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First breaks in the frame.

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I was nine years old when I had my first real experience with death. His name was Vick, Mom’s first serious boyfriend after divorcing Dad.

I always thought my parents would get back together. In every t.v. show, book I’d read, or even video game, love always worked out. You had to be genuine, trustworthy, and honest, but if you were, good always prevailed.

Like any other nine year old, I had a wild imagination. Maybe more than some. I always thought I would be a hero. I believed it down to my core.

Some of my favorite stories of heros, they didn’t even risk their life. In one story, an ancient woman told a little girl she was taking the innocent of the world away to start anew. The little girl had begged and begged for a puppy for years, and finally, she got one. The little girl and the puppy became fast friends. They slept together, ate together and played together. But when the little girl learned of a place made of the purely innocent, she begged the old woman to please take her puppy so he might be happier.

There was nothing life-threatening. The puppy and the girl weren’t even unhappy. The girl could have easily kept the puppy, and they likely would have both lived a happy life together. But still, she let him go so he might have something even better.

This convinced me that there was more than one way to save someone. So maybe I could save my Dad. He missed Mom so much and asked about her every time I saw him. There must be a way to fix what happened between them.

At first, I tried the regular things. Played Mom songs about peace and love, drew picutes of our family back together, wrote stories about true love. When this didn’t work, I decided it must have been because Vick was there. So, obviously, I would have to break them up.

Dad thought this was a marvelous idea. He would often call and tell me things to say to him. “Your head is so round it could be used as a bowling ball. The only reason Mom is dating you is cause you’re the opposite from Dad, ugly.” Dad treated it like a game, both of us laughing and snickering over the phone when we came up with more mean things to say.

One day, I even took a picture of Vick and printed it from the camera. I took a black sharpie and drew a perfect circle around Vick’s head and replaced his eyes and mouth with that of a smiley face emoji, then colored in the circle yellow. The bottom of the photo came out wrong with a greenish hue that you could move around with your fingers, so I drew stink lines around it to make it look like he farted. I showed it to Vick, giggling about his perfectly round head.

A few days later, Mom got the call. Vick had shot himself in the head. Mom collapsed on the ground and cried for hours, unmoving, before Dad came to get us. He picked Mom up off the floor and held her tight as she sobbed.

When Mom’s cries finally quieted down, Dad tucked her into bed and took me and my brother out to the car. After buckling us in, he sat in the drivers seat and gave us a long sympathetic look. He rubbed his hand down my face, “Hey kid, I thought the picture was really funny.”

My fault.

We stayed with Dad for a few days before going to Vick’s funeral. When we arrived, Vick’s Mom approached me. She knelt down and gave me a big hug. “It’s going to be okay,” she said, “I’ll walk with you.”

Why doesn’t she hate me?

She led us past rows of people, his friends, and family. All silently crying into tissues. Mom was sitting in the front row, staring into a distant corner. Her face was flushed, and dried streaks ran from her eyes to her chin. She looked as if she had cried until there was nothing left. Until she was empty.

Vick came into view all at once. I had never seen a corpse before. He looked like a porcelain statue. So white. So cold.

For some reason, I couldn’t cry. Even though I wanted to. I hadn’t been able to cry once. It was as if I had gone completely numb.

My fault.

When Dad picked us up, I stared out the window, trying to focus all of my intent on a single star. Never again. This will never happen again.

“Was he cold,” Dad asked, “did he look cold?”

“Yes.”

This is all my fault.

Spontaneous Suicide

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About a year after I moved out of my parents’ house, I began to feel depressed. I was lonely.  Every night, I would come home, sit on my couch, and play League of Legends. For weeks at a time, my life was work and video games. Nothing else.

There was a time that I spent every night with my friends, but over time, we began to become distant. I loved my friends. To me, they were there more than my own family had been. I was struggling with this sudden distance.

One night, I had a sevier asthma attack and realized I had left my inhaler in Steven’s car. It was late, so I tried to slow my breathing and just breathe it out. But my lungs became tighter and tighter.

Finally, I gave in and called Steven, but it went to voicemail. So I sent him a text: “Hey Steven, I’m having a super bad asthma attack and I left my inhaler in your car. I’m super sorry, but can you please bring it up to me?”

