ABSTRACT
I might as well say it at the beginning. It is difficult for me to think and write about suicide. Half of the time I wish I never did. Personal experiences with suicide influence my writing. Here is one example.
It is roughly three o’clock in the morning. The world is asleep. Suddenly, my bedroom door bursts open and the flick of the light switch shatters the fragility of the night’s darkness. My mother is crying as she climbs into my bed. Surprised and confused at first, I quickly register what is going on. There is a sense of familiarity about my mother’s actions and the pain written across her face. There is also the familiar sound of smashing plates and the too familiar angry, drunken voice of my father, who suddenly appears in the doorway to my bedroom screaming what is unspeakable yet clearly understood even by me as a young child. He is drunk and enraged. His eyes are bloodshot and sweat pours from his face down to his stained white singlet. My mother continues to cry, hugging me as if I represent safety. With slurred speech, my father begins to threaten but these threats are different this time. They are accompanied with hand actions, representing the words being spoken. He wants to commit suicide. As he speaks, his hands move across the throat in a slash-like manner. His veins seem to appear just beneath the surface of his skin; they stand out against the redness of his neck. He repeats his intentions, emphasized through bodily movements, as he proceeds to the next room of the apartment.
