I've spoken several times about my being raised by a village of sorts. My mom was very young when she had me (and my brothers), and she was single for most of that. Luckily, we were surrounded by lots of people who cared about us, who genuinely loved us.
Mom was also the first person in her circle of friends to have kids, so we also had the advantage of being the oldest pack of children running around, and all her friends were pretty fascinated with us (because, if you don't have kids--and probably even if you do--they're pretty entertaining creatures).
During my earliest memories, we were a tiny pack of children. Right after my parents divorced, two of her best friends (OtherMom, and Aunt Phyl, who isn't really my aunt but I've always called her that) also went through divorces. We lived in a decent-sized house, and to save money and pool their resources, those two friends moved in with us, with their kids. So, it was me (the oldest), OtherMom's daughter Sara, who is only a few weeks younger than me, her brother Joel (a year younger than Sara), my brothers Cody and Ducky (2.5 and 4.5 years younger than I), and Phyl's son Jake, who is a year or so younger than Ducky. So, six of us. In one house. I could probably write an entire book on those years, because six children are dangerous enough, but when you factor in the above-average intelligence of all of those children, things start to get hilariously bad. But, I digress.
Somewhere in this timeframe, my mom and Phyl start dating guys who lived together. (Phyl was actually dating the man who would later become my stepdad, but that's another long and strange--although surprisingly not-dramatic--story.)
And these guys lived in a tiny house in the middle of nowhere. There were a lot of them, too. Remember, that Mom was the oldest of the group, and she was maybe 24 or 25 at the time. I think Kevin (my stepdad) was only 19.
But in this rowdy group of people was one other family with kids. Chad and Nikki. Their kids were babies, really. Dakota was three, maybe, and Cheyenne was walking, but still in diapers and not talking much yet. And, because I was the oldest of all the children, any time we were sent outside to play (almost always, unless it was reallyreallyreally cold outside, or if there was some kind of fire out there), I was in charge of all of them.
As time went on, things changed. Phyl and Kevin (obviously) split up after a few years. A few years after that, Mom and Kevin ended up together. Everyone was still friends, and Chad and Nikki stayed close. Chad would come over, drop his kids (Cheyenne and Dakota, and the little one, Nevada) off with me, and he and Kevin would go fishing.
When I met BoyWonder, right after I graduated from high school, my job was babysitting those kids. I was the only person Chad trusted with his kids on a full-time (about 60 hours a week) basis. That was a weird, weird situation, though. See, at some point, Chad and Nikki had split up. Which really, was weird enough without the fact that Nikki had decided (and I know it doesn't always work this way, but I'll get to that soon, I promise) that she was a lesbian. So I'm babysitting Chad's kids, but I'm spending all this time watching them at Nikki's girlfriend's house.
So, anyway. More time passes. Three, four years, I think? It was five years ago today. BoyWonder's mom calls me and asks why there are police officers and an EMT at Chad's house (MIL lives right down the street from him). I hadn't heard anything, though. So I call my mom. Chad is missing.
Tiny bit of back-story here: Chad was always a tiny bit unstable. He never hurt anyone, never hurt himself, or even threatened it. We always just checked on him occasionally, and let him do his thing, and he'd snap out of it in a day or two. But there are two things I feel like I have to say here. Chad did a lot of drugs when he was a teenager, some of which might have scrambled his brain just a bit. But, his biological father was also schizophrenic. But we never worried about him--not really. He was, at this point, raising all three kids on his own because Nikki wasn't really capable of it. He was on disability because hard manual labor had destroyed his spine, but he kept a garden and a ton of small farm animals (chickens, turkeys, goats, geese, and a few sheep, I think), the kids were well taken care of... You know. He had a normal, productive life.
Not only is he missing, but apparently he's been missing all.day.long. And he's been having some kind of paranoid episode for over a week. And he left a note. None of us knew that beforehand, because Nikki had showed up to visit the kids at the beginning of this, and he told her not to tell anyone. And she didn't. She just stayed there to watch the kids, and help keep Chad safe.
This particular episode started with him getting a computer. I've said this before and I'm going to say it again. Some people shouldn't have computers. He'd had it for a few months, and at some point discovered Google Earth and Streetview. Well, in one of the shots of his house, you could see all of his animals, one of his kids, and him, standing in his front yard. And it flipped him out. And he spiraled from there.
So when he left that morning, he'd told Nikki that the Feds were coming for him, and the only way to keep the kids safe was to meet them up on the hill outside town. And, for whatever reason (maybe because, as we found out weeks later, he'd had these episodes before), Nikki said something to the effect of "Be careful," and went back to sleep.
