed to be here to take him and Gregory fishing. Remember? My son was supposed to be your shadow, supposed to follow Pa-paw around everywhere. REMEMBER??? How can he do that now, Dad? Now he'll never know you. He'll never hear your laugh or see your smile that we all love so much. I wanted him to know you so badly, Dad. Why did you steal that from him? From me? From yourself???

 Dammit Dad, you were SUPPOSED to be here! I wanted so badly to run into mom's the day I had my ultrasound and grab you and give you the biggest hug and tell you congrats because you were going to have another grandson to spoil. Your first blood grandchild is going to be a boy. I wanted so badly to see that smile and to see your big brown eyes light up. But I couldn't Dad. I fucking couldn't because you left me. And I can't shake this pain, Dad. I can't make it go away. I can't get rid of this heaviness on my chest. I can't keep smiling at people pretending I'm ok. I don't know how to deal with the way I feel now. I try so hard to be normal but nothing is even fun anymore. I can't call you anymore and tell you about something crazy I saw or did. I just want to call you, Dad.

Mom and I are supposed to come to London this weekend to visit your grave. I don't know how either of us will handle seeing your name on a headstone for the first time. I don't know about Mom, but it's just going to rip me apart even more. I know that on my way down there I'll be subconsciously thinking that we're actually going to see YOU, and then when it's just a piece of marble on the ground bearing your name, it will kill me a little more inside. I don't know if that's a reality I can face yet. Seeing you in a casket was bad enough, but you just looked like you were sleeping so it wasn't that bad. I still saw YOU. But this will hurt more. How do I do it, Dad? How could you have done it? You didn't have to live through your parents dying, they're still here. Why did you leave me to deal with this, Dad?

I can't help but hear your last words to me the last time I talked to you, when you told me you were proud of me. Dammit Dad, why didn't you give me a hint? Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you talk to me?!?!?!?! I told you I didn't know why you were proud of me, and now I really don't. I'm a mess, Dad. I wish you were here so I could talk to you, but all I can do is write about it. All I can do is wake up each day and put on a smile and carry on as if everything is ok.
I love you, Dad.

And I miss you more than you could have ever known.


Seems like it was yesterday when I saw your face
You told me how proud you were, but I walked away
If only I knew what I know today
Ooh, ooh

I would hold you in my arms
I would take the pain away
Thank you for all you've done
Forgive all your mistakes
There's nothing I wouldn't do
To hear your voice again
Sometimes I wanna call you
But I know you won't be there

Ohh I'm sorry for blaming you
For everything I just couldn't do
And I've hurt myself by hurting you

Some days I feel broke inside but I won't admit
Sometimes I just wanna hide 'cause it's you I miss
And it's so hard to say goodbye
When it comes to this, oooh

Would you tell me I was wrong?
Would you help me understand?
Are you looking down upon me?
Are you proud of who I am?

There's nothing I wouldn't do
To have just one more chance
To look into your eyes
And see you looking back

Ohh I'm sorry for blaming you
For everything I just couldn't do
And I've hurt myself, ohh

If I had just one more day
I would tell you how much that I've missed you
Since you've been away
Ooh, it's dangerous
It's so out of line
To try and turn back time

I'm sorry for blaming you
For everything I just couldn't do
And I've hurt myself by hurting you.

~Hurt- Christina Aguilera~

Conversation With A Dead Man

Writing words that cannot be spoken,
trying to heal a heart that’s numb and broken.
Filling a blank page with tears that have been shed,
seeking words to explain the shit in my head.
Nothing but a void left, along with your things.
Your tools, your clothes, and the pain your leaving brings.
Your lunchbag at the house, still contains stale chips,
a can of tuna, and some crackers that will never touch your lips.
Mom will never throw it away, I know. Somehow it comforts her.
Like a sign you’ll be home again, not buried in dirt.
You left us your memories, and so many broken hearts-
I guess you thought it would bring us together, it’s only ripping us apart.
I don’t understand why you deserted us, I know you were in pain,
but if only you would have quit drinking. Your death was in vain.
It serves no purpose, didn’t solve a damn thing.
Only left us hurting, angry, and with no one but you to blame.
Dammit Dad, why’d you leave me??? You knew you could turn to me!
You didn’t even call to say goodbye before you set yourself free.
You left us here with all the "if only’s" and "what if’s"...
didn’t you think about us??? Didn’t you give a shit???
I love you Dad and I fucking miss you, more than you’ll ever know.
I just wish you would’ve given me the chance to tell you before you let us go.

