July 17, 1981

(names have been changed for personal privacy)

Since the breakup with George, I fell into a deep depression. I considered him to be the respite from my difficult and dreary life. Days went on for what seemed an eternity. Nights couldn’t come soon enough, and the mornings always came too soon. It was in my dreams that I found solace. The one thing I still carried in me was a good escape in those nighttime dreams. I was with George, and we were happy. The abuse never entered my dream life. It was as if God was saying, “You deserve a good night’s sleep. The days ahead will be long and hard.”

My mother tried her best to keep me occupied. She volunteered me to clean her friends’ houses. She took me with her on her shopping trips, various “errands” and to Galt, where her family lived. She did everything to keep my dad and I apart, except the one thing that would have been the best. But that never happened. She chose my dad over me.

When the days of “nothing to do” came, I usually spent my time in my room, looking at the yellow striped wallpaper of vines and flowers, the white wood-slatted ceiling, the king-size waterbed I got for my 17th birthday in January. The windows were on either side of the room, and there were lines of Camellias that blocked my view. I had two closets; one in the hallway that existed in my room, with my piano to one side and a closet to the other. The other closet was in the main part of the room. The rest of the walls were white. There was a door that led to the bathroom, which led to the other bedroom on the other side. I listened to sad songs on the radio. When I wasn’t doing that, I was writing my sad poems down on paper. And when I didn’t feel like writing, I would kneel on the floor, with my head on the green shag carpet and bawl. Tears became sobs, and sobs became whole body convulsions. Alone in my room there was no comfort for my soul, and I became increasingly isolated and alone, until it became all too much.

George's family tried to help me. I was always welcome at their house when he was gone. His mom and I would talk and talk for hours. His dad showed me compassion and love. It was my only reprieve during that spring and summer.

One weekend they decided to take an overnight trip to their cabin above Pinecrest. George went along. He wasn’t distant with me, but always had to keep me aware of the fact that he was no longer in love with me. I begged and begged him, “We had love. Why can’t we have that again?”

His answers remained non-committal and cautious. I could hear what he was saying, but my heart wouldn’t believe it. I still hoped that we would reconcile. July had begun. It was four months since he had broken it off, and I still couldn’t accept it.

On the morning of July 17th, I woke up around 10am or so. It was a Friday. My parents were at work, and I was alone. It was not a good day for me to be alone.

I was in the kitchen. I remember thinking that my mom should have picked another color for the cabinets. I decided that the olive-green cabinets should be any other color than what they were. The laminate floor looked like a mix of earth tone randomly placed bricks. The walls were the same bland gray they always were. Everywhere I looked seemed depressing. The house was depressing. The rooms…the yard…everything. I didn’t even have the desire to walk or play with my dog Brandy—a black Labrador/Cocker Spaniel mix.

I was looking for something to eat, but had no appetite, so nothing sounded good. It was then that I opened a random drawer to discover all my parents’ medications laid out inside. My mind started to think. I could put an end to it all—the sadness, the abuse, everything. All it would take was a few pills. The pain would be gone. Forever. My mind reeled with the possibility of me disappearing from it all. It would devastate my parents and family. It would devastate George and his family. But I wouldn’t be anybody’s problem anymore. The solitude of it all was intoxicating. And so, the devil whispered in my ear. And I listened.

I took out all the bottles and lined them up on the counter. I put back those bottles that I knew would not help, such as the blood pressure medicine and the bottle of Iron. But somehow, I knew which ones I needed to take. I poured out seven Lithium, seven Valium, and seven pills I had no idea were for.

I got out the bottle of gin that hid under the sink. I went to my mother’s bathroom cabinet in her bedroom, and spying the box of chocolate flavored Ex-lax, I grabbed it and returned to the kitchen. I poured the gin into a glass and went ahead and took the pills. One at a time at first, I then ramped it up to three and four at a time. The last thing I took was the Ex-lax, which I assumed was a sleeping pill, and that its name meant “relax.”

I was done. I had taken 21 pills and drank about a half of a bottle of gin. I didn’t know what to do for about five to ten minutes. But then I started having second thoughts. I called George's house to ‘brag’ about my deed and the courage it took to do it. Elise answered the phone. After I told her it was me, she sounded surprised.

