The Attempt

This content has undergone editing and critique with the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) tools.

Throughout my entire life, I held the belief that my parents were extraordinary. I proudly shared with teachers, friends, and co-workers how supportive and caring they were, emphasizing their heroic qualities and the goodness derived from their life's work. My unwavering confidence in portraying them as heroes might have been genuine, or perhaps it was a narrative shaped by my limited understanding and perspective. In my small world and through the narrow lens with which I viewed life, they appeared to be heroes. However, my lack of love and limited experience left me without a true understanding of what constitutes a good person or a good parent.

While my childhood memories are hazy, certain stories stand out vividly. The recollection of the horrors I endured in the house on Monroe Street remains etched in my mind. Despite the street's romantic-sounding name, the reality of the home and its terrors painted a starkly different picture. The aging house demanded refurbishment, especially the worn-out floors that frequently left me with splinters, even when wearing socks. It was during those early years that I became adept at extracting splinters, an unintended skill acquired in the midst of a challenging environment.

One chilling episode that unfolded within the confines of this house was when my dad attempted to murder my family and me, subsequently planning to inflict harm upon himself. I was approximately 3 or 4 years old at the time, sharing a room with my older sister. Adjacent to our room, our eldest sister occupied her own space. The layout of our home had my parents' significant room situated at the back, separated from us by the dining room and the kitchen.

I was in preschool, and my sister was in the second grade when this unsettling incident occurred. My mother entered our room after we had fallen asleep and woke up my sister, guiding her out of the room, unbeknownst to me. Upon returning, she woke me and, with a stern tone, instructed me to hide in the closet. Leading me to the closet I shared with my sister, she directed me to the corner. Curiosity overwhelmed me, and I asked a flurry of questions—what was happening, where was my sister, and why was I hiding?

My mother began to explain that I was not to leave the closet under any circumstances. I had to remain hidden and could only emerge if the police instructed me to do so. Naturally, fear set in as I grasped the gravity of involving the police. Placing me in the back corner of the closet, she covered me with the dirty clothes accumulated on the floor over the past few weeks. The sour smell of the clothes suffocated me, a memory etched into my mind to this day. She emphasized, "DO NOT COME OUT TO YOUR FATHER!" and made me repeat that I understood.

I sat in the closet for what felt like hours, straining to hear any sounds. No voices, no yelling, no police. At the tender age of 3, it occurred to me that perhaps my mother was confused, and it was okay to come out. I cautiously emerged from under the clothes, peering out of the closet. Rushing to the window, I saw several police cars in the driveway. Then, loud voices reached my ears, and in that moment, I knew I had made a mistake. Panicking, I scurried back to the closet, covering myself poorly with the dirty clothes, attempting to hold my breath.

The door opened, and my mom entered, observing my haphazard cover, asking if I had come out. I explained that I hadn't, and she instructed me to come out. I cannot recall if the police were with her, but I am pretty sure I did not follow any of the orders she had given me. Later, my sister joined me, and we quietly went back to bed.

The next morning, my father was gone. There was no discussion or explanation; he was just gone. We all carried on with our days as if everything were completely normal. The event remained undiscussed until my mother, feeling somewhat gossipy about her husband, the man she despised, decided to reveal the truth when I was 16 years old. In the safety of my room, she explained that my father had been hospitalized after exhibiting signs of paranoid schizophrenia. Allegedly, he had become severely depressed, hadn't slept for a week, and began acting in a paranoid state.He had shared with my mother that the world was better off without him and us, and he was going to kill us and subsequently, kill himself.

Consequently, my mother rushed into our rooms and did her best to shield us from my father's violent intentions. She successfully called the police and managed to conceal the gun from him. With police intervention, he was taken to a psychiatric hospital for assistance. Upon his return, he transformed his experience into a platform for advocating on behalf of those institutionalized. His major realization was that people in hospitals were not treated well, a fact he passionately shared in speeches to the mental health community. He became an outspoken advocate for individuals with mental illnesses, drawing from his own harrowing experience and the unfortunate terror and negligence he subjected his children to.

Yet, what he omitted were the lasting impacts on his children—the memories and experiences that lingered. He failed to disclose that their mother chose to remain with a man who had plotted harm against them. The children grew up never getting the chance to discuss the incident, and the youngest sought refuge in closets throughout her life to find safety. While he profited and grew from his advocacy, his children withered and shrank under the weight of their traumatic experiences and the subsequent lack of understanding and support.