10 Days After My Dad's Suicide

It's been 10 days since my dad pulled that trigger. And to be honest, I really don't know what I'm supposed to be feeling right now. For the most part, I'm sad- yet numb.

I am sitting here thinking, but not crying... yet, anyways. My friends got me out of the apartment tonight for a dinner at Applebee's. I could tell no one really knew what to say, but that's ok. In these types of situations I'm shitty with words myself so I understand. I didn't really expect anyone to say anything- I'm just glad I have such great friends. And yet I think there was a little bit of surprise that I'm ok. And it surprises me too.

I have so many mixed emotions right now going through my head and my heart that I don't know which one will appear at any given moment. For the most part, during the day when I'm alone or at work, I'm sad yet ok. I don't cry like I thought I would. But when I talk to my mom and all she can talk about is my dad, I get angry. I don't understand that. I get so mad that I want to scream at somebody, punch someone, break something. Then I cry angry tears. When I see a dump truck (my dad drove one), or look at pictures of him, or hear certain songs- I get depressed. I want him to be here. I want to tell him the newest joke I read or tell him what the doctor told me yesterday. I want to talk to him about religion and superstition and politics like we always did. But I can't. But for the most part, I'm ok.

I know that there are stages to accepting death. Especially a suicide. There is disbelief, denial, grieving, and acceptance. Right now I have a mix of all of them. My mom and sister tell me I should go to counseling because they think I'm holding it in. Maybe I am and just don't realize it. But I don't need some whack-job quack that doesn't know me and didn't know my dad telling me what I should feel. I know how to psycho-analyze myself, and I know that I need to "let it out". But how can you let it out when the only way you want to is by getting mad at someone, yet you don't know who to be mad and scream at? There are so many things I blame, yet I can't take out this hurt and anger on any of them. The main one being my dad, then a few others, along with beer, and the doctors who didn't diagnose him correctly or get him the help he needed. I want so badly to tell my dad that he has just hurt me more than anything/anyone else will ever hurt me in my life, that he left me all alone, that he tore my heart out. But he's not here. And I know I have to face that and deal with it.

Maybe I'm just not ready yet.

I Wish Words Could Heal (4 days after my dad's suicide)

"For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace." - Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8

I thought that in my 27 years I had already felt true heartache and pain. I thought that losing friends to car accidents and murder was painful. I thought that losing my granny to old age hurt. I thought that going through a divorce was the hardest thing I'd ever have to do. Until my daddy took his own life 4 days ago.

I don't know how to write or explain everything that has gone through my mind since I got the phone call Tuesday afternoon. I wish I could.

I wish I could type out everything in my heart and head and that would give me peace and some sort of closure. I wish I could type the pain away. I wish I could tell everyone how bad it hurts and how lost I am and that maybe my written words would save someone's life and family- but I can't.
All I know is that it is the deepest hurt anyone could ever experience. And I don't know how to make it stop. So even though I know it won't bring peace or closure or even help, I am still typing. Just hoping for some sort of release. Maybe a slight relief of this pressure in my heart because if I don't get it out somehow, I'm afraid I might actually implode.

This blog might be long, so I'm not expecting anyone to actually read it. I'm doing this for myself. And maybe, just maybe someone who is thinking of doing the drastic act of suicide will run across this page and it might just change their mind. But if not, at least maybe it will be some sort of therapy for me. So I'm starting from the beginning.