So, I'm hearing all this, and I'm grabbing my purse and my keys. I stop at the liquor store, because I just know that when we find Chad we're all going to need a drink.
By the time I got to Latham, they'd found him.
What I'm going to do now is the hard part. I dug up some stuff I wrote during all this. All the pieces I wrote just to process everything. These pieces are closer to poetry or artistic prose, which I don't really do very often anymore (and it's really weird to go back and read some of this--it's pretty raw). So, if you're feeling brave, here we go.
Posted in a Facebook note on February 10, 2008:
I used to think I understood why people commit suicide.
I realize now that there is no understanding what happens inside a person that makes them snap. It just doesn't make sense. No fucking sense at all.
One of my stepfather's friends--a man who's been in my life since I was seven--died yesterday. He went for a walk in the country with his gun and now he is never coming back.
I rushed to Latham when I heard. At that time, all I knew was that he'd left with a gun and that there was a suicide note. I went thinking, hoping, praying that he walked far enough, fast enough, to change his mind. To turn around and walk home.
When I got to Latham they were taking him away.
I sat in a room full of his children, his ex-wife, his sister, police officers, a preacher... the most horrible part was that as everyone else was crying, holding each other, talking in nearly silent voices, I was waiting for him to walk through that door. I was thinking about how it's muddy outside and everyone has their shoes on and that when Chad comes home he's going to be pissed off about the mud that's on the floor. I wanted to cry. For a second, while I was holding his youngest daughter I did, mostly because I had no idea what to say to this nine-year-old girl who just lost her Dada. There's nothing you can say.
It doesn't make sense, and it won't. Ever. He was the most devoted father I've ever met. He raised those kids mostly on his own for most of their lives. The man I knew would have never, EVER left those kids. Not for anything. Something was wrong, and everyone missed it. Something inside him snapped, he snapped. And he's never coming back.
My chest hurts just thinking about it. I haven't cried yet and probably won't until the funeral. I'm numb to it. Part of me is still waiting for someone to call and tell me that he finally made it home.
No one's going to call, though.
Fuck.
Posted on Myspace (yeah, Myspace. It was 2008, people.) possibly the same day, maybe the day after the facebook post:
I've spent the last day and a half trying to make sense of something that will never make sense. Ever. I keep trying to understand what brought us here, to this point of sorrow and wondering now if there was anything any of us could have done.
One of Kevin's best friends shot himself sometime Saturday. He went for a walk with his gun and he's never coming back.
When I heard, all I knew was that he'd left the house that morning and hadn't come back yet. I flew down to Mom's, and we jetted to Latham, fully prepared to distract the kids or tromp pastures screaming his name. But by the time I got to Mom's house, they'd found him. When we got to Latham they were taking him away.
I think it tops the list of the most horrible things I'll ever live through. Sitting in his house with his kids and his ex-wife and his family, not knowing what to say (there is nothing you can say), not really believing that this man who has been in my life since I was a tiny little girl is dead. I sat on the living room floor completely numb, staring at my shoes. Every time someone came to the door, I believed it was Chad. Every time I looked down at my shoes, all I could think was that it was muddy outside and everyone had their shoes on, and that would really piss Chad off. But so would all the police officers standing in his yard. So would seeing his children cry.
That's what broke me.
When I was very young, Mom and Phyllis used to run around at the Hole. There's no explaining this place, and I'm not going to try. There were only really a few people who hung out there that had kids, and I was the oldest of this pack. It was my job to make sure the little ones didn't get hurt. At this time, Cheyenne was just learning how to walk, and Dakota was maybe three. They were my little buddies. And they were around for my whole life. I babysat those kids for a summer--taught Nevada how to swim and taught Cheyenne to do macrame jewelry... Taught Dakota how to make grilled cheese and hamburger helper.
To walk into his house Saturday, to hold Nevada (now nine) and hear her ask why he left, say she wants her Dada, sob on my chest... It killed me. What's worse, I didn't have anything to say. What do you say? I held tight to her and said "I know... It doesn't make any sense, does it?" because really, that's all I could say.
It doesn't make sense. No sense at all.
The Chad we all knew would never, EVER have left those kids. Something happened. Something was wrong, deeply wrong, and no one caught it. He'd been acting strange over the last few months, but he always did act oddly, and it was something that would come and go and then he'd be back to his old self. We didn't catch it because our friend Chad wouldn't have done something like this. He snapped. Something inside him broke and no one knew.
If you asked me six weeks ago who, among my closest friends and family members, was most likely to commit suicide, he would've been at the very bottom. There were so many other people I've been more worried about. People more likely to snap. People who have no qualms with flying off the deep end. But not our friend Chad.