“Hi Susie,” she answered. “What’s up? George isn't here.”

“That’s okay. I wanted to talk to you anyway,” I replied. “Guess what I did” I continued, in a boasting tone.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“I just took 21 different pills, “I said proudly.

“What!?!” she cried. “What do you mean? What did you take?”

“Everything,” I answered. “I decided to make it so I’m nobody’s problem anymore.”

I heard her yell out for her husband, Bret. I heard her muffled voice tell him, “Susie’s taken a bunch of pills! We need to get over there.”

She returned to the call, and said to me, “Stay right where you are! We’re coming over.”

“No need to,” I replied. “It will all be over soon. And when you see my mom and dad—tell them I said, “Hope you’re happy now. You won’t have me to worry about anymore.”

They must have blown every stop sign on their way over. They only lived about two miles away. I looked out the front window when their red truck pulled up. I locked the front door and the sliding glass doors in the family room. I went to the kitchen door and locked it. The next 5 minutes were a game of cat and mouse. Them reaching a door, only to find it locked. The one thing I didn’t think of was the garden window above the kitchen sink. When I saw that they saw it and were going to open it wide enough for Bret to get through, I ran to the bathroom. Our house had a Jack and Jill bathroom, situated between two bedrooms. I got to the bathroom and locked my side of it, but Bret knew the layout and got to the other door before I could get it locked.

I was starting to feel the effects of the liquor first and was starting to get clumsy. He took me by the arm to the living room and sat me down on the plaid couch. Then he quickly went to the kitchen door and let Elise in. She came in to see to me while Bret called 911. The drunker I felt, the looser I was with my thoughts.

“Got a cigarette?” I asked her. They both smoked, so she searched her purse and retrieved her cigarettes, handing me one in the process.

“Got a light?” I asked.

“Here,” she said, and lit my cigarette, a concerned look on her face.

I started to lose my ability to understand what was going on. Within minutes the fire dept. was there, and two paramedics were sitting next to me. The first thing they tried was a spoon down my throat to make me gag. It didn’t work, as I bit down on it.

In the meantime, Bret was bringing all the bottles that were on the counter out to them to see exactly what I had taken. I just sat there on the couch, puffing on my cigarette. One of the paramedics introduced himself.

“Hey, my name is Jeff. What's your name?"

"Sooozy," I slurred.

"Can you tell me how many pills you took?”

“21!” I touted.

“What did you take them with?” he continued.

“Gin,” I happily replied.

Bret went in and saw the bottle, a little less than half full on the counter. He brought it back into the living room.

“Here,” he handed the bottle to Jeff.

“Susie?" He looked at me expectantly.

“Yeah,” I mumbled.

“How full was this bottle when you first drank from it? He asked.

“Purdy damn fool,” I stumbled over my words and smiled at him.

I looked him over and laughed out loud.

“What's got you giggling?" He asked, curious to my behavior.

“Yore ffaatt,” I giggled. “I bet you eat the whole turkey all by yoreself at Thansgiven tymme!”

He chuckled and replied, “Not the whole turkey, but most of it.”

By then the pills were starting to take effect. It was about forty minutes after I took everything, and I felt myself losing consciousness.

My last thought was, “Maybe I shouldn’t…” Then the room and everybody in it went dark.

* * *

I woke up to dry heaves. After my last one, I lie back in a bed, and took in my surroundings. I was in the hospital, and George's sister, Marie was standing next to me. I knew she was employed at the hospital, but she was in the kidney dialysis wing. I wondered what she was doing here.

“Hey Susie. How are you feeling?” she asked gently.

“Okay, I guess,” I replied, still groggy.

“I’m going to get the doctor,” she smiled and left.

Another nurse came over and started taking all my vitals. The next thing I remember was a doctor standing at the foot of my bed looking intently at me. His dark, curly hair framed a gentle face and brown eyes that told me I was safe.

“Do you remember what happened?” he asked.

“Sort of,” I answered, still not quite myself.

“You overdosed on pills and alcohol," he said softly. Were you trying to harm yourself?" he continued.

