Father's Friends pt. 2

Dad had spent the night at a work friend's house like I asked. The next day he reported getting through work without any interruption from disembodied voices. I was talking to him every day, and back to getting the usual report. "Nothing's changed here."

I think I was more traumatized from the incident than my father was. For the next couple weeks I was still making phone calls in the stairwell of my dorm. No one needed to hear a chunk of conversation that would make my dad sound crazy. They could think he was stupid all they wanted, I know I did, but schizophrenic episodes like that night carried a different kind of stigma.

A few days after the incident, once I was assured things had returned to normal, I found myself standing in the card isle of the pharmacy down the road from my building. My arms hung lazily to my sides. I normally gave Dad one of those cards that talked or sang when you opened them. This year, however, that idea seemed questionable. What if the bodiless voice brought back some kind of memory? What if it triggered another episode? But then I stepped back a little farther. What if not having anyone to talk to was what triggered the incident in the first place? He needed a card that provided some sort of relief from the silence. But that's ridiculous, he does nothing but watch TV anyway. There was never silence in the house. He needed something with which he could actually interact.

Wheels started turning. I decided to go with a card that didn't talk, not for any of the developed reasons I had been debating earlier, but simply to save money. Then I went downtown to an animal shelter and claimed a puppy. The people there insisted I take him home that night, but I protested. I just wanted to actually claim one so that I would go through with my idea.

I guess he wasn't a puppy. He was three years old, old enough to be trained to respond to the name Chester, so the privilege of coming up with something more creative was out of the question. Chester was a brown all over, his fur, his eyes, his nose. His previous owners had apparently abused him, but the only evidence of that was the missing tip of his right ear. Personality wise, he was as friendly as any other labrador.

In my dad's birthday card, I mentioned that I would be home the following weekend with his real gift. He got it precisely on his birthday (something I convinced him I had planned) and shared with me over the phone how excited he was to see me again. His birthday, however, had landed on a Tuesday so my visit was still a few days off.

Our first reunion in three months started the way one would have anticipated. I parked the car about halfway down the driveway and on my way to the front porch my dad threw open the screen door to greet me with a choking hug. I was the Prodigal Son that called home every day. And of course the first words out of his mouth were-

"Your school is only three hours away. You need to be coming home more than this."

I assured him I would be home again in a month for Thanksgiving and another month after that for Christmas.

"Well I guess I'm lucky my birthday isn't any later than it is. I would have gone crazy," he chuckled at himself. I was quick to change the subject.

"Was it a happy birthday, Dad?"

"Oh, no different than the last fifty-some birthdays. Heck, the good news in your little card was probably the highlight." Dad seemed to be growling his sentences more than usual, as if he had aged signifcantly since I started school.

"Well I've got one more highlight for ya, Dad." I hurried back to my car and opened the door to the back seats. Chester bolted out with the fury of a hurricane. He bolted around the front yard with some spastic sense of direction for a few seconds before charging back towards me and putting his front paws on my shoulders, panting like he'd been at this pace for days.

"Not me, Chester, go see your new Daddy." I pointed towards Dad and Chest immidatley ertook off in the direction of my finger. But when I looked at my father, anticipating some kind of joy over his newfound friend, I saw tears streaming down his face. This was the second tally on the times-I've-seen-my-dad-cry chart. I started to approach him.

"Dad," I started with one hand out, "are you okay?"

He looked down. No reply.

"Dad, I wanted you to have a new friend around the house since I'm not here. You were just saying I don't come home enough."

"I can't afford a dog, son."

"Oh, Dad, sure you can. I mean, he eats a lot, but any shots and stuff have been taken care of."

"I can barely afford my own food. How am I supposed to go back to feeding two?"

"Why wouldn't you be able to afford your own food?"

My dad looked back up. He was already done crying but his eyes were bloodshot enough to make mine want to water.

"I lost my job on my birthday."

"What?" I wasn't startled so much as curious. There had to be more to the story.

"They fired me on Tuesday."

