Suicide, Warm Thoughts. Part 2

You can find Part 1 of this story by clicking [HERE]

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It was November of 1988 when we headed north to Minnesota. Not the best time to make a trip north, but at this point it was a necessity. We loaded what little we had left into the back of my Isuzu pick-up truck and rented a small U-Haul trailer for the rest of it. We left the apartment in the middle of the night, skipping out on our obligations.

The drive was difficult at best. The three of us (“A”'s little brother came with us) were packed together in the Isuzu, and we were all going through drug withdrawals. About 5 hours into the trip we considered turning around and heading back. At least we knew who to get drugs from in San Diego. Maybe we could just cut back a little bit on the meth until we could quit. Maybe we could still make things work in San Diego. We knew better, so stopped at the next liquor store, picked up a couple of 40's and continued driving. Alcohol would be our way to cope.

We drove and drank – drank and drove. Hours and hours, miles and miles, until we finally crossed into Minnesota. We were all tired, hungry, crabby and a little too sober. I found it odd that “A” insisted we actually drive into a little town in Wisconsin – on the Wisconsin/Minnesota border – rather than finding a place to stay in Minnesota. Months later I would discover why this was so important.

Super 8 was the first motel we came to after crossing the Wisconsin state line. We, checked in, asking for the weekly rate. We had a plan. We would use the motel for temporary housing – maybe a week or two – until we could secure jobs and find a place to rent. Unfortunately, it was another plan doomed to fail. None of us had resumes or local references – not even a permanent address.

Against those odds, little brother secured a bus boy position at the local Perkin's Restaurant within a week and a half of our arrival. We had been looking at places to rent and we knew we could save enough for a deposit on a place with just two of little brother's paychecks. It had been 10 days since anyone had done any meth. Sure, we we drinking a lot of alcohol, but that was different. We were all certain we were on track for success.

At the two week mark of our Super 8 stay, we were told the credit card company would not authorize any additional charges on the credit card. We needed to check out the following morning. We had no where to go and no money to rent a place. We checked out of the hotel the next day in a bit of a panic.

We settled on sleeping in the truck at the nearby rest stop until we could come up with a place to stay. At least the rest stop was safe and had restrooms. We still had money for gas and food – the local gas station wasn't preauthorizing the credit card for charges so they weren't aware that charges were actually being declined. The drawback? November in Minnesota is COLD. Sleeping in the truck was not only uncomfortable for the three of us, but nearly impossible for any longer than an hour at a time. After an hour, the cold would wake us and we'd have to start the truck again to get warm. It was yet another “bottom” and one that I could help us out of.

We found a house in town that was available to rent. While discussing the terms of the lease with the landlord, we found we would need $600 to move in. My family had no idea the direction my life had taken. I didn't talk to them often, and when I did I was very vague about what was happening. I couldn't fathom the idea of asking either of my parents for help. Instead, I decided to call my aunt – one of my mom's sisters that I was quite close to – to see if she'd be willing to help.

I went to a pay phone and made the collect call. I briefly explained the details, leaving out those that were alarming enough that she might feel compelled to share them with my mother. She was able to help and wired the money to the local Western Union office the next day. We would be able to take immediate possession of the rental house as soon as we had the cash. One more cold, frequently interrupted night's sleep in the truck and we would have a “home” to start our new lives in.

Suicide, What Is Left? Part I

An odd thing happened back in January – January 18th to be exact. A fellow blogger, Real Live Lesbian, started publishing her very personal story regarding her suicide attempt [Click HERE to read it]. The date was significant – it was the 18th anniversary of the day I decided to let my husband of only 4 months, complete his suicide attempt. After 2 days in the ICU, and confirmation that he was brain dead, I gave the doctors authorization to “pull the plug.” No 24 year old wife should ever have to make such decisions.

This story has haunted me since it began and has had significant impact on the woman I've become. This is not a happily-ever-after story, but it is one I need to make real by finally putting it into my own words. This series of posts will be made out of selfishness – an attempt to clear my mind of some of the guilt that holds me back from living the life I deserve. There will likely be parts of this story that many of you find extremely disturbing, and I may even lose a few of you in the process, but I need to do this for my own sanity.

I've got to start at the beginning – where it all started for me. You may learn some things about me that you don't like – you may find that we have some history in common. I just ask that you read with an open mind and realize that I was a well educated, bright young woman who stepped into this life quite accidentally, but didn't get out of it unscathed. This is the other side of the story – what happens to the people that suicide leaves behind.

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It was the summer of 1988. I was 23 years old, living in San Diego, working for a construction company as a bookkeeper, and trying to find my way in life after recently ending a 2 year marriage that was filled with emotional abuse and infidelity. “A” worked for the same construction company. He was a laborer who came into the office frequently, always friendly and always smiling. He invited me to a party, and although my shyness almost got the best of me, I decided to go. It was at this party that I was introduced to something that would rule my life for the next 18 months – crystal methamphetamine. It would be a love-hate relationship.

My infatuation with “A”, and with crystal meth, was almost immediate. They both gave me a wonderful feeling – a sense that I could accomplish anything. Within 2 months, “A” and I, and “A”'s younger brother, moved in to an apartment together. Our lives were filled work and drugs – we worked to pay for the drugs and we used the drugs to stay awake and “focused” so that we could work. Although “A” had many qualities that I adored, it was the drugs that held us together.

Then the world started to come down on us. Both “A” and I were fired from the construction company due to our drug use, and our drug use kept us from securing new jobs. We began pawning everything we owned to get money for drugs. Bills were not paid – rent was not paid – but we always had drugs. One day though, as usually happens to addicts, we came to a place where we had nothing left to pawn, we had a 3-day eviction notice posted on our front door, and the repo man was looking for our only vehicle. It seemed we had hit that proverbial “rock bottom” and we decided it was best to take what little we had left and move to Minnesota (the childhood home of “A” and his brother). There, we could have a fresh start – away from the drugs – and we could start our life together clean and sober. It was a plan that would eventually take us to an even lower “rock bottom”