Back in the spring of 1999 I was a student at Western Oregon University
and was enrolled in the “Advanced Creative Writing” class. We were tasked with writing a short story,
and, during the term to submit one of our short stories for publication. This was the first draft of my first short
story which I submitted to Western Oregon’s literary magazine “Northwest
Passage” and it was published in the Summer 1999 issue. The version below is as published without the
subsequent edits I inevitably made. I’ve
added an epilogue today.
Hell
I wish I were
dead. I know everybody has these
thoughts every once in awhile, but I really want to die. The storm doesn’t help. I’m wearing just a t-shit and it’s still so
hot and muggy. I can smell the musty air
as the rain pelts the dusty ground. Am I
hot just because I’m so hugely pregnant or what? I really hate this. My legs are so clammy that they’re sticking
together, but it’s too hot to even put a sheet between them. Damn El Paso. Damn Army housing. It’s two in the morning and 98 degrees out
with thunder and lightning. It’s a total
contradiction of everything I love.
I want to go back
home. Oregon can get hot, but not often,
and not at two in the morning when I’m trying to sleep. Damn El Paso and damn the military. Who the hell builds streets with no drainage
ditches so that when it rains everything floods? And who the hell puts such flimsy power lines
that they break every time it rains?
We’ve only lived here for three months and already the power has gone
out six times! I mean, hell people, get
a brain! The power has already been out
for eight hours so far, and wouldn’t you know that it would go out just while I
was making dinner. I hate having to eat
corn flakes for dinner when I have a perfectly good casserole in the over –
uncooked! I’m so tired; I want to
sleep. It also didn’t help when Mike
came home tonight.
# # #
“Don’t ever go in
and talk to the First Sergeant again!
Thanks to you I got my butt chewed out at first formation,” Mike said.
“What happened?” I
asked.
“First Sergeant told
everybody that ‘if you’re gonna send your wives in bitchin you damn well better
have the balls to go in with her!”
“You’re
kidding! He told me that you wouldn’t
get in trouble, that he’d just talk to you in private,” I said.
“Well he
didn’t. He announced it in formation,
and when he said it, everybody turned and looked at me. Then he came right up to me and was like,
‘Understand?’”
“What a jerk!” I can’t believe it; he promised me.
“Then this afternoon
Sergeant Roscoe started getting on my ass; he told me that I better start
controlling my wife, or I’ll get an article fifteen. You know what that is don’t you?” he said.
“Isn’t that where
they take a hundred dollars out of your paycheck?”
“Yeah, but they also
put it in your record and it stays with you throughout your military career
which means that I could miss a promotion, and you know that I really need a
promotion.”
“Can he do
that? Are they serious?” I asked.
“Sergeant Roscoe
says that it would be a ‘failure to control your spouse.’ I don’t know. I
should look it up, but I also asked Sergeant Lennis, and he said it’s something
like that.”
“I’m sorry I got you
into trouble. I’m just so tired of all
this,” I said.
“I know.”
# # #
When First Sergeant
Little got to the unit, he told all of us that if we ever needed anything or
just wanted to talk, we could come to him.
Well yesterday I went in to ask him for advice on how to be a successful
military wife. I figured that since he’s
been in for twenty years and is married with a family, that he would be a good
person to ask. I told him that I loved
my husband and I wanted to be a supportive wife, but lately Mike and I had been
talking about getting divorced. In our
three years of marriage we were apart for a year and half and another five
months of field training with him leaving all of the time. Now, when Mike and I see each other, we can’t
seem to talk. I told First Sergeant that
we were struggling to try and make it work and we were having a hard time of it. I asked him:
What are activities that we can do to bring us closer? What kinds of questions should I ask my
husband? And, as an army man, what does
he need from me? How can I support
Mike? First Sergeant told me to, “Hang
in there” and to try and understand that my husband doesn’t have control over
what he is ordered to do, so I should try and be understanding. He went on to tell me, “I know your husband
must be nervous about you coming in here, but tell him not to worry; this is
just between us. And don’t worry, he won’t
get in trouble, I’ll just talk to him in private, okay?”