I was wrong.

"Why?" I asked, chest puffing up like I was going to go down to his boss's house.

"All kinds of reasons. They said they've seen productivity decline in the past couple months. Then recently I started getting irritable with my coworkers. Then on Tuesday I snapped at my boss. You've gotta understand, son, no one said 'happy birthday.' Why wouldn't someone wish me a happy birthday?"

"Dad, we've talked every day this week. Why didn't you mention this?"

"What difference would it make? Besides, I didn't want to worry you. I just wanted you to focus on coming home. I asked Mary, I said 'Why isn't anyone wishing me a happy birthday? I've worked here for over a decade. You guys know it's my birthday.' And do you know what he said? He said the party in my head should be enough of a celebration."

"What are you talking about? Is Marty who you stayed with a couple weeks ago when you heard that angry voice?"

"No, but Mark told him. Mark told everyone. The angry voice told me I should fucking kill Mark, but luckily Steve convinced me not to."

A chill shot up my spine. The voice hadn't gone away. "Is Steve your boss or a friend?"

"Steve is my guardian angel. Steve is much more rational that the angry voice. When the angry voice tells me to kill someone, Steve calms me down. Steve only hurts people that really deserve it. Steve was the one who told me to yell at my boss. Don't tell him I said this, but I think the angry voice is the Devil trying to talk over Steve."

I took a step back. Chester had planted himself between myself and my dad, eyes darting between us two, still panting. "Dad, are there any other voices that people at work couldn't hear?"

"Oh, yes."

I stared for a second, waiting for him to explain. He didn't.

"Who, Dad?! Who else talks to you?" There was an edge to my voice I had not intended.

"God. God talks to me sometimes. But not as much as Steve or Satan. God says he has more important things to do than worry about me. He just tells me to stop whining about my job. There are people in Sudan starving of AIDs."

I wanted to correct what he had just said, but there seemed to be more pressing matters. I told Dad not to worry about feeding Chester yet, to just stay in the yard and play with him. Chester loved him. I insisted I was just going inside to use the bathroom, but I stayed by the dining room window. I tried to pace but even that proved difficult since I spent more time looking over the front porch than not. The lights were off to ensure he couldn't see me. I wanted to take him to a hospital or something, but I didn't know where to go for that sort of thing. No ER would take crazy people. Furthermore, I really didn't want to be in the car alone with the man. What if Steve told him to hurt me?

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called the police. I stated that it was not an emergency, and then explained my situation. This proved to be the right decision. A room was reserved in a psychiatric ward before the cop car arrived. My dad, perfectly content throwing a stick for Chester, seemed heartbroken when the police pulled in behind my car. From the dining room, I could see his face sink. He glanced back at the house, apparently just then noticing how long I had been in the bathroom.

I spent that night alone with Chester in my old bed. The next morning I was speaking to a nurse outside his room in the psychiatric ward. She was blonde with a voice just a little bit too high for my taste. The only nurse-like traits were her little costume and the clipboard she held. I felt bad for her. She probably had a masters degree, she works in an extremely draining and potentially dangerous environment, and yet I could barely take her seriously because of features beyond her control.

"Before we see your dad," she squeaked, "I want to show you a more extreme diagnosis of schizophrenia. Your dad-"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, did you just say my dad's diagnosed with schizophrenia?"

The woman was taken aback. Her eyes checked either side of me, as if looking for back-up. "I'm sorry. I thought you already knew that. Isn't that what you reported to the police yesterday evening?"

"I said it was something like schizophrenia. I don't know. I just assumed it was some subtype or something."

"Well, that's close to what I'm trying to tell you. Follow me, please," she continued, voice back to calm and irritating. She began walking down the windowless hall, away from my dad's room. "Your father's onset, although a bit sudden, was extremely, extremely late. And the earlier schizophrenia begins, the more severe it tends to be. The average age of onset for the disease is late teens, with apparent symptoms beginning mid-twenties. Your father may have had some of the less obvious symptoms for a considerable time now, but nevertheless, due to the late onset of the more dangerous symptoms, his case should remain somewhat mild."