Minutes went by with no response. My lungs got tighter by the second until a small check mark showed up next to my message. He had seen it.

I waited patiently for twenty minutes…thirty minutes…an hour. No response. I was starting to panic now, and I couldn’t go to the hospital. I already owed a mountain of debt from previous attacks. Why was he ignoring me? Did he not care? Maybe he had just clicked on it and didn’t actually read it.

I called again, straight to voice mail. I texted again: “Please, Steven, I’m sorry it’s so late, but I really can’t breathe.” Again, that trusty little check mark popped up, and again, no response came.

I remembered he was supposed to be spending time with our friends Squee and Koby. Squee was one of my best friends, maybe he could help me get ahold of Steven.

I called, and almost immediately, Squee picked up the phone. “Squee,” I gasped, “can you please get Stev-” Laughter exploded on the other end of the line. The call ended.

Why? Why didn’t they care? Had I done something wrong? Tears and snot were streaming now until my breath was coming in shallow sobbing gulps.

I propped up some pillows to recline backward and remain elevated. Soon, I succumbed to exhaustion and passed out. Waking every thirty minutes or so, gasping for air.

After about the third time waking this way, I tried to fight sleep. I was scared. What if I fell asleep and never woke up? I texted Steven one more time, “Please, Steven, I don’t think I can last like this. I’m suffocating. I need my inhaler.”

As I was about to drift off yet again, the door of my apartment flew open. Steven barged in, throwing the inhaler at my feet, “There’s your fucking inhaler! Did you really have to call me a million times?!”

I sucked in the deepest I could from the inhaler, “I’m sorry,” I coughed, “I couldn’t br-breathe.”

“Do you realize this is why no one wants anything to do with you? Do you know what your friends say? They say you’re too much trouble! And you know what, I’m starting to think your family had the right idea when they kicked you out!”

“Please,” I sobbed, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“How about let me spend one night with my friends without calling all of us constantly?! How about stop calling us all together? Your family already can’t stand you, my family can’t stand you and now your friends are ready to leave! You’re worthless!”

I couldn’t breathe again. It was different this time. My breaths were coming in fast. Too fast. Thoughts raced through my mind, barley tangible yet full of impact. It was happening again. They were leaving me again. Everyone always leaves. Because there’s something wrong with me. They don’t want you here. They don’t want you in their lives. They want you gone.

It was then I saw the knife on the table. A steak knife. Sharp. Steven was still yelling something, but time had slowed, and I could no longer hear him. 

Only a few seconds had passed, and suddenly, I was staring at my wrist. A thick cut carved through it. How did the knife get in my hand? Blood. There was blood dripping. It was running down my leg. Not enough blood. There should have been more. I hadn’t cut deep enough. I knew it almost immediately, but I felt no relief.

I was vaguely aware that Steven was hitting me, as hard as he could, left to right. I couldn’t feel a thing. I couldn’t feel anything anymore. I could breathe.

I am a warrior.

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I was in the sixth grade when my parents took me and my brother to a school fair. Our school always put on impressive fairs, lots of games, dunking the teachers, and I almost always came home with a new pet fish only to have it die a few days later.

That year, they had brought in a new attraction. A gladiator jousting inflatable arena. Two people would enter and climb onto their own pedestals. Each would get a long stick and fight to knock each other off their pedestal.

I rushed to get in line. Looking around, I could see a lot of high-school students in the crowd. I felt a bit nervous thinking I would have to fight people twice my age. I was always the strongest in my class. I won every arm wrestling competition, playing mercy, or race. Sometimes, I would play with a stick in the backyard for hours, swinging the stick like a sword. But to beat a high-school student in a competition like that? It was going to be hard.

It was my turn now, I entered the baloon like arena to face the previous winner, a twelve year old freckle-faced boy. “Okay, I got this,” I thought and placed my feet shoulder width apart, ready for the go-ahead.

“Go!,” the ref shouted.

I thrust my stick forward, aiming for the boys chest. He blocked me and jammed his stick back at me. Running my stick along the side of his, I did a quick spiral and twisted the stick from his grasp and pushed him from his perch. The crowd cheered, I had won.

My next opponent was a high-school student at least twice my size. He had broad shoulders and wore a black tank top with jeans. I squared my jaw and planted my feet firmly, ready for a hard fight.