I was about 16 when my dad first started drinking again. I say again because when I was born he was 19 and my mom told him that if he didn't stop drinking and doing drugs, he'd never see me again. So he stopped then. We still don't know exactly why he started back up. Of course when you have an alcoholic father, you blame yourself for their drinking. I've gone through that. I thought that maybe if I hadn't tried to grow up so fast and made him feel so old, he would have never started again. Maybe if I had been a better daughter and had needed less so that he wouldn't have had to work so hard. Maybe if I had begged him to stop sooner, or maybe if I would have gotten through to him somehow. But nothing I or my family did ever got through to him. So many tears were cried, so many times we begged and pleaded for him to just stop. So much pain.
He wasn't an abusive alcoholic by any means. He just drank. If he abused anyone, it was himself. He wouldn't eat. He didn't sleep well. The drinking brought on the "demons" as mom and I called them. What I mean by that is that he "saw things". Maybe he actually could communicate with dead people. Maybe he was paranoid schizophrenic. No one knows but him and God. But regardless, he was exhausted.

The first time my dad threatened suicide I was about 19 and living in my first apartment here in Lexington. He and mom lived in London, and I got a call from my mom that my dad was missing and that she had found a suicide note. So I drove down there as fast as I could to find him and try to stop him, praying the whole time that it wasn't already too late. I got there in time and Corey and I found him waiting on the train tracks. Thank God a train hadn't come since he'd been there and who knows when the next one would have showed up. I talked to him and convinced him that it wasn't worth it. A few months later, I got another phone call. My dad had driven his and mom's Toyota Tercel into a tree as another attempt. The only thing he suffered from it was a bruised up face and a broken nose.

Fast forward a few years to when I was 21 or 22. They had moved to the north end of Lexington in a little white house with gas heat and a gas stove. My mom had come home from being out with a friend of hers and she smelled gas as she was walking up the sidewalk to her front door. Her first thought was my dad so she went next door to call 911. When the paramedics got there, the house was filled with gas and my dad was found passed out with a lit cigarette in his hand. Only God knows how he kept from blowing the place up, but mom and I knew that it must not have been his time to go. So of course this being the third time he had "tried" we assumed that either he wasn't serious or that he was "unbreakable". Little did we know he would actually attempt and be successful at it later on down the road.

My mom got the phone call somewhere around 2 p.m. Tuesday afternoon from the Laurel County Coroner saying that my dad had shot himself in the head and that he was dead. My mom of course thought it was a sick joke. Coroners don't call you on the phone, do they? So my sister got on the phone and cussed the guy out, still thinking it was someone playing a disgusting prank. My sister called me on my cell shortly after. I don't know what time it was. I was in the bathroom at work and my phone rang numerous times. I thought she was maybe going in labor since she's due Sunday. When I answered my sister was crying, telling me I need to come to my moms right away. I asked why and she wouldn't tell me, told me to not ask questions until I got there. I told her I couldn't leave work unless I had a reason so she wanted to talk to my boss. After a few times of trying to convince her to tell me and she wouldn't, I handed my phone over to my boss and my boss just told me to go. I knew it had to be something with my mom or dad, most likely dad due to previous experiences. But I had no idea. I thought maybe he was fighting with my mom or pulling one of his crazy stunts. I never expected to hear that my daddy was dead.

I head to my car and start driving to my moms house. I was about a block away when my Aunt Marie called me asking if I had talked to my mom. I told her I was on the way to her house but no one would tell me what was going on. She said it was my dad and that she had heard he had shot and killed himself. I guess it didn't hit me immediately, I just hung up and kept driving. Pulling into my moms driveway I started crying, praying that it wasn't true. I walked into my moms and my sister and mom were crying and my Aunt Pat and cousin Amy were there. When I walked in I looked at my sister and said "Please tell me what I heard isn't true". All my sister could do was cover her face and cry. I knew at that moment that my daddy was gone. I lost it and dropped to the floor. All I could say was "It's a sick joke. Someone's lying. They're fucking with us!" I couldn't believe it.

