An Update

I know it has been several weeks since I last wrote about what has happened with my daughter Zoe, who attempted suicide recently. I did not intend to stop writing, but I found that I got to a point where my stress level reached a breaking point. I was exhausted, I was suffering from symptoms of what I assume were PTSD. I got physically ill, and reached my limit when I was trying to work on only a few hours sleep and was still dealing with the effects of a stomach virus. I was a basket case. I was sobbing every few minutes and just couldn’t take any more. I left work after half a shift and almost fell asleep at the wheel several times on the way home. When I did arrive home, I fell asleep immediately and was able to sleep deeply for the first time since Zoe’s suicide attempt. From that point on things seemed to get better.

However, I have just needed to step back from the circumstances of that horrible period of time and try to gain some distance. Zoe has also been in Oregon since just before Christmas and I think that has been a good thing, giving me a chance to heal and recover.

She seems to be doing better in Oregon, being able to spend quality time with her mom, her brother and her close friends. She also has been able to enjoy some liquid sunshine that she has really missed since moving to our sunnier, much drier climate in Utah. She will be returning soon and hopefully we will be able to start a new, more positive direction in our lives.

In the meantime, we are working on selling our RV so that we can move into the beautiful home where we are parked — both the tenants who had been living there abruptly moved around the time that this crisis occurred, a fortuitous set of circumstances for us. Hopefully we will have it sold before Zoe returns, but our landlord is hoping we can wait until he returns around the 9th of January. That is our highest priority right now, getting out of our cramped RV and into a house. It will make a world of difference for all of us.

I will return to writing again soon. I just needed some time and distance to try and heal.

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A Letter to my Daughter, Part III

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My beloved Zoe Lynn, We have some many things I would like for us to do together before our time is through. There are rocks and mountains to climb, rivers to kayak and swim in, ideas, hopes and dreams to discuss. I want to be there to comfort you when you go through your first heartache, I want to be there when you graduate from high school and college (although whether or not you choose to further your education is, of course, completely up to you.) Someday you may have children of your own, and I look forward to being a grandfather — as long as that doesn’t happen too soon.

Life can be hard, it can be cruel and capricious, yet there is so much magic, wonder, love and hope as well. My sincerest hope is that you can return to seeing this more positive aspect of existence. I know how hard it can be to see that side when you are depressed — I know that only too well. I also have been hospitalized because I was despondent, as you know, but I kept myself alive because I knew how much my death would hurt the people who loved me. I believe that now you know this as well.

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The last letter finished with you and your mom moving to Portland. She had quit her job as a nurse to return to school for acupuncture. This would prove to be the catalyst for your downward spiral. Of course, it was only part of a combination of factors that made for a potent recipe for depression. The move, you and I seeing each other less, a new school and city, your mom being really busy and not having as much time for you, plus the new addition of hormones, all of these contributed to your sorrow. But I believe that the thing that pushed you over the edge was you and your mom’s roommate, J.

She called you a slut(even though you are a virgin). She told you you were ugly and that no boy would ever want you. She insulted and dragged you down. Then she would lie about it to your mom and say you were making things up. I didn’t know any of this was happening until it was almost too late.

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I found out about this when you called me one night in May, revealing to me that you were struggling with bad depression. You told me about the situation and your mom and I agreed that I should come get you and bring you back to Southern Oregon for some extra time. However, it wasn’t until I called your school — to let them know you would be missing school for a few days — that I was informed that you were posting suicidal thoughts on Instagram. When your school counselor sent me the links to these posts I was beyond horrified.

I was in the last few weeks of my college career at Umpqua Community College, and I remember waiting for Brook to come pick me up so we could get you in Portland. I was like a caged, wounded animal, pacing ceaselessly, unable to concentrate on anything except coming to get you. I was so scared. Brook too was frightened, and she drove like woman possessed on the drive north.

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When I picked you up from school, I had already made up my mind that it was time for you to come live with me. I was ready to get a lawyer or go before a judge, anything I needed to do to keep you with me and keep you safe. I sure as hell wasn’t going to let you return to that house and be around that woman. You didn’t react well to the news, and neither did your mom.

Thankfully, Brook was able to calm things down between your mother and I and a short time after bringing you to live with us, we went to mediation where it was agreed that not only were you going to live with us in Roseburg for the rest of the school year, but that you would also be coming to live with us when we moved to Utah at the end of the summer. I really felt the change would be good for you.

I was wrong.

End Part III

A letter to my daughter

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On Thursday, December 4, 2014, my daughter Zoe Lynn attempted suicide. It was only by intuition or divine intervention that I woke up and found her struggling with a rope around her neck. I was able to prevent her from dying, but there is much work that now must begin to heal her, myself and my family. I hope this letter is the beginning of such a healing.

Dearest Zoe,

You came into this world on February 3, 2001., surrounded by friends, family, peaceful music and candlelight. You were born at home, in our apartment off River road in Eugene, Oregon. When Clarebeth, the head midwife, lifted you up and cried “it’s a girl!”, everyone erupted in cheers. It was one of the most amazing moments of my life.