He started aggressively, and I blocked each attack with equal force to prevent falling back. I was getting the timings of his hits down. Hit hit, hit. Hit hit, hit. Hit hit, now! I moved to the side of my pedestal, dodging his next blow and impeding his balance. I swept my stick from the side to finish the job.

The next five matches went more or less the same way. Soon, there was a crowd cheering me on. It was such a rush, the adrenaline, beating kids twice my age. I felt unstoppable. 

Until a five year old girl was lifted onto the stand. I played along with her, pretending like she was hitting me right in my weak spot. It was hard for her to even lift the huge stick, so I moved to the very front of my pedestal to make it easier to hit me.

Bam, “Oh no!” I yelled as I fell, “you got me!” The ref came and held her hand up in victory, and her face gleamed. This was a different kind of rush, a better one. She was so happy.

Making my way off the arena, I found Mom and my step-dad Bob waiting for me.

“You were incredible!” Bob yelled.

“There were kids in line that literally left because they didn’t want to fight you. High school kids!” Mom exclaimed.

I blushed, “I know, it was awesome!”

Driving home, I felt an absurd sense of pride, I was the strongest. I was a warrior.

A child’s guilt.

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Guilt is a funny thing. When you are a child, something as small as stealing a no.2 pencil at school can send your young mind spiraling.

I thought about it all day. How could I do such a thing? I would hate it if someone had stolen my pencil. I was so sad when someone had stolen my special red crayon. That pencil’s eraser was just so much better than mine. It wasn’t fresh, so it didn’t smear my drawings, but it wasn’t overly used either, so the metal edges housing the eraser wouldn’t have scraped the paper. Someone probably thought something just like that when they had stolen my special red crayon.

It was on my mind even when I went next door to see my babysitter, a sixteen year old boy named Jeff. Jeff had the best room. It had lots of cool pictures of people holding katanas on his wall, his own t.v., a couch, and even his own Nintendo 64. That was the best part.

Dad had his own Nintendo 64 at his house, too. We would play Donkey Kong for hours at a time. I couldn’t play on Dad’s game anymore. He was into the really hard levels. But I had thought of a for sure victory plan, I was going to train at Jeff’s house every day after school until I was even better than Dad.

That day, Jeff had an idea. He invited me to lay down with him on the couch. Even with my small six year old body, there wasn’t enough room for us to lay side by side, so he had me lay with my head on his chest. Dad and I had snuggled like that all the time. It always made me so sleepy.

“If you’re going to be using my N64 so much, then it’s only fair if you do something for me, okay,” he asked, stroking my hair.

I looked up at him, “and then I can train to beat Dad?”

He nodded and took my hand, slowly moving it down into his pants. “What do you feel?” He asked.

I was confused. Why did he need my hand in there of all places? “I feel…something smooth…and maybe long?”

“Good,” he said, “if you pet that for a little while, I’ll play Donkey Kong with you. You can even be Diddy Kong.”

I thought it was such a weird thing to ask for, but if it meant I could train to be better than Dad, then it was easy enough. Something about it made me feel uneasy. Why did I feel like I was doing something wrong? Was I making a mistake? Ten minutes hadn’t even passed when I asked if we could play Donkey Kong yet.

As promised, we played, but a lump started forming in my throat. I had just done something horrible, I could feel it. My chest felt tight thinking about it.

Later that night, as Mom was tucking me in, I couldn’t hold it any longer. “Mom, I stole a No.2 pencil at school, and I put my hand in Jeff’s pants so I could play the Nintendo. I’m really sorry, will you forgive me?” I felt like I was about to cry, waiting for her to yell at me.

At first, she looked shocked. Horrified even. But then it was like she realized the look on her face and course corrected. “It’s okay, you don’t have to worry. You can give the pencil back and say you’re sorry.”

I hadn’t even thought of that, “Oh yeah, I’ll do that tomorrow!” She gave me a kiss on the forehead, a hug, and closed the door behind her.

Later that night, I woke to strange voices coming from the living room. One was Mom’s, and she sounded like she was crying. The other voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t tell who it was.