“I just want this all to be over,” I whispered.

“Want what to be over?” he continued.

“All of it,” I started tearing up.

He looked at me for a long moment before he gave me the news. “The police are here. They would like to talk with you when you feel up to it. Okay?”

“Why?” I asked, starting to come to my senses, alarmed at this news.

“They want to talk to you about some things you said in recovery.”

“What things?”

“I’ll let them tell you that.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“No. No. Not anymore,” he smiled at me. I wondered what he meant.

It was an hour or so before anyone came back. A nurse peeked around the curtain and smiled at me. “It’s time for you to move out of recovery, and into your own room.”

“Now?” I queried.

“Yep. Now,” she replied.

I remember fading in and out. When I finally came to, there was a woman in a police uniform standing by my bed.

“Hi there,” she smiled.

“Hello,” I said.

“My name is Chris. I’d like to talk to you for a bit, if you feel up to it.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t want to do it here. There’s a room across the hall we can go to and talk privately.”

I was getting scared. I had no idea why they were here, or what they wanted to talk about. I wondered what it was I had said during recovery.

I was still in a hospital gown, but the tubes and wires had been removed. I sat up and situated myself to stand. The nurse took me by the hand and helped me onto my feet.

“Let’s just stand here for a second, while you gain your balance,” she smiled at me.

Once I was steady, the nurse led me into a room with a conference table in it. The nurse sat me down on one side, and the policewoman sat down on the opposite side. She wore a hat, but I could still see her brunette hair pulled into a bun. She seemed nice. She was slender, something I didn’t expect. I thought all female police officers were stocky, like men. She took out a pad of paper and a pen from her pocket and poised herself to write.

“Should I call you Susie or Susan?” she started.

"Whatever you want," I answered.

“Okay then, Susan. While you were in recovery, you said some things that concerned the staff that was taking care of you. Do you remember?”

“No,” I replied.

“You told them that you were being molested by your father. Do you remember saying that?” she asked.

I started to panic. “Oh God. What did I say?” I wondered. I couldn’t remember.

This must have concerned her because she reached her hand over and lay it on mine.

“You’re not in trouble. Okay? Nobody is here to hurt you. We want to help.”

“Okay” I replied, shaking, with my knees bouncing and my fingers drumming the table.

“You also mentioned that your father had abused your two-year old cousin. You mumbled something about walking in on it happening.”

I concluded that this was not going to be a good day. In fact, it was going to be one of many unbelievably bad days. The secret was out. The police knew. The nurses knew. Hell, everyone seemed to know. And I had no idea what to expect now, except that the hammer was going to fall, and it was going to fall hard.

After the interview was over, one of the nurses told me that they were going to admit me into the hospital. And not just into the hospital, but into the psychiatric ward on the fifth floor.

Great. I thought. Just where I want to go.

They brought in a wheelchair and wheeled me to the back elevator and then to the 5th floor psych ward. They showed me to my own private room. The walls were a dirty white, the floors—white tile squares with black specks running through them—and my bed. It had white sheets, a white blanket, and a white pillow. It was all very sanitized. I had a small ceiling to floor closet in the corner of my room and a table and chair—also white—sitting underneath the window. I was thankful for it. It was private. It was clean. And for once I started to feel safe. I changed from my gown and back into my own clothes that someone had apparently provided. I lay back on my bed and contemplated everything that had happened and was going to happen in the coming days. A short while later, I heard a knock on the door.

“Susan?” said the voice. “Can I come in?”

“Yes,” I replied, and positioned myself on the edge of the bed, feet to the floor.

A new nurse came in, opening the door cautiously.

“You ready for the grand tour? She asked.

“Sure,” I said. “Why not.”

Coming out of my room, to the right I found mine was the room closest to the nurses' galley. The irony of that was not lost on me. Beyond the galley was a hallway that led to the right. This was the hallway that accessed the rest of the hospital. In the middle of it was a glass office where they checked people in and out. A locked door stood next to the office. To be let in or out, one would need to get the guard stationed there to open the door from a button in the office.