You were such a sweet, mellow baby, and I realized after you were born that i truly did not know what love was until you entered my life. I did not know what life was until you entered mine You were such a funny little goose. When you began crawling, you hated having your picture taken. You would fuss and scoot towards me, trying to get so close I couldn’t take a shot. You also were a little jealous, and never wanted your mom and I to be close, pulling us apart if we cuddled.

I remember all too well, when 9/11 occurred and you were just a few months old, how scared I was, and how I wondered about the kind of world I had brought you into, and whether it was fair of us to bring you here when so much bad was happening. Of course, I no longer feel that way.

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Your mom and I did not remain together much longer beyond that, a clash of personalities that was impossible to fix. But fortunately for myself, I was always able to see you on a daily basis, and as you grew, we became closer and closer. Many people said you were a daddy’s girl, and I still think that is true. We have always been close, and I hope we always remain so.

When your mom went to Nursing school, I took over the primary care for you for a period of a few years, and even though it was hard, it was one of the most rewarding periods in my life. I would wake up each weekday around 6 am, feed you and get you ready for school. Then I would return home and try to get a few extra hours of sleep. Then I would wake up, pick you up from school, we would have lunch and then I would take you back to the school for aftercare. Then I would go to work (as a manager at Sweet Life) and work from 3 until after eleven (most nights), then I would go and get you from your Mom’s house, where you were asleep, put you in my truck and drive back to my apartment. I was fortunate to be able to get to sleep by one in the morning. Then I would wake up around 6 and start it all over again.

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During that period, I would take you on walks up Spencer’s Butte almost daily, carrying you in the baby backpack as we wound our way towards the summit. I remember once when it snowed, you hiked all the way to the top on your own (in over a foot of snow, too!) When your Uncle David and cousin Travis came to visit us, they took you on a hike on the Butte, but it quickly got too dark to continue, and you threw a hissy fit because you wanted to reach the summit. Of course, as a climber, I loved that.

I started taking you to the rock climbing gym at three years old, and wow, you blew me away with not only your natural climbing ability, but also your determination. I remember seeing other kids around your age trying to climb at the gym, and mostly they seemed to want to just swing on the rope and play. Not you. You were aiming for the top. I actually had to make you stop, take breaks, get a drink of water, because otherwise as soon as I lowered you from a route, you immediately wanted to go right back up.

I remember when you graduated from pre-school at the Waldorf. I was the one parent there who was bawling like a baby, it was so embarrassing, not because I was crying but just because all the other parents weren’t. I have always been very emotional about you.

A series of events (your great-uncle Jorge, your Pampa (my father) and my friend Traci all passing away, a painful breakup with my then-girlfriend Bethany, stress at work) put me on the edge of a nervous breakdown, and I myself went through some serious emotional trauma, which culminated in me taking myself to the hospital and getting mental help for a few days. I remember times when I would be just sobbing, and you, all of three or four years old, would drape yourself over me, trying to comfort and protect me with all of your soul and body. Eventually I made the difficult decision to move an hour south to Roseburg,  a more rural area so I could decompress for a while. Yet I still was able to have you for almost every weekend, and even though I didn’t get to see you every day, I was still so grateful to see you as often as I did. It wasn’t easy for us, but we always made the most of the time we had.

End Part I

 

 

 

Some reflections on a life of (mostly) failure

ImageI think I should be a success. I’m an intelligent, well-read person who seemingly has all the tools to lead a successful, healthy, happy life, but the truth is, I have failed in my life, repeatedly, over and over again, no matter how talented I may seem in that particular area of failure.

First and foremost in my mind is school. I went through basically twelve years of hell in school, averaging something less than a 1.0 average, despite all my test scores placing me in the upper five to ten percent in the nation. I was told I was lazy, I was told I didn’t apply myself (that term still provokes a feeling of nausea in me when I hear someone utter it.), I was made out to be something that I wasn’t, and as far as I know, not once in that time did anyone ever seriously consider that maybe, just maybe something deeper was wrong. Despite the fact that I had a serious head injury when I was five that required me to stay in ICU two nights.

Socially it was just as bad for me, I only had a few friends, a lot of my class- and school-mates regarded me as a strange, isolated kid who was obviously intelligent but indecipherable, so in addition to feeling like a stupid, lazy piece-of-shit, I was also left feeling like an incredibly isolated, stupid, lazy piece of shit. I used to stare at myself in the mirror and call myself all sorts of horrible names, I told myself how much I loathed me, I hated the ugly image in the mirror. It is no surprise then, if I admit that by the time I was ten, I has already seriously begun contemplating killing myself.

I recall clearly the first time I almost did it. We lived on this incredibly steep hillside in the foothills of the Santa Cruz mountains, and we had this old Dodge pickup truck that was parked pointing straight down the steepest part of our hill, and I sat in that truck, all of ten years old, ready to pull the parking brake, put it in neutral and go to my fate.