“Yes, thank you, I
really appreciate your listening and all of your help,” I said. What a fool I was. I believe him when he
acted like he cared and wanted to help; instead he chewed out my husband at
work and didn’t talk in private. Instead
Mike got in trouble!
I hate First
Sergeant Little! If it weren’t against
the law I’d love to go beat the shit out of that son of a bitch! Damn bastard.
He is such a two-faced… jerk! I
went to him for help and this is what I get.
I wish I could die, then I wouldn’t ever have to deal with any of this
shit again.
But if I died, I’d
really miss little Jake. He is such a
sweetheart; I couldn’t have asked for a better son. It was really hard when I found out I was
pregnant with him. I was so young – true
I was twenty which is a lot older than some, but I was still young. But he is my heart. I love him so much. I think that it will be hard to be without
him, but he’ll be better off. What child
would be better off with a mom who is depressed all the time and wishes she
were dead? After all, I make life harder
for Mike, and without me he could be a single father in the military – the poor
widower who lost his wife and is raising their son and baby. He could devote all his time to work without
it bothering anyone, and he would be forced to spend more time with Jake.
But is it really
worth it to kill myself? I can’t even
imagine my life a year from now. I used
to dream about having a family and a husband.
The little girl dreams, of having it all: a home, a husband, adorable kids, and a
dog. Heaven help me, I actually would’ve
loved to be the Brady bunch! I mean, I
know that’s not reality, but I wanted a husband who could be my best friend who
I could tell anything to, who would understand where I’m coming from, who would
fight me when I was wrong, and who would love me just for being me. I expected that when we fought it would be
about politics or the little things that drive us nuts about each other, like
how he always leaves his hangers in the middle of the floor and how when there’s
a ball game on he can’t even answer a yes or no question. I knew that would drive me nuts but I thought
that would be the worst of it. Instead,
I don’t think my husband knows me at all; otherwise why would he tell me that I’m
just being stupid and needy when I tell him that I miss him? And why do I get so mad that I slam doors and
make noise and just wish that he’d never come home. And then he doesn’t come home and I miss him
despite myself. When he’s home I don’t
feel like he like me, let alone loves me.
He comes home and tells me all about how bad his day was and then asks, “What’s
for dinner?” and “How was your day?” as he snaps on the TV set. I mean, he asks how I’m doing but he doesn’t
listen to the answer, then when I ask him a question he just says, “huh?” It gets to where I feel like I’m here to be
his slave and his hooker.
I mean, I’m really
uncomfortable being seven and a half months pregnant and it’s hot and I’ve had
a long day chasing around out sixteen month old and he comes home complaining,
watches TV all night, ignoring me, and then he expects sex when he comes to
bed. And it’s like, do I just let him go
for it? Or tell him I’m not
interested? To which he either responds
with a complaint about how we never make love anymore, or he asks, “What’s
wrong now?” in that impatient tone of his.
If I dare respond we get into a huge name calling fight that end up with
either: me sleeping on the couch, or us
fighting until three in the morning at which point we decide to drop it. But it’s never actually resolved. How do you resolve “I’m not happy with you?” Neither of us is happy. That’s why he’d be better off without
me. I’m tired of trying to make this
relationship work and trying to hang in there for another day. Whenever we
fight, things get better for a day or two:
he comes home trying to be cheerful, he offers to play with Jake, he
helps with dinner, he flirts, and he hugs me.
Then a couple of days later it’s back to the old routine of watching TV,
complaining, and fighting. I just don’t
want this anymore. I’m tired of being
called names, being told I’m stupid, or psycho, or a bitch. I’m just tired of hoping that things will get
better and then they don’t. What good
does it do to hope? I just set myself up
for a downfall whenever I do. He’s right
– I am stupid.
Why hope? What would my life be like a year from now
anyway? I try to picture Jake at two and
a half years old with a baby who would almost be one, we’re living in this
house, fighting everyday like we have for the past several months, and I spend
everyday alone with just the two kids… God I want to die. Hell, even the other military wives – Mrs.
