June of 1968, it was a slow day at work and many times during that day I had tried to call my mother. I can't explain it but I think somehow I knew. After work I went and got my husband, who at the time was out in the field preparing for the next rounds of planting. We both drove into town, all the way a very strange and sick feeling was building inside me. No answer when we knocked, the door is locked and I haven't a key, my husband raises the garage door and we enter through the kitchen. As I walk through the house I am calling her somehow not expecting to get an answer, there she is, lying in bed and covered by a sheet...did she know I was going to be the one to find her and she didn't want me to see the destruction. I am 18, I could see the strange way she had acted the last week, why, oh God, why didn't I see what was going to happen. And times goes on....July 1970, I pull in the driveway, my husband is waiting for me outside and he hasn't picked up our son at the sitters. Something is wrong. As I roll down the car window I look at him and know, immediately I know, it is my dad isn't it, he replies, "Yes." After years of alcoholism, violence and abuse, they divorce in 1967, and how strange, they can't live with each other and can't live without each other. Why have people made me feel so ashamed for what my parents didn't and why is suicide so hard to talk about.
You can send email to Pam at: [email protected]
anniversary date Mother: June 1968 Father: July 1970
date of post 04-27-98