It didn’t get easier for me as I got older. My isolation only increased when we moved to Oregon when I was fourteen and suddenly thrust into the country world of Glide, Oregon. The first two years at Glide High School were pretty bad, I was this tiny little dude and definitely got picked on a lot, but by the time I was a junior and senior, I wasn’t getting picked on too much, but I was just as isolated as ever.

Throughout this whole time, I was still essentially getting D’s and F’s, I was still just as baffling and confusing to the teachers and staff at the high school, and my depression was getting worse year by year. The funny thing is, I didn’t even realize I was depressed. I just thought I basically sucked, no one genuinely liked me, and that I would never amount to anything. Actually, that is still my ‘default’ mode that I go into when the black dog visits. In any case, I wouldn’t realize that I was clinically depressed until after I was hospitalized at nineteen.

I ended up dropping out of school when I was six months from graduation, in part because I wasn’t going to graduate anyway. and I in part because I hated it so much I just wanted to get the hell out. I wouldn’t make a serious attempt at formal education again until this year.

Which brings us to my latest failure. I enrolled in UCC for the fall term, got approved for financial aid, and took a step I honestly didn’t think I would ever seriously try. At first, it went pretty well, I felt enthusiastic and energized, I was on top of things, but as the fall progressed, my pain issues increased, dramatically so at the end of the term, and I was in so much pain I began to struggle getting to class. It didn’t help any that I was also feeling anxiety about being around a bunch of strangers when I was hurting so badly that I wasn’t sure if I could suppress a groan when it struck. Plus, I had to take a lot of pain medication, which sure as hell isn’t conducive to things like focus and concentration. Anyway, I really struggled in the lat month, I managed to get caught up in my writing 121 class, and ended up, to my surprise, with an A. But my journalism classes I only got a C and a D, which officially makes me suspended from school.

How can this be? Well, when I was in my early to mid-twenties, I made a feeble attempt at school, but being the dumb-ass that I am, I ended up not going to them at all, mostly due to my then-overwhelming fear of being in any kind of group situation. The terrible part is this: I don’t always understand how systems work, I just don’t get it, and in this case I ended up going to maybe one or two nights, but never again after that. I didn’t, however, take the vital step of withdrawing officially from my classes, not understanding that it would mean three F’s instead of just a withdrawal. So now, with my D in writing for the media (getting this grade also came down to me not turning in one final assignment, which I stupidly did not realize was our final), I am officially booted from school. I doubt I will ever try again.

All I had to do was get a C.

When I was in wrestling, I was pretty talented physically, I was quick and could get take-downs on a lot of opponents, but as talented physically as I was, I was mentally incompetent. I would give up, beating someone but good, then getting tired and giving up, almost always getting pinned in the process. My friend Brandon told me it was the most aggravating thing to watch me wrestle.

When I joined Tae Kwon Do when I was sixteen, things began to shift, but not right away. I took to the martial arts, utilizing my quickness to rapidly establish myself as one of the best in our little dojo within just a few months, but when I went to tournaments, I initially was only able to finish second or third, I was usually too wound up, I was too blindly aggressive and could never get the win. This went from yellow belt through my blue belt. Then, when I was a brown belt, I finally went to a tournament with a relaxed attitude, and I not only won, I dominated. I became a more passive fighter, relying on my defensive skills and preying on my opponents mistakes. After that, something clicked in me and I went on to win five of the next six tournaments. But a tragedy was to soon alter my psychology for many years to come.

I had a friend in high school named Lynn Powell, we were never close, but for a time she babysat across the street, and we would hang out sometimes. She was always really kind to me, and I always felt cared about by her, not a common feeling for me in those days, and I always cherished her friendship for that. She had this vibrant spark to her, and one always felt a little better being around her, at least I always did. So when the news of her death in a horrific car accident reached me that terrible morning so many years ago, I literally went into shock, I couldn’t believe it, not her, not Lynn. I was shaken to the core by her passing.

After that, I really passed into a deep sorrow that I wouldn’t come fully out of for a long time, and I lost the joy I had for the martial arts, and most everything else too. So soon I wasn’t practicing, but I vowed that I would go back, and that I would win a tournament in her honor. After several months of sorrow, I did return, and trained for about one month before entering a tournament that just happened to be occurring locally, at Douglas High School.

What I most remember about this tournament was the fact that I was in a nearly unconscious state when I sparred, I was so fully in ‘the zone’, I remembered almost nothing of the actual matches. I know two of my three matches were stopped because I was beating my opponents by five points, a sort of ‘mercy’ rule some tournaments use. The next thing I know, I am being handed a trophy, I start crying, and I don’t stop crying for half an hour. I had done it. I had won it for Lynn. Later I would take the small trophy and leave it at her grave.

I never seriously trained in TKD again. I was less than six months from testing for my black belt, and I gave up, I quit, never to return.

My daughter Zoe’s middle name is Lynn, and it is partly in my old friend’s memory that she was given that name.

End of part I