Baker, Mrs. Sampson, Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Arragar – they all told me to get used to
it; this is as good as it gets. The
sooner I learn to live without my husband, the better. Don’t ever count on your husband to be there
for you because, remember, the military comes first. They own him.
“Just learn to live life on your own, and when he’s around, it’s just a
bonus,” they said. Then why did I marry
him? I knew not to expect things to be
perfect, but dammit, I thought that I’d be able to talk to him, to sleep next to
him, to cry on his shoulder. Is that too
much to ask? Apparently it is. Hell,
even the doctor thinks I’m overreacting.
# # #
“Hello, Mrs.
Nelson. How are you feeling today?” he
asked.
“Fine.”
“Are you ready to
have this baby soon?” he asked.
“Oh yeah.”
“When are you due?”
“About two more
months, on September fifteenth,” I replied.
“Well here, lay back
and let me measure you… you’re at 32 centimeters so you’re right where you’re
supposed to be. How’ve you been feeling
otherwise?”
“I’ve been feeling
kind of nauseous, and I’m having a lot of headaches-“
“-That’s normal,” he
said.
“I’m also having a
really hard time getting any sleep, and I’ve been feeling kind of down and
stressed out.”
“That’s normal with
pregnancy too. Anything going on at
home?” he asked.
“Just typical
military stuff where my husband is gone to the field for ten days and then home
for five. But when he’s home, he’s
working until ten at night, and then he leaves again in the morning at five,
and then goes to the field again,” I said.
“How much longer
will he be going?”
“For about the next
three months,” I said.
“Well, that’s the military
for you. Anyway, come see me again in
about two weeks, okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Thanks for nothing.
# # #
Even the doctor told
me this is normal. I better get used to
it. I feel so helpless. No matter what I’ve just got to get used to
this shit. It sucks! But how am I supposed to get used to sleeping
for an hour at night, and then tossing and turning for eight hours, and then
sleep for another hour until Jake wakes up and starts calling for Mom? I am so tired of all of this. I just want to crawl under my blanket and
curl into a ball and just lay there.
Leave me alone from the rest of the world for a few months. I envy this baby in its safe little womb
protected from the world with nothing to worry about except growing and
sleeping. I wish it were me. I just want a break, a vacation. I can’t take another day of trying to clean
the house and changing Jake’s diapers, and feeding him, and rocking him to
sleep, and trying to keep him out of the cupboards and the garbage and
EVERYTHING! I just want a break. And there’s no one to help – my family and
friends are 1300 miles away and my husband is gone all the time. Even when he’s home, he’s gone. I just want a break. And I know that I won’t
get one. The only way I will sleep is if
I die. I can just imagine the darkness,
the quiet, like closing my eyes and sleeping without ever waking up.
But can I do
it? Could I cut my wrists? That just sounds like it would really
hurt. Besides it would take too long to
die, so by the time I pass out there would still be time to call 911 and save
me. Besides the lack of blood would hurt
the baby. I could overdose, but that
wouldn’t be quick enough, and the drugs would hurt the baby too. I could shoot myself, if I can get enough
courage. The shot would wake Mike so he
could call 911, and the baby is old enough to survive outside the womb. If he’s quick enough, the baby would be okay,
but it would be too late to save me. I
could use the shot gun and place it under my chin – there’s no way I could pull
the trigger and live. But I haven’t ever
used the shotgun, so I might not know how to use it. I could use the .45 pistol: it doesn’t have the advantage of the shotgun
shooting several pellets into my body, but I think that if I aim the .45 under
my chin towards the center of my brain, it would do enough damage to kill me or
at least put me into a coma that I won’t wake from.
I was taught in
Catholic school that suicide is a sin, and that I could go to hell, but I can’t
imagine that hell is much worse than this.
My relationship with Mike sucks, I’m a terrible, depressed mom for Jake,
and the world in general could easily go on without me. I feel so alone, tired, angry, helpless –
just so tired of living. If suicide is a
sin then maybe God will forgive me.
