How many people’s lives have I ruined for the future? By allowing Daniel to survive his suicide attempts, all of his attempts, by keeping this psychopath alive, have I ruined other people’s lives as well as mine? Have I destroyed their feelings of well-being and inner peace as well by allowing Daniel to touch them? Should I have let him die is a question I ponder over and over in my mind relentlessly.
Daniel is a sick man. Psychiatrically ill. That is a given. Psychiatrists have proclaimed him ill. Not one. Not two. But many. Law enforcement constantly has run-ins with him. From the age of about seven until the present. School personnel notified his parents constantly that he needed help. Local boys club volunteers that worked with him that later spoke to me told me they knew he was wracked with problems, and that the boy needed counseling. All in vain.
All of this knowledge that I tell you now is in hindsight. I have had a lot of time to recollect. I have had time to reference my journals. Many have spoken to me about him, beginning with his mother, Sandra. The stories she would tell me about him and laugh about his childhood were horrendous at the least, horrific at the most.
As I have written this Blog and speaking with the readers, some have thought that the posts I am writing are fictitious. They are not. All that I write is real. Not one word do I create in my mind. All that I write about has happened to me and is factual. That is one point that I must make clear before I write any further. I want to clear that for my readers so that they understand why I am writing this particular post. I sit here tonight wondering as I was being hurt so badly back then, as I watched him attempt to kill himself over thirteen times, why didn’t I stop the pain then? His pain, my pain, the pain of all those involved with this man.
If I had been his nurturer, I should have stopped his inner pain. I should have allowed him to commit suicide. I should have allowed him to die. If he had, he wouldn’t have had his demons anymore. If he had died, his demons wouldn’t torment him. If his demons didn’t torment him, then they wouldn’t create his racing thoughts. If Daniel’s racing thoughts weren’t creating a thought-crazed man who talked of delusional ideas, then my pain could have been cut short. Sounds so simple.
But isn’t that talking as if I wasn’t the wronged one? As if I should have been helping him? That’s how the typical abused personality thinks. That’s how the abused personality begins to think. It’s how it’s brainwashed. The emotions become so manipulated that the person begins to think they should be helping the abuser. No matter how illogical it seems to anyone else, the abused will think they maybe they could have done something to make their life all right.
Which brings me back to my original statement. Perhaps if I had allowed Daniel to outright kill himself, then maybe I would have helped myself to make my life alright. Those words may take the reader a few moments to digest. You may think about them now and tonight and tomorrow. Those words are very strong. And in one instant of time, they were actually said to me by his mother.
Early one evening, about 7 p.m., Daniel had shown me two bottles of his psychiatric medicines. Full bottles, he was talking about how the pills made him feel. The two medicines were strong antipsychotics. Very calmly, and very quickly, he opened the bottles and swallowed the entire contents of both. Just like that. As if he was eating a bag of candy. No water to ease the pills down. He just swallowed them. Then he went and sat down on the living room sofa.
As I’ve talked about in earlier posts, his suicide attempts were becoming more and more commonplace. After over 13 attempts, I had stopped counting. I grabbed the house phone to call 911. Just as I did, the front door opened, and his mother walked in. She saw him sitting on the living room sofa, starting to slide off to the side. She saw the bottles, one in his hand yet, and the other at his side. She knew what had happened instinctively. She had been through this before, also.
She walked over to me, took the phone out of my hand, and said, “Let’s go out, dear.” She looked me directly in the eyes and said, “When we return home, maybe if we’re lucky, he’ll be dead. We can be at peace. What would you like to do? Go shopping? I’ll buy you anything you want.”
I’ll never forget that moment as long as I live. I thought this woman had lost her mind. This was her son. Her only son. Her only child left that was talking to her. Her daughter, Susan, no longer wanted anything to do with her. How could a mother see her son attempt suicide and want to go shopping? My mind, flooded with repulsive thoughts at this woman, just stared.
“You say you believe in your God? You say you go to church every Sunday and you are a good woman?” I countered. “How in your god’s name can you say that? Your son needs help. I can’t leave him here wondering if he is going to die and go shopping with you.” I was trying to grab the phone back from her, but she was holding it back from me.
“He’s troubled. Let him die. We’ll go for a few hours. No one will know the difference. We’ll say we found him when we get back.” Sandra told me.
“Absolutely not,” I said, grabbing the phone from her hand. “Your god may allow you to do this, but my goddesses do not give me this option to leave him here to die. I need to call 911.” And with that I placed the call that was becoming second nature to me. The call that I knew would give me peace.
It would give me peace because Daniel would go into the mental ward again. He would be institutionalized for a minimum of 72 hours. And I would be free of him for three days, at least. Three days of freedom. If only I had three days of freedom from his mother, also. But that was not to be.
I did manage to grab the phone from her and call 911. Again. Tell them Daniel had attempted suicide. Wait for the ambulance. Give them the information and bottles. Decide if I was going to the emergency room. His stomach would be pumped. A social worker would be called. I would be questioned if he needed observation. If I didn’t go, he would manipulate the staff into giving him the phone to call me at home. Suicide attempts are a cry for help some say. Or are they?
As to my original question, have I done a disservice to this world by allowing him to live? I don’t know. I don’t know who else he might have hurt along the way. I do know that I haven’t ruined my life. And neither Daniel nor his mother ruined my life fully. I’ve only become stronger. I’m that survivor. A survivor with pain. Aren’t we all in some way?
- Where Do I Find Help for Someone Who Is Suicidal? (everydayhealth.com)
- The Reasons for More Men Commit Suicide (socyberty.com)
- Preventing Suicide in Bipolar Children (everydayhealth.com)
- SANDRA MELO joined Humanity Healing International’s group (community.humanityhealing.net)
- Survivor Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…Twice In One Night) (sorceressofthedark.wordpress.com)
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