My dad had been staying with his mother for almost 2 weeks. He originally went down to London to go into a rehab to help him quit drinking. He was supposed to go there last Wednesday. He changed his mind about going into the hospital but was still going to work on getting his CDL's back because he's a truck driver. He had lost them about 2 years ago because of a DUI. From what my mom has been told, when he did it he was drunk and he had been arguing with his mom.

From the details his mom gave us, she said they were "talking" and he got up to go into the room he had been sleeping in. She thought he was maybe going to lay down. But a few minutes later he walked out with a gun to his head. He was standing about 5 feet away from her and said "Don't worry, I'm taking care of everything". She screamed "Oh God Jimmy, no!" and by the time she stood up, he had already pulled the trigger. When he fell he hit his head on the bar in her kitchen. She said she'll never be able to get the sound of that gun out of her head.
When mom and I got there and were looking through his clothes, praying for a note- my cousin Becky found the case to the gun. It was a 22 Ruger. I always thought 22's were just high powered BB guns and they wouldn't hurt anyone seriously. Guess I thought wrong.

My dad had a hard life. Growing up his mother didn't have much to do with him, he was sent to live with grandparents, uncles, and from stories he's told- pretty much anyone who would have him. The person he credits for raising him was his grandfather- a hardcore Southern Baptist minister. He grew up fighting his way through school, mostly in Indianapolis in a rough area. When he was younger some guys actually ganged up and tried to hang him from a tree. He had an older brother, a younger brother, and a younger sister. He was always coming to their rescue any time they were in trouble. He was the "responsible" one as far as I can remember. Out of his mom, brothers, and sister- he was the only one who wasn't an alcoholic until I was about 16. There are countless memories that I have of his brothers and sister living with us and my dad taking them in when they had no one else to turn to.


When he started drinking, of course his relationship with my mom went downhill. She was strong for many years and stood by him. I don't know of many women who would put up with the things my mom put up with from him. He was her life, and regardless of how much he drank or how much shit he gave her- she was still there. Sometimes not realizing she was an enabler, or even nagging too much- yet still there nonetheless. When no one in his family was there for him, my mom was.

But no matter what- dad couldn't win the battle. The alcohol had too strong of a hold on him. I know he hated it. I know he hated what it made him. I know he hated who he had become. But he couldn't let it go. And eventually, it was going to be the death of him. Whether it would have been cirrhosis or a gun, it was still suicide either way.

My dad was the best man I'll ever know. And if you've met him, probably the best man you'll ever meet. Even when he was drunk, he wanted the people around him to be happy. Even if he was in a bad mood, he'd smile and crack a joke just to get someone else to laugh. He took everyone under his wing as if they were his blood. He loved kids and animals, and I had yet to see a child or animal that didn't love him back. When you met my dad, you instantly loved him. He had the warmest brown eyes and the goofiest grin, and never a bad word about anyone unless they did him wrong. He was never one to be walked on but he was always quick to forgive and to give second, sometimes third or more chances. My dad loved and feared God. He believed in fairness, and earning your way. He hated charity and worked for everything he ever had in life. He was a wonderful father, and even when drinking- a great husband. Yes, he had faults. I am in no way implying he was perfect. But when he wasn't drinking he was probably as close to perfect as a human can get. He was a very respectable man, and sometimes too smart for his own good. But from what I've seen, sometimes the most intelligent and wonderful people are the most tortured by their own minds.

My dad had no idea how much he was loved. He always told my mom that if he ever died he would only have one friend that would show up to his funeral. Well if he could see the funeral home, he was surprised. It was packed. People my mom and I had never met or heard about. So many people crying because they knew a wonderful man was now gone from our lives, and way too soon.