Maybe I could go to heaven, or wherever the afterlife is, and see my
grandmothers and cousin, I would love to see them again. And if there’s no heaven or hell and it’s all
over, then I will be able to sleep. It
will be over. I will have escaped the
pain.
Do I need to write a
suicide letter? No, what is there to
say? Everybody knows that I love them,
that’s enough. Mom and Dad will be sad,
but eventually they’ll move on, so will the rest of the family – they have
their own lives and families, and they’ll feel sad and guilty, but eventually
they will move on. As for my friends, I’ve
already moved away and left their lives, so they’ll miss me but only for
awhile. Mike will be better off and so
will Jake and the baby.
It’s still so dark
and Mike is snoring in bed beside me.
Hey, if I kill myself, he won’t have to go to the field tomorrow. It’s 4:22 in the morning – it will be dawn
soon. I’d rather die in the dark so that
I don’t have to see the gun in my hand, so I can close my eyes and escape
without a witness. I get up. There’s the gun on the top shelf of Mike’s
side of the closet – I need to be very, very quiet.
What the
hell?!?! Fine time for the power to come
back on, after being off for nearly eleven hours! All the lights are on throughout the house
including in here and the TV is blarking.
Mike wakes up, “What are you doing?”
I stand there
motionless, please just leave me alone. “Nothing.” But he can see the tears on my face, and my
hand is on the gun case.
“What are you doing?”
he yells.
This shakes me. “I want to die,” I say out loud for the first
time.
“What are you ---
stupid?” he says.
“Please –“
“Get out of here!
Don’t be stupid! I’m sick of this
shit! Quit acting so psycho!” he yells.
I run to the
bathroom for safety and solitude, locking the door behind me. I really want to die. I sit sobbing and rocking on the bathroom
floor. I hate this. Why do I feel like this? There is no way he will let me near the gun
tonight, maybe if I stay in here he’ll fall back to sleep and leave me alone
and not give me one of his lectures about how stupid I am. I am so tired. I just want to sleep. He hasn’t come after me. This is good.
Maybe he’ll leave me alone. Why
do I feel like this?
Why do I feel like
this? I don’t know. I need somebody to talk to, someone who will
understand. Mike sounds like he is
asleep, maybe I can get the phone and call someone. Be very quiet, now gently pick up the phone
and grab the phone book. Shhhh. Okay, now I can take to back to the
bathroom. There, lock the door
again. Who should I call? My parents?
No. A friend? I don’t want to talk to anyone who knows me,
I don’t want to hear their disappointment in me. I don’t want to hear them tell me how stupid
I’m being. One of those suicide hot lines?
I’ll call the suicide hotline, they don’t know me.
“Hello, suicide
hotline, how can I help you?” a voice asks me.
I need help. “I want to kill myself,” I say.
“Where are you?”
they ask.
“I’m at home, locked
in the bathroom”
“Is anyone home with
you?” they ask.
“Yes, my husband and
my son, they are asleep,” I say.
“Do you know how you
want to kill yourself?” they ask.
“Yes,” I say, I don’t
want to admit my plan because then they might try to stop me.
“How do you plan to
kill yourself?” they ask.
“I don’t want to
say,” I reply.
“Will you talk to
me? Why do you want to kill yourself?”
“I’m tired. I just
want to leave everyone alone and not bother them anymore,” I say.
“Why do you think
you’re bothering them?” they ask.
“Because my husband
and I fight all the time and I cause him problems at work, and I’m always
crying or yelling at my son. I’m just so
tired, I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Have you ever felt
like this before?” they ask.
“No --- well,
yes. When I first started college I was
at a party and everyone was drunk but I was feeling pretty down. I ended up in the corner of the bedroom
rocking back and forth and sobbing. I
was so cold, so sad. My friends
eventually got me out of that corner and put me to sleep. The next day the doctors told me that I felt
this way because of a change in my birth control pills. He changed my prescription and by the end of
the week I felt fine,” I said.
“Would you be
willing to make a doctors appointment first thing tomorrow to see if maybe this
is something similar?” they ask.
“I don’t –“
“How about, could I
set up an appointment for you? Can you
promise me you won’t kill yourself tonight?
