This blog is not FDA approved
My father is a handsome man, an ‘action’ man, and a giving man, when the coffers are full; he can also be the most close-minded and self-centered person I know. He almost became merely a memory this past March when he narrowly escaped from a self induced prescription drug overdose and today, two days before Mother’s Day, he has made a strong second attempt at ending his life yet again.
And I am fucking pissed. Let me back up a bit for you.
My parents met on a night perfect for cruising main, a blind date in a small town, and a big truck to ride around in. I was two and my mom let me tag along from day one so that there was no confusion about where I stood in the their relationship. It wasn’t long before he was wrapped around my little finger and we were just three smug pees in a pod. Things rocked along pretty well for quite a while, but somewhere along the way he grew unhappy with our little family and things took a dark turn.
By my early teens he took to emotionally abusing my mother on a regular basis. He has never taken a hand to her, but I have heard her called just about every name in the book; his favorite pet name usually revolved around ‘fat bitch’, but many others made the appalling rotation. I couldn’t stand being in his presence when he acted this way, but my mother is a faithful woman who held tight to their sacred vow, so she trucked on.
As I grew older and became brave enough to stand up to him, I made a point to insert myself at any point to let him know just how inappropriate and disgusting his behavior was. I was his little girl, his pride and joy, and if anyone was able to talk some sense into him, it was me. The name calling calmed down considerably, at least in my presence, and I felt as though we were making progress.
That is, until I went off to college. The verbal abuse picked up like never before, now paired with aggressive arguments ending in domineering displays of anger. My father has punched walls, smashed a T.V., and even taken a shot at my mothers dog in his own house.
I didn’t request, I didn’t ask politely, I DEMANDED that my mother set up a P.O. box, find an apartment, and very quickly get the hell out of there. We were sitting on a time bomb and had well over-stayed our welcome. My father came home to an empty house and I fielded an awkward phone call where I informed him that the jig was up, the circus was over, and we wanted a divorce.
That was roughly two years ago and things have been relatively tumultuous since. My father and I attempted to keep in touch in the beginning, but with his constant need to keep tally of any thoughts I had on their divorce as his side or hers, and his inability to be rational when it came to my mother, it became clear that I could no longer reach him the way that I once had.
Going through it all, attempting to be everyone’s shoulder, and trying to talk any kind of sense into him had taken its toll on its own. Then a week or two after my birthday, just barely a month and a half after I lost my best friend to a pulmonary embolism, my father decides it’s time to take entirely too many prescription pills and just forget it all.
Apparently the married woman my dad had been seeing decided she wasn’t going to leave her husband after all, and he just couldn’t take it.
I.was.furious. You selfish piece of shit. How do you just decide that no one else matters and you’re just going to check out because this floozy of a woman rejected you? Not to mention your daughter is still reeling from the loss of one of her best friends whose last breath was stolen by a freak of nature, and here you are throwing yours away.
I swallowed my anger and called him as soon as he was released from the hospital. An unanswered call to be returned a month later.
A series of strained phone calls ensued, where he lied to me, cried to me, and attempted to explain to me why he deserved to have it all while my mother gets left with nothing. “She’s the one who put on weight”, he says, “she’s the one that couldn’t keep the house clean enough, you know. This is all her fault.”
Words cannot describe the heat that burned inside me. All this time, after all these talks and all these tears,this man still cannot grasp how vile his attitude is and how completely selfish he’s become. And I just lost it on him. I told him exactly what I thought of him and how utterly disapointed I was with the man he had become. He was better than this.
He ended by telling me to keep my pretty little head out of it and I’ve heard nothing more than silence from him after that phone call.
For Mother’s Day weekend he swallowed all the good drugs left in the house and took his dance with the devil out for another spin. His first near death experience brought his dirt-leg back into his arms for a short piece in time, but with her second retreat, it was time for him to take yet another stab at his own life, to be left only a few milligrams short. Skirting the line of black abyss, he calls my mother for a slurred boo-hoo pity-party.
My father has now threatened to take his own life more times than I can count on two hands. It’s always at a time when he isn’t getting his way, and it’s always when he’s feeling down; it has become his attention grabber.
I simply have no patience for this. This isn’t a game; threatening to take your own life is not a joke. You shouldn’t throw that around, ever, and you certainly don’t use it to get attention the minute things aren’t in your favor. His relationship with my mother, myself, his oldest son, and many other people is strained because he has proven over and over that he is nothing more than a self-centered ass. And now he’s cried wolf one too many times.