I didn’t remember the whole truth about what happened on, October 22, 1963, only pieces. More came to light when I was in my forties and now as I reach my seventies. This time when reliving the day of my Father’s suicide, did I see blame? Is that when I took on the heavy guilt and shame. Is that the moment my brain began to self-protect and block what happened? The reflection I saw in my Mother’s eyes, what message did I see? I now know that was the moment I choose to forget the last time I saw my Dad alive. I don’t think she would blame me, but something deep inside me changed in that quick instant. I perceived within myself, it was my fault. Wither or not she felt it, I did. I killed my Father because I was angry. I had said “No” and made other hateful remarks. Every once in a while, reflecting upon that day, another question arises, could my Mother have shot my Dad? Torment, was I behind the pain my family members were suffering. The haunting question, murder or suicide? Any woman might have been brought to a point of murdering her husband. Especially after the incident that occurred in the early morning. I keep reviewing, what I asked my Mom. About what happened that morning. My Father’s last moments in our house. The statement to the newspaper by law-enforcement, I have read many times. New deeply hidden reasons for feeling shaming guilt begins to surface. Each time I reflect on that day new understanding comes to light. Nearly sixty years of shaming hidden guilt does something to a person. You can't let go of what you don't remember. I find myself in awe and wonderment. The power of the human brain, my brain to conveniently forget, but was I really being protected? Studies continually show what happens during a traumatic experience. The brain is capable of guarding the dark unbearable facts stored in blocked memories. The protective shield can stay in place for decades. I am proof. Over and over again in my mind, shaming images are reflections of the lost reality. I remember my Mother’s sincere explanation of her experience. I believed her. I still believe her experience as she told it to me. No one could come from the depts of her emotion without living the experience. I felt her pain in the soft wounded voice as she shared what happened that morning. After my brothers and I left the house. The quiet must have been chilling as busy children closed the door, after I had erupted with my verbal anguish. “You kids left for school. I was in the kitchen doing dishes when I heard a strange ‘ping’ sound. I went to see what it might be. I opened the bedroom door. He was on the floor, curled up, holding his stomach.” I said, ‘Buster, what have you done?’ “He said, ‘I shot myself Mama.’” That had to be true. My Father always called her “Mama.” Recent conversations with my siblings find me still putting feelings and pieces together. My mother ran across the street to get help. The neighbor was a policeman who took charge. The ambulance came. Other police came. My Mother carried the picture from the newspaper in her purse. It was there the day she died, three year later. There it remains today. It shows my Father being loaded into the ambulance by the EMTs. The statement under the picture, “His wound was self-inflected.” Haunting memories reoccurring over and over each time an incident connects a slight recall. A big one for my siblings and I, is mentions of the death of JFK. The assassination happened one month after my Dad’s death; so many triggers bring memories. Memories that have given me opportunity to reflect. Each episode gives more clarity. Strange, but I am experiencing an unexplainable ecstasy after remembering the incident correctly. After the recall of each detail and after dealing with the emotions, I can breathe again. It brings a new discovery leading me to a new sense of peace. Like putting a puzzle together, find the right piece. The right piece leads to others. All seem to fall into place more easily. The picture leads to a new awareness. The understanding and memories begin to show a bigger picture of the true reality I had forgotten. The reality where mixed messages created my personality or way of thinking. I can identify the fantasy world I had created to exist. Adding to lost memories, more confusion was created. During my twenties, I was reminded of the old gossip. It came from my Father’s family. A visit with my Aunt Adelaide, “Some of the family think your Mother shot your Dad.” In more recent years, the thought came up again. When visiting with a younger cousin we talked about our family's interesting dynamics. She told me that our Grandmother, my Father’s Mother, had told her, “Your Aunt Saidee shot your Uncle Buster.” One would have to know my Grandmother's troubled and very interesting life challenges to understand her thinking. I didn't know at the time, I hadn’t fully dealt with the guilt carried for my Father’s suicide. Now, another puzzling issue surfaced again. “My Mother a murderer because of me?” created more complex confusion. The truth of my Father’s mental Illness, awareness of my Mother’s depressed state of mind, understanding of the fourteen-year-old girl placed in horrific circumstances needed to be addressed. Counseling over