“I – I’ll try,” I say.
“Do you still plan on killing yourself tonight?”
“No,” I don’t tell them
that I don’t have access to the gun anymore.
“Can you promise me you won’t kill yourself tonight, and
that you’ll go see a doctor tomorrow?” they ask.
“I –“
“Should I send an ambulance to your house? Are you in danger?”
“No. I’ll be okay,” I say.
“Will you promise me you won’t kill yourself tonight?”
“Yes,” I will wait until tomorrow.
“Will you go to the doctor’s tomorrow?” they ask.
“Yes,” I say.
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes,” I say.
# # #
I will wait until tomorrow. Who knows, maybe it is a problem with my
hormones. I owe it to Jake to see if I can get better. Maybe it can get better. Maybe I could get some sleep. Maybe.
I could go to the doctor tomorrow and ask for help. Then I don’t have to leave Jake because I won’t
be a bad, depressed mom, and then I won’t be such a tired, depressed wife. Maybe I won’t feel so bad. And if there’s nothing the doctor can do, I
can die tomorrow. I will give myself
until tomorrow.
EPILOGUE
There is more to this story… Maybe it starts with the
fact that this story was for my “Advanced Creative Writing” class which I signed
up for without realizing I didn’t have the prerequisites. My teacher asked me to submit a short story
to him at the beginning of the term and I submitted a “great essay” but the
teacher told me I couldn’t write a short story and should just drop the
class. I told him that I just needed to
learn the structure of a short story and I wanted to give it a shot. The teacher continued to urge me to drop but
I was stubborn. As I said, the story
above is my first draft of my first short story ever….
… And it’s
semi-autobiographical. I wrote it as a
catharsis … to let it all out… to make it real… and to try to forgive
myself. My classmates reviewed the story
and had said that the main character was pretty naïve… yes, yes I was. I was a 20 year-old woman who met my husband
fall term of my freshman year of college.
He was my first and we married young.
I had never lived on my own (I’d worked full time and attended community
college while living with my parents) and my husband had been a sweet, funny,
intelligent young man who was my everything. I was naïve and immature…. And I
wrote this at the age of 23; approximately two years after the suicide “attempt.”
More to the
story? I found out the article was
published from my dad (I was a daddy’s girl) and he had attended a summer
conference at Western Oregon and had picked up the magazine one day just to
glance through it…. He said he stumbled across my story, read it, and cried. …
I can’t describe my feelings about that… it’s just… a lot.
More about the
story? The doctor diagnosed me with
clinical depression triggered by my hormones (since I got pregnant with my
second child when the first was nine months old), severe situational stress,
and lack of sleep…. For four months I had only had two hours of sleep a night….
The doctor put me on antidepressants and I had minimal counseling for about six
months when they weaned me off the drugs… but I had to resume them about three
months later for another six months.
More to the
story? I was a Psychology major at the
time I wrote this story and we talked about self-talk (the things my inner
voice tells myself) and how it plays a role in mood… and we talked about nature
vs. nurture; I had a grandmother who died of “a broken heart” and numerous female
family members treated for depression…. And I grew up hearing “I wish I were
dead…” All were food for thought when I
wrote this story… When I wrote it to forgive myself and to make it real… and to
maybe help someone else who might be going through something similar. Some people can’t understand how on earth
someone could commit suicide… I can.
And now? Now it’s more than fifteen years since that
night (I believe God saved me that night because why on earth would the power have
come on at that precise moment?)… I’m still with my husband. It took a VERY long time for things to get
better; five years ago I gave him the ultimatum of divorce, separation, or
counseling… he chose counseling (and help for PTSD). It’s
been five years since I’ve felt the fear of holes in the walls and the name
calling awful fights. And I’m feeling
safe… and I have precious kids that mean the world to me! And I’m falling in love with my husband again
-- You know, the one that I loved when we were dating and who I chose to marry …
And I want to share this with my friends who see my husband and I as having a
really great relationship and to let them know that I understand the hard times
too… And I want to put this “out there” in case there is someone else going
through this who might stumble across it at just the right time and that it
will help.