Learning to Swim, Trying to Die

Don't breathe. Just don't breathe. You'll be okay, as long as you don't breathe.

The water softened the sounds of anger and fear from the world above. I could feel my father's fingertips digging into the back of my head holding me under. Forcing me to learn, or die. I was nine years old and I couldn't swim. My father had enough. It wasn't alright for me to be afraid. He had to make a man out of me. He had to make me someone that didn't make him ashamed.

I heard my mother begin screaming his name. First at a distance then closer and closer as she ran toward us. A moment of hope came into my mind, then fear. I knew my mother would save me, but what price would she have to pay. I felt my father's hands release as my mother begged for my life. I fell over the side of the pool and onto the wet grass. Gasping for air I saw my mother running away. She was leading my father toward her and away from me. Everything faded into darkness.

I don't know how long I slept. I woke up in dry clothes on the couch. My mom and my sisters were sitting in the kitchen. There was nervous laughter tinged with fear and relief. My father was gone. When I walked into the kitchen, I could see the hell my mother had went through. My father's rage had left it's mark in the form of bruises on my mother's face. He blamed her for my weakness. She babied me, protected me, sheltered me from the hatred the world would show me. He knew it was her fault. I knew it was mine. If I wasn't here, dad wouldn't be so angry all of the time. If I wasn't here, he wouldn't hurt her. I knew I had to go. They would be better off without me. They would be happy.

The next night my father had not returned. He was a truck driver, so I assumed that he went out over the road. My mother was at the grocery store. This was the moment. Now I could go with no one here to stop me. My sisters were in their room, busy with their own lives. I knew they wouldn't notice. So I took a bed sheet and twisted it into a rope. I tied one end into a loop and tossed it over the post on my loft bed so that it hung over the other side. I slid the loop over my head and pulled it as tight as I could around my neck. I pulled with all of my strength on the side of the sheet that was still hanging over the bed. My feet lifted from the floor. My body instinctively gasped for air, trying to survive, fighting my intention. Then it was over.

I was nine years old and didn't realize that I would pass out before I died. When that happened my hand fell limp and let go of the sheet. I was alive. I couldn't even kill myself right. I was worthless, just like my father said. I couldn't get away, I couldn't stop hurting the people around me. I had no choice but to try to stay out of the way. I had to keep living. I would spend the next thirty years trying to be invisible. If they couldn't see me, I couldn't hurt them.

This was the first of many suicide attempts between nine and thirty-four years old. The last began my journey toward mental health. I am forty now and still searching, still striving for freedom from my past. Now I understand that this path is long and painful, but worth it. I know that I am surrounded by beautiful gifts, and that to some I am a beautiful gift. I know that my mother would not have been happy without me, and my father would not have been peaceful. If I were given the chance to go back, to do things differently, I wouldn't. I had to come through these events to become who I am today, and who I will be tomorrow. I am looking forward to a bright future, while healing from a dark past.