My Mother's Death: My mother took her own life in 1987, when I was 18. I found her dead, had to deal with the EMTs and police. Her death was by vodka and tranquilizers. This essay requires a lot of work because there is so much that plays in the background while this terrible end to a hopeful but tragic life concluded. I miss my mother, even though she was a depressed alcoholic. I want the piece to be respectful, but truthful.
My Father's Life: As is so far, that is. This paragraph you are reading right now about the essay has been rewritten several times today, because my father makes me so furious that I go off on some tangent. Suffice to say he was a very complicated individual who was both the devil and a pathetic man in my eyes. Any essay about him will be full of so many twists, turns, and convoluted "WTF?" commentary by me. It's so hard to write without getting so emotional, I relive the hell that was my childhood, and then my teeth clench, my heart races, and I go into a cold sweat. He's pretty much dead to me, even though I know he's alive and even where he lives (despite his comedic attempts otherwise). I feel the least I can do is spill the bile that he filled me with for 18 years. Then I can be rid of him, and let his soulless corpse rot alone.
The Trial that Set Me Free: This has to be separate from the part about my father, but it will be tied to it. Basically, my father was such an ass, and so full of his own hubris and arrogance that when it was suggested I get some help for my suicide attempts, he told everyone to fuck off. So the county got involved. My father did not back down. He was taken to court. He so screwed himself over, I thought I was dreaming. It was like a Hollywood movie where the evil supervillan gets killed by his own powers. I was 15, and by the time the dust settled, he had so lost. So lost. His abuse went to sheer neglect, but by that point, that was a whole lot better. It was because of this event I began to believe in God.
The Birth of my Son: This was a very tough time for us. While my wife lay dying, the hospital made some serious errors that nearly cost me the lives of the two people I hold most dearly. There were periods where people told me my wife or son was dead, and in the end, I ended up getting carried out by the police. But they lived! It was worth it. And God also played a part in this.
All these stories require days of writing. I am not sure if they will ever get done. They are pretty personal, and the only reason I would let the public see them is that I figure it will keep me honest. I have been tempted to make up stuff that would make me look smarter, or at least cover over scars that still hurt. But when everyone's reading your works, and it's a biography, you have a duty to keep them as honest as possible. But they will show some of you the deepest inner joys and triumphs as well as sadness and pain. But I figure if the truth is out in the open, I will be set free.
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