many years had only touched the surface. Had my Mother reached a breaking point? Could the abuse she and our family endured finally changed her sweet and gentle nature? Now, I remember it all with more clarity from the moment I woke until the moment I saw “the look” in my Mother’s eyes. She knew. I knew she knew what had happened that morning. It was reflecting back at me. I woke in panic. I could not breath. The pressure on my nose and mouth, hindering my breath intake. I woke fighting for air. It was fight or flight mode. I was experiencing a life- threatening panic. As I became aware I fought to turn my face to get my life saving breath. When I realized it was him, I became outraged? I began to hit, fight and scream, “I hate it when you kiss me like that . . .!” My words did not end. They must have cut like a knife; because, I recognized the power and control I gained using them. The acknowledgment of the power I felt lead me to shout out more word of disgust. Hateful words, cutting words I had harbored from other times he made me feel icky and uncomfortable. I watched my Father back against the wall of my bedroom a strange look in his eyes. Like a wounded animal. I don’t remember ever seeing that look before. After the rejection and chastising he left my bedroom, slowly, his back against the door opening. His eyes finally stopped staring at me with that puzzled woundedl look. My anger continued as I got ready for school. I went to the kitchen venting my anger. I did not hold back my disgust. My mother spoke only gentle words necessary to get me and my younger brothers out the door. To my brothers and I, life went on as usual. When we returned from school, some strange energy filled our home. The minister was setting in the corner of the dining room on the phone. “Where’s Dad one of us asked” another said, “Is Dad back in the hospital?” “Has he gone camping?” Not sure which of us said it but we all felt it, “Oh boy, Dad’s gone.” Our Mother’s face saddened even deeper with each comment being made. We knew she understood the joy and relief we felt; but, I recognized a pain in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before. Something wasn’t right. I remember an aching feeling beginning. The minister got off the phone. Elder Roper was well known to us. Along with regular church services and events, we had been to his home for group dinners. Elder Roper gathered us to the living room, he was muttering words that were hard to follow. Seemed we were getting a personalized sermon. I was on the brink of bordom until I heard, “We don’t always understand why people do . . ..” I felt my eyes filling up. There was a heaviness building in my chest. I couldn’t hold back the choking sounds trying not to cry. I looked to my Mother sitting across from me in the room. What did I see in her eyes beyond the pain? I recognized the grief she set aside. She quickly looked down to my youngest brother who was beginning to weep more deeply. What else did I perceive in that piece of a second that our eyes met? I not only saw her pain. I saw the reality of what had occurred early that morning. Now in my seventies, I had a moment of remembering looking into my Mother’s clear blue wet eyes. As I recalled the memory of the morning, and of the afternoon, when I learned my Father had committed suicide, as I recall the moment my Mother’s and my eyes connected, I recognize I saw the guilt and shame. She knew in that moment, I knew in that moment, my Father had committed suicide because of me. That is what I felt. That was the message in my thought. “What did you do Maxine. It’s because of you.” In that instant, not confronting the issues that had occurred earlier in the morning, I took on a self-made conclusion. I was to blame. The mystery of why I couldn’t remember the last time I saw my Dad alive was now fully solved. Nearly sixty years later, finally, I remember. My first recognition of the last time I saw my Dad was in my forties. That had taken a challenge course to gain. Jumping off a fifty foot wall brought the joy of remembering and the experiencing of hidden grief. The picture still hadn't been complete. Nothing was ever said about the incident that occured in the early morning hours. Nothing about what he had done to me or a conversation about the anger I had felt when I left for school. The doctors who attended my Father at the hospital told my Mother that he was having a mental break down. His state of mind caused him to be dangerous. We were lucky he didn’t take all of us with him. Now I wonder, did I push him into that state of mind or was he already on his way when he came into my room that morning? The root to what caused his mental illness has been another quest. To gain understanding of his life’s traumas has made life easier for me to find the answers that has led to forgiveness. For myself and others, we are in this together.
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Author“Big people are supposed to keep little people safe.” Helping children recognize the importance of “feeling safe” was one of my missions as a Children’s Case Manager working for the local Mental Health Agency. Archives
March 2021
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