Straight across from the nurses' galley was the gathering room where breakfast, lunch or dinner was served. There were round tables scattered throughout the room. A lone piano sat in the corner in case anyone felt the desire to play. There were soda machines and snack machines along the far wall, and a small hallway that led to the bathrooms.

The nurse was telling me where everything was, and what everything was for. Turning around back toward my room was an open area across it with a wall phone for any calls wishing to be made or received. Lounge chairs were scattered around the area; one sofa lined the wall of the side that had a window. Looking further on were all the other patients’ rooms. All single, private rooms. At the back was a large room divided into two separate areas. One side was filled with chairs forming a circle. This was the counselling area for patients to discuss, in a group setting, with the doctors on staff anything they wished to share. The other area was a sitting area complete with shelves of books to read, a phonograph player and a plethora of old records that could be played. The entire room was filled with windows, and I watched as the light from outside trifled with everything it touched.

I made myself at home. I spied a bound notebook on my desk that had no writing in it, but was, I assumed, to be a notebook to write in. On the inside of the front cover was a note from Inky that read, “a special book for a special girl to write her beautiful poetry in. Love, Bret & Elise.”

After the tour, I was escorted back to my room. The first thing I did upon arriving was to put my clothes away in the closet and lay back on the bed with my hand tucked under my head and contemplate my existence, such as it was. I had to stay for a 10-day period. After that they would evaluate me to see if I was okay to leave. They would counsel me throughout my stay, alone and in a group to bring me to a place of inner peace. As much as the idea appealed to me, I doubted they could carry out that task. Essentially, I would be brought back from the ‘edge’ and be diagnosed as ‘non-suicidal.’

I spent a lot of my time in the break room as it was the only place I could smoke. Most of the patients there were older than me. One of them was the grandfather of a friend of mine from school. My friend came once during my stay to visit him. If he was surprised to see me there, he didn’t show it. I was glad he didn’t approach me.

On the second day of my arrival, while I was sitting at a break room table with some other girls, I saw my parents through the breakroom window. They stopped at the guard’s office to be let in. The guard had them wait while he left the office to get one of the nurses. I saw him talking to her. I looked at my parents, who were looking at me with stern eyes. I figured I was in big trouble with them. Now I guess I had to pay the piper for my ‘stupid stunt.’

The nurse came to me in the break room and said, “Your parents are here. They want to see you.”

I didn’t say anything. I was trying to figure out a way out of it. The nurse bent down to talk to me privately.

“You don’t have to see them if you don’t want to. There is nothing that requires that you talk to them. I can tell them that you don’t want to see them,” she told me.

I thought for a moment, looked at them and their unsmiling faces.

“No. I don’t want to see them. If that’s alright.”

“It certainly is,” she replied. “I will go and let them know.”

I watched her as she stood in front of the guard’s office. I could see they were not given the access I’m certain they thought they had a right to. My mother was getting frustrated, slapping her fist on the counter. My father had to calm her down. They took one good stern look at me, turned around and left.

Wow. I suddenly had the power to say “no.” Something that in the whole of my young life I never had the power to say. Until now.

The next day, I got a phone call. It was my mother. When I answered the phone, she lit into me like a pit bull with a bone.

Within seconds of the “Hello” and “how are you” niceties, she turned on me.

“How dare you embarrass your father and I like you did yesterday!” she yelled. “What did you mean, not allowing us to see you? We’re your parents!”

“I didn’t want to see you,” I replied.

“Well, you’re going to have to face us eventually.”

“Yeah, but not yesterday. And not now.”

She started to argue with me again, and I suddenly thought to myself, “I don’t have to sit here and listen to her berate me.” So, I hung up on her. And I had never felt so liberated as I did that day. I informed the staff nurse that I didn’t want to take any more calls from my parents.

“No problem,” was her reply. And she said it with a smile.

* * *

I usually sat with the same two or three girls, all older than me where we told each other our stories, and how we wound up there.

When I shared my story, and how I had tried to kill myself with pills, Ex-lax and gin, one of the girls named Deborah started laughing.

I looked at her for a moment. She had blonde hair that lay in tight curls around her face. Not ugly, I thought. But no Farrah Fawcett.

“What?” I asked.

“You totally don’t get it do you?” she answered.

“No.”

