THE SECOND TIME I TRIED TO KILL MYSELF

Photo: "New Mother"

THEN:


     The second time I tried to kill myself, I was twenty-one years old. Certainly old enough to know better! Looking back I think the same thing about that attempt as I do the first time I tried it when I was fifteen: "What the hell was I thinking?!" Life was tough, for sure, and it was going to get tougher, but life was and is also wondrous, beautiful, interesting, hopeful, breathtaking. Life is so many things, some horrible and some wonderful, but over all, if you just learn to look at the water in the bottom of the glass instead of the air in the top, life is awesome! And not only that, but this time I had a son to live for. 

     My son Cory was about nine months old and, my first husband, Greg and I had bought our boy a Beagle puppy. Greg named the pup Butch. Butchy was a cute little dog with those Beagle ears that are softer than satin. I remember how calming those little ears could be, just the feel of them made you believe in God. They felt like a miracle, like living silk.
   
    One evening I was a little stressed out with trying to keep up with a nine month old, housebreaking a puppy, and getting dinner on the table at an expected time. We'd fallen into the habit of eating in front of the television, so I sat my plate on the coffee table and went back to get my drink. By the time I made it back into the living area Butch had his nose in my spaghetti. Greg was watching the television and hadn't noticed. I made a disgusted sound and an accusatory, "Greg!" as I walked into the room. When he looked away from the television and saw that the pup was eating my food, Greg grabbed Butchy by the back of the neck and hit the dog, hard and repeatedly, before I even made it to the coffee table. In ten seconds I moved from annoyed to devastated. I wrestled the dog from him, crying, "He's just a puppy! He doesn't know any better." The pup had given a loud wail at the first blow but was too injured to cry anymore. His eyes rolled back in his head and blood began to ooze from his nose. I looked at my husband with fear and revulsion, and fled the room with the dog. I took him to the baby's room and tried to gather my wits and my strength and figure out what to do for the dog.

    We didn't have any money for a vet and I was suddenly afraid of Greg. I was sure I did not know him at all, did not know what he was capable of. I did not want to even walk back through the room he was in. I cleaned the blood off the pup and watched as he seemed to regain his senses, then I hid him in a box under the baby's bed. I sat in the floor in the hall, my back against the door going into that room and felt like a pathetic, puny, worthless guard. My thoughts went crazy. I decided I'd married a monster. I didn't feel safe. I didn't think my son was safe. I'd created a nightmare for both of us and for the little pup. Cory's dad was malicious and his mother was a frightened idiot that had brought this nightmare on. The baby would be better off without either of us, and if I died Greg would give him away. He would let my sister have him. Cory would be so much better off with my sister than with Greg and me.

    While all these crazy thoughts were going through my head I could hear Greg cussing, smashing the plates full of food into the sink, popping the top of his first beer of the evening. It was sure to be followed by many, many more. He turned off the television and turned on the stereo. He started playing, "Leader of the Band," by Dan Fogelberg, which (though Greg's father did not play an instrument) made him think of his dad. I had introduced him to the song, and I soon wished I had kept it to myself. He would play that song and "Cat's in the Cradle" by Harry Chapin until my brain was fried. The stereo got louder as he listened to "Leader of the Band" repeatedly and drank one beer after another.

    I did not want to live like this, and I didn't know how to get out of it. Divorce was not an option in my mind at that time. I decided that the only way to not live like this was to not live. I made up my mind to drink everything my husband was overlooking, everything in the liquor cabinet, to both bolster my courage and to make a statement about drinking, and then cut my wrists and save Cory from this life. Maybe if I got drunk and killed myself Greg would quit drinking. Maybe Cory would never drink.

    I gathered my courage and went to the kitchen liquor cabinet and carried the first three bottles to my room. Greg had his back to me and the music up, and he never knew I had walked through the room. I sat in the floor against the foot of my bed, watching the door to Cory's room, thinking about how much I had ruined his life and mine too. He never woke up in the middle of the night now and dinner had been so late that he'd been asleep in his crib for hours now. I finished a nearly full bottle of brandy, half a bottle of peach schnapps, and half a bottle of Jack Daniel's. I laughed at the idea that Greg and I were drinking together alone. I felt a little happier with my decision, a little happier with everything, as I made my way into the kitchen and brought out the last three bottles of booze, swinging by the bathroom to grab a razor blade along the way. I was saving us all. Maybe even Greg would find a better life without me.

