She Did It

She killed herself. She put a fucking gun to her head and pulled the goddamned trigger letting that stupid little bullet ping-pong in her head until her brain was mush. Thanks, Mom. Perfect start to the morning. Happy fucking birthday to you, Mom.

I was the first to find her. I couldn’t get in, so I called my mother-in-law and asked for help. She didn’t ask any questions. I guess she heard how much I was freaking out. I couldn’t breathe.

Trouble was outside. That was not a good sign. Trouble was my brother’s dog and tended to run off. She wasn’t allowed outside without supervision. So, when she jumped all over me licking and kissing me I knew something was up.

Making a quick sweep around the house, I knocked on windows and doors trying to get her attention. Waiting on Patty was probably one of the hardest things I ever had to do. It felt like she was taking forever, when it was only a few minutes. Mom never locked her doors when she was at home. And I knew she was. Her car was in the backyard. She made a point to drive herself everywhere.

The cops came and the whole shebang. They had to break down the door. She was dead. Gurney and black bag. Patty and I had to both get in to separate squad cars and take down our statements. It’s hard to write when you can’t see the paper.

Frustration. Disbelief. Anger. Well, anger is not quite the word I'm looking for, rather annoyance. Plain freaking aggravation from having to deal with her bullshit. Why didn't she just do what the professionals told her to? Oh, right, because she knew how to control her moods. Yeah. Great job.

I miss her, though. I really do. She was a good mom, in her own way. I loved her even though she could be a total butt. She had a lot of shit happen to her when she was a kid. I mean little kid. Like, as young as two and three.

My mom, Belinda, had bipolar disorder. It really fucked with her. There wasn't much treatment back in the day, either. I don't think she ever told me when the monster started showing its ugly head, but if I had to guess, I'd say probably around thirteen. Hormones, puberty, biological chicanery. Mother Earth is a bitch and most likely mental, too.

I'm bipolar, as well. Her death made mine show up in a whirlwind. I tried to fight it for a little while, but decided it was best to seek help, so I didn't end up like her. I mean, I got three kids to raise. I can't be that selfish. Nope, not an option.

Death teaches a lot. More than you ever thought you'd want to learn but turns out to be rather necessary for survival. Freaking sucks, though. He's not a friendly professor, and rather strict.

I hope she doesn't mind me writing about her. Oh, well, the dead don't get a choice. That's her own fault. Lesson of the day: don't die if you don't want to be ousted.

So, she was the third of three and the only girl. Not much of a girl, I might add. Tomboyish as hell. Nothing wrong with that. I was, too. Probably her fault. She had to do whatever she could to keep up with her older brothers. Can't be left behind, that'd suck balls.

Nothing real unusual there, as far as I know. Premature drinking, smoking, the usual. But, her uncles, on the other hand were a different story entirely. Especially one. The only one she ever named: Smith. She was terrified of him even as an adult. She would lose all color as soon as his name popped up or he was mentioned for whatever reason. He was the one who did the number on her. Fucked her up, hardcore.

He made her think he loved her. Like, loved her. In a way no child should ever know. It's criminal, in more ways than one, what he took from her. Innocence is a gift to be given, not a piece of a person to be taken forcefully.

Brainwashed to be a slave to his disgusting desires, she didn't understand that what he was doing was bad until she was much older. Her psyche was pretty much already lost by then, never to be fully recovered.

Her childhood was what really brought the bipolar to the top. The tendrils of a cracked mind slowly leaked until they came at a steady flow. She got sick. Her parents put her in the hospital. She never trusted anybody ever again after that.

It killed her. Her own mind killed her body and she didn’t want help. I’ll never understand it. I might think I do, or maybe even get the gist of it, but I’ll never be in her shoes. Help was a dirty word.

I know I said it earlier, but suicide is not selfish. It’s a final outcry for awareness that will never be answered. It should never be an option, but many people opt out of the struggle.

In just a few days it will be the fifth anniversary of that dreadful day. The rest of that whole year was and unbelievable disaster. A whirlwind of tears and arguments and having to deal with family that I don’t see much. And my Step-Dad. He just disappeared. I know he’s in town, but he won’t come around anymore.

I don’t want this. I don’t want anyone else to have to call their sister and tell her that her mom is gone. I don’t want anyone else to have to stand up for a loved one even though they are grieving for them. I never want someone to hate and love and feel everything but nothing at all.

Call for help.

Do it.

Even if you’re not sure, it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Don’t ever think that someone’s not capable. Because they are.