And, finally, something I consider to be one of my better pieces of writing. I don't think it's great in a technical sense, but as far as depicting how I felt (and sometimes still feel), it still turns me into a giant sobby mess.
Eight days ago I was sitting on his floor staring at my dirty shoes and wishing that I was part of an elaborate reality TV show.
Last Sunday, I sat in my chair crocheting furiously because I desperately wanted to cry but couldn’t.
Monday I had to work but woke up wanting to make a strong drink and break things and scream.
On Tuesday I sat in my car on my lunch break with my head against the steering wheel praying that no one would see me crying.
Wednesday my immune system failed me, and the bronchitis set in-- it was almost a relief because when you have bronchitis, crying makes you cough and I didn’t cry because it hurt so bad to cough.
Thursday was the saddest, strangest day I’ve ever lived through, so far. It was driving to his funeral that the Matchbox Twenty song came on that I was singing to at the top of my lungs like I always do that it finally hit me and I had to pull over to cry. I sobbed during the funeral and wanted to scream and make a scene and make Rowdy stop ruining all my favorite songs. No, all Chad’s favorite songs. I wandered and paced through my parents’ house full of these people who’ve been around but scarce for most of my life, wishing that Chad were here, because he’d be the one pacing and uncomfortable but still unbelievably happy to see everyone.
By Friday the bronchitis had intensified and I finally made myself go see a doctor. I took medicine and crocheted furiously but this time, it was because only that focus, that constant repetitive movement, could slow the tears. I looked at pictures from the swimming hole this summer and realized that back at the spot we’d hike to to swim, he’d carved his initials in a tree. I don’t really ever want to go back there again because I don’t want to remember, but I want to go back to that tree just once. Just one roll of film. Just 24 shots of his initials on the trunk of that tree.
Saturday I was back to numb. I sat in the apartment, all quiet, not knowing what to do with myself. I drew up plans for a blankets I want to make for Chad’s kids and for Nikki. I thought of yarn and colors and patterns and wondered why, when I’m sad and feeling broken and empty and knowing that my friends and family need each other so desperately, I want to be alone thinking about yarn.
Today’s a new day. It’s Sunday again, and what I’m thinking about today is that Chad is the first person I’ve grieved over. Until this week, I didn’t understand what people meant when they said that it all comes in waves. Being so fucking pissed off that he left his kids, left us, left everything. Being so mad at myself for not going to see him. I went to Latham at least twice a month but it was always to see Phyl or Brian’s parents because I didn’t want to bother Chad and his routine. And then the sadness that comes on in the worst places--sitting in the waiting room at the doctor’s office, walking through Target, speaking with my manager, watching movies on TV.
When I was young I was really in love with the book The Giver by Lois Lowry. I could read it in about an hour and ten minutes and for a while I read it every single day, for months. This book was really kind of sci-fi, but one of the things that struck me was that when one of their community members died (or Released, if you want to stay within the vocabulary of the book), there was no real funeral. What they did was chant the person’s name, at first loud and fast and all together, and then, over the course of time the chanting got quieter and further apart. That’s what this feels like. It’s what’s happening right now. Saturday and Sunday of last week was the fast, hard chanting. Every single thought came back to my friend, loud and furious and passionate. As time passes, it all still comes back around, but slower, more deliberate, and maybe, sometimes, a little less painful.
And there is guilt. Guilt that he’d started slipping and we, his friends, thought that surely he’d come out of it again. Guilt that I, who spent a lot of time with his kids, hadn’t been around for them much now that I’m a big, important grown-up with bills and a man and very little time. Guilt that of all the pictures I took this summer, all those shots of the swimming hole, with Chad very often taking the same pictures I was taking, the only pictures I have of him are on the funeral bulletin. Guilt that the way I process my thoughts, always, is in the form of writing, and since I have a computer, the processing often ends up posted on my page for all the world to see. Knowing that he wouldn’t want me to write about him, not on my MySpace, not on my other blogs, not anywhere on the internet. But I don’t feel guilty about that. He did this. I’m just trying to stay sane, and maybe help the people around me, while I’m here.
So that’s what’s up. I’m processing. I’m posting this and when I’m done I’ll be uploading my best shots this summer, many of which are Chad’s kids in Chad’s favorite spot.
Dammit.
I miss you Chad. I miss you so much, my chest hurts and I wish you were here so I could punch you. And yes, I feel guilty about that, too.
PS: Those tiny bottles of whiskey are from me. I'm going to take some more up there this spring. I miss you. And I'm still a little mad.
1 comment:
This brought up a lot of feelings for me, too, and I'm sorry you have to feel this way. I was once a member of an online suicide survivors support group...but it was too much. Too much sadness and sorrow.
Hugs.
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