"Mild?" I stopped walking. "The man lost his job because of this mess."

"Yes, but from what we've gathered from his story, that was largely due to the stigma surrounding the disease, not the actual symptoms. Also, he is learning here how to control some of his weaker moments, which will allow him to work again when he gets out."

"So he is getting out?" I asked hopefully.

"Very soon, I would suspect. The reason I asked you to follow me, however," she stopped suddenly and turned back around to me, "is to show you a more extreme version of the disease. I hope this puts your father's condition in perspective. A bit of a silver lining, if you will."

She looked at me sternly for another moment, as if verifying that I was ready. Then she opened the door and began devoting her full attention to the man inside. She set her clipboard on the table by the door immediately.

"Hi, Larry," she called sweetly.

Larry was sitting upright in his bed, only the lower half of his legs covered in sheets. He was dressed in khakis and a grey button down. He was twirling his finger through the black hairs of his goatee. His gaze moved slowly to the nurse, and never seemed to quite make it. He looked to be in his mid-forties, but somehow I felt he was actually much younger.

"Larry, this is my friend," the nurse began. "He wanted to come visit you with me. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, that's fine," Larry replied. I guess I was expecting something unusual about his voice. I expected him to bark or croak his words. But they came out very smooth and professional.

"How are you doing today?"

"It's hot in here," Larry said calmly.

"Is it?" the Nurse asked.

"When my sister and I were in Florida we barely got all the way to the ride."

"Really?" inquired the nurse. "What ride is that?"

"Are you sure you want to know?" He was still twirling around the hairs of his goatee.

"Yes please, if you don't mind telling me." Her hands were flat by her side.

"When I was four my mom told me about Santa Clause and I cried for days. You should never have to tell a boy, or any of the pretty girls, about it so young."

"I see..."

The nurse continued her conversation, failing to gather information on how he was feeling today and what he had been up to lately. She was extremely patient, and seemed not to blink. In this setting, where a indiscernible conversation seemed so delicate, her voice seemed much more appropriate. It went from ditzy to loving. Larry, on the other hand, never stopped spinning his finger around his patch of facial hair. I kept waiting for him to reference the voices in his head, or to have some emotional breakdown like I had seen in my dad. But it never came. An eternity later, the nurse and I exited. She grabbed her clipboard and Larry waved good-bye. She began walking back towards my dad's room.

"That didn't look anything like what my dad's been going through."

"Sure it did. His conversation didn't make any sense, right? You've noticed that in your father, I'm sure."

I thought to the night before, with the people starving from AIDs. There had been a few slip-ups like that in recent phone calls, as well, now that I stopped to think about it. Nothing that, at the time, couldn't be explained away by blaming the poor service in my stairwell.

"But he didn't mention voices or anything like that. That's what's been stressing my dad out."

"However, in the past week, your dad has adapted well to his hallucinations, no? The first day he spoke to you he was highly distressed, but yesterday he listed off multiple personalities as if they were long time friends."

"Yeah, I suppose."

"Larry is at the point where they hardly seem to be voices at all. They are just a normal part of his brian function. He's used to them. He was probably hearing them while I was in dialogue with him."

"So what does this mean for my dad?"

"This means he is going to be undergoing intense therapy for the next few days. He is already on new medications. It is imperative that he takes these every day. The most common reason for relapse with schizophrenia is not taking medication. And he mentioned a dog. Do you have a dog?"

I sighed. "Yes..."

"If you can't keep him, you'll need to find someone to housesit and look after him for a couple weeks until your dad returns home." I racked my brain for people that lived nearby who could look after my bad, impulsive decision.

"We're about to go in here together. Don't worry. He's not mad about you sending him in here. We've explained to him how you didn't have a choice and you did it out of love. As far as what things look like for you specifically, you're going to want to come home often. I'd say every weekend to start out with. He will need something steady in his life besides a dog."