I snuck out of my room and peeked around the corner into the living room. Mom was there, crying into her open palms. Next to her, rubbing her back, was Jeff’s dad, Gary.

“Mom, what’s wrong?”

Her eyes shot up to meet mine, her face marked with lines from her eyes down around her jawline. She got up and forced a small smile, “I’m sorry I woke you sweetie, there’s nothing wrong. I was just a little sad about something.”

“Oh, okay. Can you tell me what you were so sad about?”

“Don’t worry about that. Let’s just get you to bed.” She ushered me back to my room, tucking me into bed, and all the while, she looked so terribly sad.

Jeff’s dad. Did it have something to do with what I told Mom? I must have really done something horrible to make Mom cry like that. Something even worse than stealing a No.2 pencil.

A child’s guilt is a funny thing.

In the hours after

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The slam of the door left a dull sound echoing as Erik stormed out. Kaylee’s cries seeming to carry it through the apartment. I held her, my poor little girl who could not possibly understand what was happening. Or why. I barely understood myself.

“Why would you make daddy leave,” Kaylee cried, “that is such a mean thing to do!”

“I know you don’t understand sweetheart. You might someday. For now…just know that Daddy did something to hurt Mommy. And Mommy just needs some time.”

“What did Daddy do to hurt you, Mommy?” Evan asked, crawling into my lap with Kaylee.

Erik hadn’t had the nerve to tell them what he had done. He had no conscience when it came to having an affair…but when it came to looking our children in the eye and telling them what he had done, he had not been able to stomach it and told them simply that he would tell them someday. But then again, I didn’t have the nerve to tell them either.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” I told them both. I probably never would. Destroying how one looks up to their parents was a concept I was all too familiar with. I didn’t want to be apart of that process for them.

We cuddled there for a while in a silent numbness. Eventually the kids, being resilient as children often are, got up and started to play. I laid there, huddled under my blanket. Trying to block everything with sleep, unsuccessfully. Instead, I watched them play. Silently crying, wondering if our family was about to break.

It wasn’t long before I needed to get up. Needed to move. So I cleaned everything in sight. I scrubbed the walls, cleaned the dishes, mopped the floors, picked up the kids room, until there was nothing else to clean. The only thing left to do was to unbox my new computer for the dream job I had been longing for since the kids were born. A job working from home, where I could be with my children and my husband. A job that was supposed to fix everything. But nothing was that simple. How could I start a new job in the morning with everything going on? How was I supposed to put on a smile and pretend to be a cheerful woman excited for a new adventure? I huffed at the boxes and decided to ignore them. Unboxing them would mean moving forward despite everything. I wasn’t ready for that.

I plopped back down onto the couch, but it wasn’t long before my thoughts started to over take me again. I needed to talk to someone. Anyone. But it was still early in the morning, which meant it was even earlier across the country where my family and friends were. I messaged my Mom and my friends anyways. Hoping someone was awake. I stared at the screen, my foot tapping impatiently. Nothing.

I fell back on the couch exasperated. Suddenly realizing just how alone I was here. It had been hard, moving here for Erik’s school. But before, at least I had him. Now, I had no one to turn to. No one to occupy my time with. No one to talk to. Erik, at least had his sister. I scorned him for bringing me here. For doing this to me when I had no where to escape to. When I had sacrificed everything; my home, my dreams, my family. Just for him to cast me aside when it had all finally become too much for me to endure. I wondered what excuse he possibly had to give. If any excuse he had could possibly be enough. I doubted it.

I slammed my fist into the pillow next to me. As if that could make me feel the least bit better. I couldn’t wait any longer. I stalked into my room and closed the door so the children couldn’t hear me before dialing my little brother Austin’s phone.

“Hello?” He answered, sounding as if he had stayed up all night playing video games again.

“Hey Austin, I am so sorry to wake you up this early…can you grab Mom? It’s important.”

“Yeah, one sec,” he mumbled, sounding somewhat annoyed.

After a few minutes of shuffling noises and static Mom answered. “Hey, what’s going on?” She asked.

“Hey, Mom,” violent sobs started to take over me the moment I heard her voice. I suddenly remembered all the times Mom had told me she thought Erik was just using me. Taking advantage of me. And now, despite always telling her she was wrong, I was about to prove she had been right all along. I hated that almost as much as what Erik had done. “Erik’s been having an affair,” I choked.