I must admit that I am so mad at him right now that I could scream. If he would have woken up for just 10 minutes, 5 of those would have been be cussing him for leaving me and the other 5 would have been me telling him how much I loved him and begging for him to stay.
I am also so hurt that he would do this to us, to me. He wanted me to have him a grandchild so bad for so many years. He would always say "You're never gonna have me a grandbaby." Well, I finally am and he left me. I don't know how I'm going to do it without him here. He's supposed to be there for me to tell him when I find out if it's a boy or a girl. He wanted a grandson, but even if it's a girl he would have been happy. He's supposed to be at the hospital holding my hand telling me it's worth it and making sure I'm ok. He's supposed to be there to take his grandchild fishing. The last time I talked to him was last Sunday and he told me he had a dream that I had a boy. My son was going to be blonde with brown eyes (like Dad) and chubby. And in my dads dream he was fishing with my little boy and my sisters little boy. How can his dream come true if he's not here???

But the other part of me feels guilty for being so selfish. I know my dad was tortured. I know that my dad was miserable and in pain. And I know that he is finally resting and finally at peace. I should be happy for him that he finally gets the peace and quiet and rest he deserves. He is no longer tortured by demons or alcohol and no longer has to worry about his family.
I always heard that if you commit suicide it's an automatic sentence to Hell. I finally did some research on that, and nowhere in the Bible does it say that. So in that case, if God really is the forgiving and loving God I was raised to know- then He'll know that my dad is worthy of his wings. He'll know that my dad deserves to walk down the streets of gold in Heaven. And that brings me peace.

I just wish I could tell my dad all these things I've typed. I know he knew how much I loved him. And I know I was his world. There is no question there. But I just wish I could say it. I just wish I could tell him what this is doing to all of us. I just wish I could have saved him somehow.
I was hoping that writing this would help, even slightly. But it doesn't. But all I can do is beg any of you that read this…

If you or someone you love has ever thought of or mentioned suicide, please don't take it lightly. Get help! Don't believe that old cliché that "if they talk about it they won't do it". My dad talked about it for years. And he finally did it. Taking your own life is never the solution. It leaves gaping holes and too many unanswered questions. It leaves behind so many broken hearts and wounds that will never heal. It leaves guilt, pain, blame, anger, grief, and a host of numerous other emotions that can't even be described. It doesn't help anyone and it's the selfish way out. There is never a problem big enough that suicide is the only answer.

So in closing, I ask again that everyone just pray for my family to heal. Pray for my fathers soul. And don't ever think that there is a problem so big that you have to end your own life in order to solve it. Tell people that you love them, smile at strangers, always try to make someone's day a little brighter. You never know when they are actually thinking of doing something this drastic and your kindness may be their salvation.
I love you all. God bless.


Written a few years ago....

To My Alcoholic Father, from Your Little Girl
© Meesa
I see you struggling with the pain
and the hurt of a hard life,
I see the weariness in your eyes
and I realize now that you're not
superhuman.
You just want to give up sometimes
and lay down and rest
forever.
That's why you drink that poison.
You think it will all go away
if you just get that one good buzz.
That floating feeling will send all of your hurt
straight to hell
and you will be okay again.
No more suicide attempts,
no more fighting with the demons
that possess your spirit.
Your strength is gone now because
it has been drained from you
due to the stress you've had to deal with.
I understand this now, Dad,
because I've experienced it a little.
I am learning the hard work and the heartbreak.
I can see in my eyes now
what I so often wondered what it meant in yours.
It pains me to see this in the mirror
because I saw the same emotion in your face
for so many years
and I am so scared to ride down
that path named after you.

But I am proud of you now, Dad.

You're turning it all around.
I know your intentions were good.
I know you wanted to make our dreams come true.
And if anyone asks your little girl if you did,
the answer will always be yes.
With your good and bad times
you made me who I am today,
and that was always one of my dreams...
to be like you on your good days
and to be a strong person with a loving heart.

And that makes me want to mend
your rough working hands
and your shattered knee,
just so I can repay you
for giving me the life I had.
I just wish I could heal you
and thank you at the same time.
But I just wanted you to know
how proud I am of you
and that no matter what...

I will always be your little girl.