As I had told my dad the night before, I would be home in a month for Thanksgiving and another month after that for Christmas.

Father's Friends pt. 1

Like every other kid, when I was a teenager I thought my dad was an idiot. By any passing judgement, he fit the mold for what an angst ridden 16 year old male should be humiliated by in a father. He wore glasses that covered up what would have been half his face if not for the enormous forehead left behind by an ever-receding hairline. He had been overbearing ever since my mother passed and seemed to place all his eggs in the same basket in my education and social life. His only excitement came in vicarious experience through his son. Through me.

But even then I thought there had to be some special kind of idiocy reserved for my dad that my friends weren't suffering from. My dad wasn't just a disciplinarian or embarrassing. His mind genuinely seemed to be in a more fragile state that what seemed healthy. I was the only one close enough to him to raise a red flag, and I was too scared of what drawing attention to him would mean. His state got progressively worse over time.

I was eager to move away for college. My dad maintained the house on his own. His day consisted mainly of going to work, the same cubicle data management position he'd had for most of my life, coming home, cooking dinner, and falling asleep in front of the television. I convinced myself I was a decent son by calling him almost every evening. I would talk about new friends I was making, how classes were going, and so on, and he would tell me how nothing had changed back home. I called him almost every evening. But I never visited home. And I wasn't planning on it until Thanksgiving.

One October evening, about a week before his birthday, I was a little bit late with my routine check-up. I was worried he may have already fallen asleep to some syndicated laugh-track sitcom. But he answered. He answered, but did not sound like himself. He was very distressed.

"Michael, I have to tell you something," he gasped without a 'hello.'

"Dad?"

"Someone was talking to me, today. Someone was talking to me at work."

"Well, Dad, I imagine it's difficult to fortify the cubicle."

He snapped at me. There was a growl in his response I had never heard before. It was like it was his voice, but it wasn't him talking. He barked that that's not what he had meant.

"The person that was talking to me... No one else could hear him."

I was silent for a moment, but I didn't want my dad to get angry again, so I tried to put some words together to form a thought. I asked what it sounded like. He said it was angry. Not like demon possessed angry (to which I breathed a sigh of relief), but certainly angry. I asked why no one else heard it, which re-triggered the distress.

"I don't know why know one else heard it. It's not like it was in my own head. It was coming form outside somewhere." His voice cracked. He was crying.

"What did it say, Dad?" I was speaking very delicately. Furthermore, I was stepping out of my dorm room lest my roommate come back in. I made myself to a stairwell, where, although service was not as strong, I was very likely to be alone. No one needed to hear me coach my dad through the voices only he could hear.

"I was in midsentence, explaining some figures that didn't add up. I wasn't angry or trying to condemn Marty. I just didn't know what numbers I was missing. And he just told me... he told me I was a worthless sack of shit and I needed to go back to my desk."

"Marty said that?!"

"Not Marty. The voice." Dad may have continued, but it became indiscernible. The crying had become sobbing.

"OK. It's okay, Dad. Why didn't you call me then. Or why didn't you talk to someone at the office?"

"I tried! I asked-" he gasped for air, "-I asked if Marty heard it and he didn't know what I was talking about. But I shrugged it off cuz he went away after that. The voice. Not Marty."

I did my best to reassure my father. Shrugging it off seemed to have been a good choice on his part. Everybody's had some kind of voice in their heads at some point. That doesn't make you crazy. I asked him why he was so upset now if this had happened hours ago.

"Because-" I had never heard my dad cry before. I have never seen him get upset over anything that seemed worth getting upset over, starting with Mom's passing. That was the incomplete brain function that had bothered my in high school. And yet here he was, four hours away, pouring his heart out like I never could have imagined. "Because he was talking to me right before you called."

"Are you sure you're alone in the house?" I asked with new urgency. "Someone's not just-"

"I looked everywhere, dammit," my dad screamed. "I looked everywhere. And the voice didn't get louder or quieter. He was always right next to me. I'm insane. I'm-"

Static.