“Why did you take Ex-lax?” she asked me.

“Because I took everything I could find that would help me go to sleep,” I answered.

“You do know that Ex-lax is not a sleeping pill, right?” she continued.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a stool softener. It makes your poop soft when you’re constipated.”

“Oh,” I replied, trying not to look as stupid as I suddenly felt.

Then she started singing—to the tune of the “Kibbles and Bits” dog food commercial that was big at the time. But instead of Kibbles and Bits, she sang her version.

“Ex-lax and gin. Ex-lax and gin. I’m going to get me more Ex-lax and gin.”

We all laughed, but I still felt stupid.

Another time I was in the great room looking through the records they had. I found an album by the band Bread. So, I put it on the phonograph and played it. In the middle of the record on the side one was a song called “Lost without Your Love.” It applied to my love for George and him leaving me all alone.

I still remember the words:

Lost and all alone

I always thought that I could make it on my own

But since you left, I hardly make it through the day

My tears get in the way, and I need you back to stay

I wander through the night

And search the world to find the words to make it right

All I want is just the way it used to be

With you here close to me

And I've got to make you see

That I'm lost without your love

Life without you isn't worth the trouble of

I'm as helpless as a ship without a wheel

A touch without a feel

I can't believe it’s real

But someday soon I'll wake and find my heart won't have to break

Yes, I'm lost without your love

Life without you isn't worth the trouble of

All I want is just the way it used to be

I need you here with me

Oh darling can't you see

If we had love before we can have it back once more

One day, I must have played that song five times in a row. Finally, a face peeked out from behind the curtain to reveal a dark haired, and dark-skinned girl sitting on the windowsill.

“Would you please stop playing that song?” she pleaded.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anyone was in here,” I replied.

“No problem. I’m just sick of hearing it over and over.”

“Okay. I’ll give it a rest for the day.” I put the record away and headed to my room.

Once a day we all met in the circle of chairs to discuss our feelings, the issues we were going through, and if any of us had found peace or answers. I sat there without saying anything. I was ashamed of what my issues were—sexual abuse, suicide attempt, boyfriend issues and the like.

Although it was a brief time, I made the best with the time I had. George came to visit me twice. So did Bret and Inky. They became concerned when they noticed that I had dropped down to just 98 lbs. in the short time I was there. Some thought it was starvation, the staff worried it might be Mono, the kissing sickness teenagers often get. It wasn’t anything except depression, no desire to eat, and two packs of cigarettes a day.

During the last week I was there, a couple of days before I was released, my friend, Cara and her mom came to see me. Her mom left us together in the break room to find a nurse who could tell her anything about my upcoming discharge. Cara's mom found out that I would be discharged as a minor to a place called Mary-Graham Hall—kid’s jail. She asked them to see if she could take me to her house to stay until I turned 18 the following January. She was approved as a temporary foster home, so I never did have to face a day at Mary-Graham Hall. That, in hindsight, was a blessing from God.

I left the hospital on July 27, 1981. I was in the hospital a total of 10 days. The following weeks and months would prove challenging, as I faced my life alone, alienated by family, and still mourning the loss of my first real love. I had to go through the legal process of my father being brought before the law for his sins, only to receive a 6 month work furlough program. He had to spend the nights in jail, but was able to work throughout the days at his job. But it wasn't long before they turned on him, too, forcing him into early retirement. My mother chose my father over me. And one day at lunch I asked her why.

"It's easier for you to start your life over, Susan," she responded matter-of-factly. Then it is for me to start mine over." I, to this day, have no idea what she meant by that.

George and I remained friends--cautious friends. During my senior year in high school, I lived with my foster family, learned about personal space and freedom, and finally, through the conscious act of letting go of George and accepting that he no longer loved me, I found the possibility for new love to come into my life, and hope entered in. I stayed friends with both him and his family. Time would heal me through the people that I met, the friends that I would make, and the promising hope that my future was no longer tied to the destiny set out for me by my father.

I had a destiny of my own, now. My childhood trials would carry themselves with me for several years to come, but they wouldn't set the course for my life. One day I would find love; I would find acceptance; and I would find me. And that would bring another life, and another story to tell.