    I tucked the razor blade into the padded frame of my water bed, thinking in my boozed up head that Greg might come in the room and take away my chance to escape. I wanted to finish off the last of the liquor before I sliced myself, make a bold statement about drinking. So, I drained what was left in a bottle of vodka, some gin, and some Southern Comfort. By then I could not keep up with how much was in the bottles, but I knew when they were empty. I tossed all the empties into the same pile and felt accomplished. I pulled the razor out and thought about how I had enjoyed cutting my fingers when I was four years old. I wondered why I had done that, and then I thought, "If Cory cuts his fingers when he's four, will it be because I left him?" I shook my befuddled head and reminded myself that I was doing him a favor, doing us all a favor. I laid the blade against my wrist, and just as I started to push it against my skin, Cory, the baby that never woke up in the night anymore, woke up and started crying. I could not stand the idea of him crying all night, and I knew his dad was too drunk to even hear our son, let alone make him a bottle. Besides, Greg did not know how to make the bottles. I figured if I made Cory a bottle and he went back to sleep then I would be able to kill myself believing that he would not cry again until after I was found dead.

    I stumbled into the kitchen and made a bottle, no longer caring if Greg saw me. When I entered his nursery, Cory was standing in his crib, whimpering, and sobbing my name. "Mum. Mum. Mum," over and over. I looked at the tears in his eyes and I suddenly knew that no one would ever love that child as much as I did. I was drunk, but I wasn't too drunk to know that. Yes, there were better mothers, better fathers, better lives, but no one would ever love him like his Mum. I also knew that killing myself would not be something he'd shrug off. "What," I thought, "What if he wondered why he wasn't enough of a reason to stay around."

    I took my son from the crib and he snuggled into my shoulder and as he stopped crying I began to cry. He needed his "Mum" more than a bottle. I sat down with him and fed him the bottle, and tried to not keep him awake with my drunken sobs. The last time I'd tried to kill myself I begged God to forgive me. This time I begged my little baby boy to forgive me. I felt I had nearly wronged him more than myself, Greg, or even God.

    Once I stopped crying and Cory went back to sleep, I put him in his crib and headed to the bathroom. I knew I had drank enough to possibly hurt or kill myself without even using the razor. I leaned over the toilet and forced myself to throw up. I remember the vomit being red, and I remember trying to tell if it was red booze or red blood. I could not tell.

    I had black outs the rest of the night. I do remember that Greg figured out I was even more drunk than he was and decided it was entertaining to hang around me. He annoyed me so much I ran outside and crawled under our car in my nightgown. He pulled me out and put me back in bed. 

    The next day, Greg went to work and I took care of Cory and Butch. They were both especially good, and I knew I didn't deserve it. I was so sick I could barely breathe, let alone move for necessary tasks like making bottles and changing diapers, and picking up puppy accidents. I vomited a few more times, but I did what had to be done. I also sat around a lot with only my fingers moving, rubbing Butch's soft, soft ears or stroking Cory's silky hair, thanking God for both of them, and for this new but painful day. Somehow Co and I got through that day. Somehow, we got through many, many more.

    I cannot say I love my kids more than God, but I can say I think they need me more than God does. I broke my word to God and tried to kill myself after promising to never do so again, but I never broke that promise to Cory. I never felt free to leave him, free to set the example of a quitter, free to take the risk that my leaving might make his life any harder than it had to be. My sons have saved my life over and over and forced me to be a better and stronger person than I knew I could be. Motherhood is not for everyone and I'm not the best mother in the world, far from it, but I do hang around as long as I can, as hard as I can. I do try to show them how to hang tough and stay alive. I do keep my promises to my sons. Motherhood saved me.

    If you love anyone, don't hurt them by giving up. Make sure they know they are enough of a reason to hang around...