"Dad? Dad! Dad! Are you there? Dad?"

"I'm here, son."

The crying had stopped as abruptly as the static had.

"Michael," he whispered. "Michael, do you hear me right now?"

"Yeah, Dad. I can-"

"Michael, he's talking to me right now."

My skin went cold. I wanted to swallow but there was no spit in my mouth. There was just this lump in my throat that wouldn't move. I think my right arm started trembling, as if the weight of the cell phone had become unbearable. I blinked and some sense of reality came back to me. I remembered I could move. I looked around. Behind me, just stairs. The same in front. I had to make sure I was alone in the stairwell.

"What is he saying, Dad?" This time my voice cracked. But it wasn't from crying.

"He's telling me to hang up the phone."

"Don't hang up the phone, Dad!"

"I'm not going to hang up the phone. I don't like him. I won't listen to him."

"Okay. Good. Good, Dad. I want you-"

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP NOW! ...Not you, son. Not you. He doesn't care if I don't like him. He doesn't like me either."

This is how I rationalized not going home: I had a test the next day. And I believed that to be a reasonable decision. I would lose scholarships if grades suffered, I decided. The voice my dad had been hearing subsided during our conversation. My dad's tone went back to normal. There was certainly a post-shock undertone, but pretty much normal. Still, I instructed my dad to find somebody from work that he could spend the night with.

I didn't sleep well that night. As a matter of fact, I think I would have been better off just not taking the test.

Rewards Program

He zipped his pants and pulled his belt back to the warn out slot while kicking the handle to flush. He wasn't in the mood to wash his hands, but knew people were waiting in line outside. So he flicked on the water, shook the soap dispenser, and eventually put his hand under the sensor to activate the drier that barely clung to the wall.

He looked down as he walked back into the gas station. Three pairs of feet. How had a line built up that quickly? Once he was safely past their bored gazes, he commenced the search for a meal to get him through the next few hours. All energy drinks taste like piss. Focus Water would be a safer choice. Peanuts to snack on. Brain food. Still not the healthiest combo off the Exxon menu, but a much more natural approach to energy than the typical American grab-n-go mentality.

This was Cameron's job as twenty year old liberal arts student. He regularly convinced himself that he was on a higher parallel than preceding generations because he put into practice something he saw on syndicated self-help shows. In actuality, he just used a different means to the same end of self-righteous wastefulness. No number of indie albums or foreign films was going to change that.

The cashier was just old enough for her cheeks to start caving in on themselves. Her hair showed no signs of gray, but perhaps a hint of Clairol. Her name tag read Nancy. She was smiling wider than Cameron had ever seen a gas station employee smile at eleven at night.

"How are you doing tonight?" she asked enthusiastically.

"I'm... good. How are you?"

"Very well. It's crowded tonight."

"A concert just let out. I guess everyone's refueling." Cameron's uneasiness about the perky old lady was diminishing rapidly. Her tone was soothing and her cheer genuine.

"Seems late for a concert. How far a drive do you have in front of you?"

"Two hours."

"Oh my. Must be quite a band."

Cameron replied by listing an obscure artist the old lady obviously would not have heard of. She continued to beam her radiant smile and blinked innocently.

"They're my favorite," he continued.

"And making that drive alone?"

"I met people up here tonight for the show, but I was alone driving from Wofford."

This was a lie. Cameron had not only travelled alone, but attended the show alone. He had pretended to be in a drunken stupor so that it would be socially acceptable how much he was talking to the strangers around him. That, however, was unknown to Nancy. She had picked up on something entirely different from the sentence.

"You were travelling alone? Do you mean to imply you're not now?" She was now smirking the way a mother smiles about her fourteen-year-old's new girlfriend. Cameron chuckled.

"Didn't pick anyone up. No, no..." he trailed off.

"Would you like to?" Nancy did not break eye contact. The peanuts and Focus Water were still in her hands. She had not even scanned them yet. Cameron gave his first uneasy chuckle.

