Lynn C. Tolson
A true story, Beyond the Tears begins with the suicide attempt of an abused and addicted twenty-five-year-old woman. In the aftermath, she commits to counseling to recover from anxiety and depression associated with post-traumatic stress disorder. The author engages the reader in therapy sessions where the young woman reveals dysfunctional family relationships, including domestic violence, sexual abuse, and mental illness. Due to the therapeutic process, the woman discovers a path to love and the value of life, and she ultimately achieves a life that reflects health and happiness. In sharing this inspirational journey, the author provides a message of hope.
After her first eighteen years in the Northeast, Lynn Tolson moved to the Southwest where she engaged in careers in real estate and property management. During those years, she survived post-traumatic stress disorder, which manifested in addictions and suicide attempts. Through the therapeutic process, she determined the causes of her dysfunction and was able to ultimately achieve a life that reflects health and happiness. Her memoir, Beyond the Tears, illustrates physical, emotional, and spiritual transformation; her story offers a message of hope. Tolson currently resides in the Midwest where she returned to college to obtain a degree in social work.
That night, December 20, 1978, the radio reported the most rain in Phoenix in one hundred years. Broadcasters called it the flood of the century. While I was driving, I listened to reports of accumulated rainfall and road closures. "Stay off the streets," the announcer warned. The wet pavement reflected the colored holiday lights that adorned cactus. Seasonal garlands, heavy with the weight of rainwater, drooped to the gutters. Carols interrupted newscasts, followed by the countdown: "Only four shopping days left until Christmas." I felt a pressure as intense as the rain that pounded on the windshield.
I sipped from the Michelob that rested between my legs, and then lit a cigarette. The cough of a nasty cold rattled my chest. As I passed gas stations and convenience stores, I could not decide whether or not to fill the empty gas tank. It was too dark to stop, too cold to get out, too wet to pump. My T-shirt and bra were soaked through to my skin, and the denim jacket and jeans provided no warmth. The heater vents blew warm currents of air, but I still shivered.
In a trance, I drove until the high beams of my Chevy formed a solitary tunnel of light. The roads were as dark as the thoughts driving me to an undetermined destination. The vehicle transporting me through the desolate desert was as isolated as the body that entrapped me on earth. I longed to be on the other side, in another realm.
After courting a death wish for over a decade, I thought I heard a voice that urged me to die. Die! Die! I imagined giving in to impulse and stabbing myself with scissors straight through the heart. Die! Die! Because I could no longer live with myself, self-annihilation seemed to be the only answer.
My hand shook as I reached for the glove compartment. My fingers trembled as much from fear as from the cold. The glove compartment contained vials of pain medication that my doctor had prescribed for the headaches that never ceased. I’d carefully counted and hoarded the pills: ninety Darvon Compound for mild pain, thirty Tylenol with Codeine for moderate pain, fifty Percodan for severe pain, one hundred Serax to relax me, Dalmane to sedate me, and Compazine for nausea. I planned on using this multicolored mix of tablets and capsules to put me out of my misery.
I had scripted suicide scenes for months, wondering how each setting would play out. If I killed myself in a muddy field, a cotton farmer would find a skeleton in the spring. If I committed suicide in the car along a county road, passersby would think the car had been abandoned in the mud. If the sheriff discovered my body locked inside the car, I would be considered a criminal because suicide was against the law. If I nicked a vein with a razor from my overnight bag, I would surely cringe at the first sight of blood. However, would I, could I feel any pain? Perhaps an oncoming cattle truck would veer across the yellow line, causing a head-on collision. If I spotted the bright, raised lights of a semi coming towards me, perhaps I could ever so slightly steer to the opposite lane. What if the truck driver had a family awaiting his Christmas homecoming? It would be best to stick to my original plan to take pills, leaving others out of it.
Close to midnight, I turned back toward town and pulled up to a Holiday Inn I had passed earlier. I parked in the far corner of the lot. After turning off the engine, I sat behind the wheel to think. Drops of rain were pelting the roof like pebbles: ping, ping, ping. I was trying to collect my thoughts.
I packed the collection of pills into my purse and grabbed the grocery bag of beer. As I stepped out of the car, cold currents of water washed over my leather clogs. The rustling leaves of the oleander hedge spooked me. I ran to the office. I must have looked like a breathless bag lady with wet brown hair, a soggy brown sack, and an overnight bag. As I checked in with cash, the desk clerk politely handed over a black key tag numbered 206.
In the motel room, I tugged the orange-and-green checked spread and the pillows from one bed and crawled into the other bed, fully clothed. This was the final suicide scene: checking out at the inn. Who would discover the body in the morning? Maybe the maid would think this guest was just asleep and forgot to put out the light and the do-not-disturb sign. I was still shivering, even after I’d wrapped myself in several blankets.
