When we stop at a Greyhound station in Dallas, I decide to get off and spend the night there. The bus will go on to El Paso, but I won’t be on it.
There’s an Overnight Inn in sight of the bus station, so I walk there, afraid I’ll be mugged before I reach it. The night is alive with shadows and movement, but I walk briskly, my heart pounding. Halfway there, despair hits me like a sledgehammer across the temple. I can’t believe I’m here, hiding from the law. My parents raised me to respect authority and believe in the system . . . but that was before the system turned on us.
To my family, committing murder is as foreign as committing suicide.
We aren’t quitters, I told myself so many times after my father’s death thirteen years ago. He would never have hanged himself. I was so sure of that when I found him, his body staged to look like someone who wanted to end it all. Even at twelve, I knew what I saw. My sweet dad dead in a way that he would never have wanted me to find him.
Now I wonder if I could be a real first in my family. Could I be the one who really does give up?
Maybe if I’m mugged and murdered, that would be the best thing. But my survival instinct is too keen, so I walk as fast as I can until I get to the front door of the hotel. They do have vacancies, so I tell them that my wallet was stolen but that I have cash. I register under a fake name and soon have my room key.
When I get into the room, it smells of mildew and cigarettes. The bed is hard and the sheet doesn’t cover the mattress, but I tell myself I’m lucky to be here instead of jail.
Hopelessness sinks its claws deeper into me, and the thought of suicide returns. I think about how I might go about it, how I could cause the least trauma to whoever stumbles onto me. For a few minutes I rest in the thought that it could be over soon, in the relief it would be to not have to run for my life and hide like a criminal. I wouldn’t have to worry about how to earn a living or where to live or who is closing in on me. I wouldn’t have to deal with being branded a killer.
But I can’t rest in that fantasy long. I think of my mom standing at a funeral visitation, repeating her OCD rituals ninety to nothing as she shakes hands and comforts the comforters. After the funeral, she will lie awake all night with terrors running through her head, not able to sleep for weeks until a doctor intervenes and adjusts her dosage. My sister will be so distraught and distracted that it will disrupt her parenting of little Emma. Her marriage will suffer because the bitterness and anger will rise like lava in her heart, and eventually she’ll say something publicly that she shouldn’t, and they’ll come for her too.
They’ll talk about my suicide on TV like I’m the drama of the week. They’ll describe it in detail and there will be YouTube videos of my body. Nancy Grace will perform my psychological autopsy.
I finally bag the idea. Taking my own life would be too selfish. Too many dominoes would fall, too many people would be impacted, and not just for a day or a week or a month, but for years . . . for decades.
You can’t just check out and think it will all be over. It won’t be over for anyone who loves you. You’ll only leave them to run after the pieces that scatter in the angry wind. You’ll leave them desperately trying to solve the problems you wouldn’t . . . all while plugging their own wounds. Even if you’re like me, single without children, you could impact generations.
Is quick relief worth it?
No, it isn’t. I’d rather take the pain myself so they won’t have to.
There’s no sense of relief when I determine that I have to plow through, but at least there is some resolve that I’m plugging along for my family. Little Emma won’t have to talk about her suicidal aunt. Of course, years from now her playground friends will call me a killer. But her mother will set her straight. Maybe Emma will hear fond memories of me.
I finally fall asleep for a while, blessed relief that I didn’t ask for. I dream that Brent is still alive, that we’re hanging out at Malico’s Pizza Plaza, eating pepperoni and whining about the forgetful waiter, as if his leaving off the sausage is the worst thing that could happen.
When I wake, Brent’s gone again. I used to love Saturday mornings, but everything seems wrong in this moldy hotel room. I cry quietly as I shower and get ready to go to who knows where.