"I'm... I'm good." he stuttered.

"You've already said that." Nancy murmured. There was another moment of silence.

"How much do I owe you?" Cameron was back to looking at the floor.

"Did you not think it was weird that there were women waiting in line to use your restroom?"

Cameron looked back up, eyes squinted. Had he used the women's bathroom? He didn't remember any faces from the line that had so quickly built up behind him. Nancy had not changed her posture.

"You sort of walked in on a scene we were filming."

With that, the time to sacrifice water and peanuts had finally come. Cameron bounded with every bit of confidence he could muster to the sliding doors at the front of the convenience store. They did not slide open. He took two steps back, looked at Nancy, and back outside. His was the only car visible. He pulled out his cell phone. No service.

"How many people were in line behind you for the bathroom? It's been all over two minutes? Maybe? How many are in line now?"

Cameron looked back to the bathroom. No one was in line. Yet the store contained only himself and the cashier.

"They started as customers, too," Nancy explained. "Always with the same midnight munchies. For a quick buck, they had no problem hooking up in a bathroom. Now all their snacks are free. Would you like your nuts for free?"

Cameron gritted his teeth. "You need to let me out of here."

"Listen, you're already going to end up on some quirky website. Every porn needs a little humor. You pretending to wash your hands was priceless. You're very concerned about others' opinions of you, aren't you?"

"You can't put a damn thing on the internet without some sort of consent or something!"

"Of course your face will be cropped out, maybe replaced with one of my actors. There will be no foundation for a lawsuit, if that's what you're thinking."

"There's plenty of foundation."

"I'm just trying to offer you a chance to get your little food her for free. Consider it our rewards program."

"Ma'am I don't live in the area. I don't think giving up my dignity is worth one free snack."

"Perhaps a check? This is a very profitable business. Name your price." Nancy's unnaturally white teeth were still stuck in a wide grin. Cameron stared at her for what seemed like an eternity. He walked back up to the desk and opened the pack of peanuts. He poured them in his moth and swallowed them without chewing. He proceeded to open the water bottle and took a swig of that, as well. He leaned over the counter and for the first time, Nancy's smile shook a little bit. Her beady eyes darted around frantically. Cameron reached for the cash register and punched six numbers with unnecessary force.

"That's my price," he growled angrily. And he walked back to the bathroom.

A few hours later he was speeding through the darkness, a crisp check sitting on the passenger seat. Suddenly his head was being bashed into the plastic steering wheel. And airbag immediately pushed back with vigor. He opened his eyes to find himself in a ditch. A bag of empty peanuts and an empty water bottle on the passenger seat. No check.

Stories of Stories' Ends

Ninety percent of suicide survivors say that when they were at a point that they actually thought they were going to die, they regretted their decision to kill themselves. So supposedly, out of every ten people that jump off a building, nine will decide about halfway down that they may be overreacting. I, however, had a few problems with this statistic upon initially hearing it. First of all, this survey is only conducted amongst suicide survivors. It is exceedingly difficult to interview the ones that got the job done. For all we know, ten out of ten hit the concrete thinking- 'Damn, I'm brilliant!' Secondly, I'm convinced a major reason these people survived at all is because they changed their mind halfway down. It's that whole mind over matter thing. If with only 5 stories to go, you decide you want to live, I think it's possible that you've just willed yourself to live. So of course it's the survivors that feel a sense of relief.

My perspective, however, has changed since initially hearing this statistic.

The first encounter with suicide I had came when I was a child. The local news covered a story about a guy who had placed more than his life savings on some Cubs games during what can only be described as an unfortunate season. He hung himself with an angry note to the Cubs players nailed into his sternum. A nail in his heart and a pile of drugs in his gut. The execution certainly required dedication, but at the end of the day there was this unsettling feeling for anybody who heard a man had hung himself over a baseball game. I blame that report for my disinterest in sports.

