Moving Toward the Light

“She’s not here, she’s not here!” Judy cried as she raced into my office one morning.  It was the beginning of a usual morning for a junior high school.  It was busy, noisy, and lockers wouldn’t open.  By this time in my life I had been counseling teenagers for seven years and very little could surprise me anymore.  I patiently waited for Judy to calm down so she could explain further.

“Kelly isn’t here and I’m scared.  She called me last night and was acting kind of funny.  I asked her if she was okay.  She said she had taken a bunch of pills but she’s said that before just to get attention.  I thought she was just goofing around.  Please find out why she isn’t here.”

After assuring Judy that I would do just that and get back to her as soon as possible, I called Kelly’s home.  There was no answer.  I looked up her father’s work number and nervously dialed.  He had not come to work yet.  My next call was to the local police.

According to the return call of the police officer, he and Kelly’s dad drove up to the house at the same time.  The father had stayed all night at his girlfriend’s house and was just coming home to get ready for work.  He thought Kelly’s brother was home with her.  However, the brother had been out half the night with friends, drinking.

The officer said they had entered the house and found Kelly in bed, barely breathing.  She had taken a handful of aspirin.  They took her to the local doctor where she was treated and sent home.

Kelly had shared with me about her parent’s divorce.  She lived with her dad because her mom didn’t want the responsibility of motherhood.  Kelly had told me she was jealous of the time her dad spent with his girl friend.  She hated being home alone.  However, nothing changed after that.

I heard later that when Kelly was in high school she decided to join the fast lane of life, especially after the death of her mother in a car accident.  Kelly was a bright girl but she was not doing well academically due to all the emotional blocking.  I had left the school district and had been gone several years.  I always wondered how she was doing.  A few years ago, as I was writing this book, I heard that she had been successful in her second attempt to take her life.  This time she was pregnant.  She took her own life and the life of her baby with a gunshot wound to the abdomen.

In the many years I have spent in counseling, I have dealt with many cases of suicide and attempted suicide.  Each time I am involved with one, my mind flashes back to another instance when the suicide was successful.

This is the note my father left:  “Dear Irene, Things just seem such a mess and I don’t know how to get out of it.  There are a lot of things I didn’t tell you and there just doesn’t seem to be any answer.  Remember I told you I mortgaged the house?  Well, I didn’t.  That should tell you something.  May God forgive me.  My insurance policies are in the file and the title to Sharon’s car is in my desk drawer.  Our manager is a good man, ask him to help.  Maybe my brother can help too.  I love you.

The last words my fifty-two year old father ever wrote were these, written on a couple of pages of a small notepad and stapled together.  He must have written the note in his office but it was found on the front seat of the car, along with an empty fifth of whiskey.  I kept the note for years and then gave it to my mother to keep.  I did not deal with the suicide or the note because I had immediately repressed it, just stuffed it as far back in my mind as I could.