“What?!” she yelled. She sounded genuinely surprised. I had half expected an ‘I told you so.’

“How do you know?” she asked.

I told her everything, how I had seen the Just for Us page up on his phone. How I had recognized it was discord, then found the channel on his lap top. How they spoke of loving each other, how Erik had consoled her and told her they would get through this. I was blubbering through snot and tears by this point. I felt like a child running to their mother after getting a scraped knee. No amount of kissing boo boo’s and band aids would help this though.

When I was finished recanting the mornings events, Mom went quite for a moment before stating “you’re coming home.”

For some reason, it wasn’t until that moment that I truly realized the implications of exactly what was happening. Was my marriage really ending? Was I going to have to move back home in shame? Was I going to have to raise my children by myself, without them ever truly understanding why we had run far away from their father? Would they resent me? Were these past six years of toture for nothing? How would this affect them…?

“I can’t Mom, he’s their Dad” was all I could say. I felt as the figurative key turned, locking me into the cage that was now my life, and again I cried.

The night before

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The night before my life was turned upside down, you never would have guessed my family was about to be run into the ground.

It was Halloween night. Kaylee looked absolutely gorgeous in her Rapunzel costume. Evans Mario costume was a bit too tight for him, but he loved it so much he didn’t care.

Photo by paul voie on Pexels.com

We sat on my sister-in-law Carrie’s back yard patio chatting and drinking a beer my brother-in-law Saul had given me while the twins played with their cousins Henri and Yvie.

Erik laughed at something on his phone. I adored his laugh. “What are you laughing at?” I asked playfully.

“Nothing,” he said bluntly, “you wouldn’t get it.”

“Hey now,” I said rubbing his leg, “you never know, I might get it.”

“Its nothing, just an eye joke one of my classmates sent me.” He was going to school to be an optometrist.

I could tell he didn’t want me to push the topic, so I dropped it. Now, I want to punch myself in the face every time I think back to this specific moment. How did I not see this coming?

The rest of the night progressed without fault. We took the kids trick-or-treating around the block. Making sure to only visit the houses who had safety precautions for the covid pandemic.

I had gone into this Halloween expecting to be disappointed, but I was astounded at the lengths the neighborhood had taken to make this holiday safe and fun for the kids. In fact, they got more candy than they had any other year.

Once the kids started to complain that they were cold and tired we made our way back to Carrie’s and Saul’s where they immediately dove into their treasure trove of sugary treats. It wasn’t long before a sugar craze ensued. Kids running around like wild animals while we talked and played games.

“How have you been doing lately,” Carrie asked.

I had been struggling with depression for the last few months, the pandemic not helping matters. Recently I had met with a doctor (finally) who prescribed me anti-depressants. “I’ve actually been feeling a lot better, almost normal in fact.”

“That is great to hear! Just keep at it and it won’t be long before you are back to your normal self,” Saul grinned.

I hoped that they were right. For the entirety of the seven years of my marriage to Erik, I had somehow been able to juggle everything. I worked 60 hours a week, did all the cleaning, made breakfast and lunch for the kids before going to work. All so Erik could make it through school. But ever since we moved across the country, just the idea of getting up and taking a shower drained me. It was like wading through cement all day every day.

Soon, the kids sugar rush had drained. Their excitement and fun quickly turning into screaming tantrums. We gathered up their candy and their toys and packed the belligerent kids into the car.

It was late by the time we got home, so we gave the kids hugs and kisses. Had them brush their teeth, and go to bed.

I was excited to spend the rest of the holiday with Erik. Maybe watching a scary movie. Halloween was my favorite holiday after all. Instead, Erik plopped himself down in front of his laptop. His prime position for when he didn’t want to be bothered.

“How would you feel about getting us some drinks and spending time together?” I asked.

“Not tonight.”

“Okay, we could watch a movie together. Take it easy.”

“You know what, I’m actually really tired. I’m just going to take my laptop and watch some shows in bed till I fall asleep.” With that he gathered his things and went into our bedroom. Closing the door behind him.

I put on my headphones, listening to Hamilton, wondering what it would take for my husband to want to spend time with me, before finally carrying myself to bed early in the morning.