Anyway, at some point during that story, the reporter must have used the actual word "suicide." There were no pictures to accompany the story (thank God) and the concept of "hanging" was foreign at that young age. While I was watching the news in the living room, insisting I was not distracted from my homework, my mom was cooking furiously in the kitchen behind me. I got on my knees to see over the back of the couch and asked my mom what suicide was. My mom had resolved that she was never going to lie to her children and confront any issues my sister or I had head on. This meant if I asked about Santa Claus at age 5, I was getting ready to have my tender heart broken. If I asked what sex meant at age 6, I was going to sit down with an illustrated book for the next two hours. Both of these things happened. My mother's attempt to be an honest, respectable parent wound up sucking all the fun and innocence out of being a child.

Asking about suicide was no exception. My mother promptly turned off the stove and took a seat on the couch next to me. She first gave me a textbook definition, and proceeded to list possible reasons someone may resort to such drastic measures. "Often," she began in her sweetest after-school-special voice, "someone feels trapped by financial difficulties, meaning they don't think they have enough money, or they don't feel like there is anyone who loves them. It can be because someone is lonely or sick or angry..."

"...Or because the Cubs lose?" I continued.

"Yes, someone highly invested in the Cubs may decide suicide is necessary if the Cubs lose. That doesn't happen very often." Another interesting parenting technique my mom had adopted was to not influence my opinion on any of the adult subjects I may ask about. When I asked about sex, I was taught every scientific term and many sutra positions, but I was not given a speech about only having sex for love or saving sex for marriage. I was also not instructed that it was a good thing that I should pursue immediately. Same for my inquiries of suicide. Although my mom confessed that it was rare for s kama omeone to kill himself over a sports loss, I was not told that such behavior was unreasonable. If that was a priority, it was up to me to decide if such action was appropriate.

The second memory I have of suicide came many years down the road and hit a lot closer to home. This time it was my uncle. He had a loving wife and two kids, almost the same age and my sister and I. This time the story of his passing didn't end in a commercial break. He had apparently hung himself in his bathroom with a note on the door that read, "Don't open the door. Just call the police." I remember thinking that was very nobel. But of course my aunt hadn't listened. She opened the door and let out a shrill shriek that gave her daughters nightmares. The proceeded to sob in an hysterical manner that still hadn't let up by the time of the funeral.

I witnessed from a safe distance how my uncles suicide had disrupted his family. I have to believe he thought he was doing them a favor by kicking that chair out from under him. He had no idea the therapy his wife would go further in debt to pay for or the way each member of his immediate family would blame herself. Or what that first Christmas would feel like.

The reasons for my uncle's unforeseen desperation were never made clear to me, but I gathered enough to know it was more significant than the failures of a sports team.

The third brush with suicide I had was the one that altered my perception of that statistic. This time, the suicide revolved around myself. After college, I went straight into accounting, determined to use my degree in the most obvious way possible. I was employed by a national corporation with promising stocks. When the bottom fell out three years later, I simply moved to a smaller company. Barely had to touch my savings before I was employed again, making nearly as much as I had before.

As a matter of fact, it was at this new job that I met the love of my life. Before Meghan, I'd never been in a relationship long enough to celebrate a major holiday or birthday together. This had never really bothered me. I was in enough relationships to keep my self-esteem afloat and never long enough to get bored or deal with the complicated stuff. But Meghan changed everything. She pushed me into that uncomfortable zone where you realize your whole life, you've never really known who you are. I hated how she challenged every perspective I'd ever held about love and life, but it was pushing me to be a stronger, better man.

We never quite got that far, though. Before I could be a stronger man, I had to be at my most vulnerable. And that was when she left me. There were no warning signs and certainly no shot at redemption for whatever I had done wrong. I simply woke up one morning she wasn't by my side. In her place was a note saying she had been offered a job in New York City. Even though I never saw the notes left behind by the Cubs fan or my uncle, this note somehow reminded me of them. One note and suddenly she just wasn't in my life anymore. No way to contact her.

I became a broken shell of a man. I became everything I used to make fun of. Everything that had kept me from investing too much in a woman. I struggled to get to sleep and woke up with ease as if I'd only been resting my eyes. My work performance suffered and I physically began moving slower in normal activities. My friends, many of whom were already settled down with their own women, could not afford enough time to truly console me.

Of course the thought of taking my own life didn't take long to rear it's ugly head. I pushed it out, recognizing that getting so upset over a girl was as ridiculous as a Cubs game. But it came back. Time after time, different ideas for how I could dispose of myself would come out of nowhere. The ideas became progressively more elaborate. I would not take the simple ways out like a note. I also did not want to burden my family, even if it was just my mom and sister, with what my uncle had done to his family. I resolved to take my own life in a way that it could not look like suicide. Comparatively, it would be much more settling for me to be murdered.

It took me six months to find a legitimate number without raising eyebrows, but in November I was finally on the phone with just the man I needed. He would not conduct any official business over an open line, however, and instructed me to meet a local Chinese restaurant. Over dinner, for which he covered me, I slipped him a manilla envelope. I assured him that the envelope contained exactly what I wanted it to, including the five thousand dollar deposit. The second half was to be paid after the hit. Such was apparently standard operating procedure in the industry. I did not have enough in my savings for the entire second half, but I figured it wouldn't matter, since I would not be alive to concern myself with it. The portfolio in the manilla envelop was my own. I had placed a bounty on my own head.

For a week, my sleep depravation actually improved. I felt like the Meghan chapter of my life had concluded with me resolving to end myself. Just that knowledge gave the peace I needed to finally get over her. Once I realize this, however, I became one of the nine in ten. I was plummeting to the ground trying to will myself out of hitting it. But a week had gone by with no sign of trouble. I resolved that the hitman had likely opened the envelope after I left the restaurant, realized the irony of the situation and taken me for a joke. Either that or he realized that with his client dead, he would never get the second half of his payment. Might as well take off with the first half.

I would have contacted the man again to call him off, but suicidal me was one stop ahead. When I passed off my portfolio, I had also gotten rid of any information that would allow me to get ahold of my hired killer.

Another week passed. And another. I certainly tried to keep an eye out of any suspicious activity, but as time passed, I no longer felt like I was walking on eggshells. There were even whole hours where I forgot I was in the middle of a muddled suicide attempt.

It was during one of these hours that I was watching television, alone in my apartment, when my living room door flew open and I heard a silences handgun fire at my recliner. I bolted down the hallway, trying to calm him off without looking back.

"I've been trying to get ahold of you," I cried frantically. "The job is off. I can get you the other five grand..." I dove into my bedroom and slammed the door shut. "...but you don't need to kill anyone." I realized what I said. "You don't need to kill me."

Another shot went straight through the door and whizzed past my head. I locked the door, more for the sake of ritual than any actual feeling of reassurance. My eyes darted across my room. Hiding would do no good. There was no where he wouldn't find me. I heard him start beating the door handle with what sounded like the butt of his gun. With each failed attempt to bust through, I would hear him grunt and then inhale to brace for another impact. I could not believe just a few weeks ago I'd had such a civil conversation with this man over Chinese.

My eyes, blurry from tears, landed on the window. I didn't know if the sixth floor was high enough to kill me, but frankly that wasn't my main concern. I was just determined to get away from the maniac grunting behind the door. I gathered myself to my feet and dove straight through the glass.

The man was a professional. He had never been caught by authorities for a previous hit, and wasn't about to begin now. He quickly covered up any trace of his having been in my apartment. Furthermore, he placed a pre-made note on my pillow saying "To my family- I am sorry."

In answer to my previous query, no. I do not believe falling from the sixth floor of my apartment building was enough to kill me. Hitting my head on a fire hydrant upon impact... that is enough to kill me. And my last thoughts as I fell were not "I don't want to die." No, in that sense, I guess I am the one in ten. My last thought was, "Damn that statistic."