When I was suicidal a few years ago, my father called my husband.
“Take her somewhere that makes her smile.”
“Get her a surprise.”
“Take her to places that feed her soul.”
“Don’t do what I did.”
“Don’t put her in a closet and close the door.”
That’s what he did to my mother.
When I was depressed as a child, he tried to beat it out of me.
To hit it out.
Ignore it.
Scream it.
The first time I tried to kill myself, I was 8 years old.
8.
I look at my children now, the oldest of whom is two-decades, and they are still so precious and young and in need of me.
And I tried to check-out in second-grade.
“Take her somewhere that makes her smile.”
Fix the mistake I created.
Help her, because I couldn’t. Because I can’t.
Help her, because I was incapable. Because I am incapable.
A desperate plea from a father for his child?
A desperate plea so a father can avoid his child?
I am always someone-else’s job.
I wonder if there will ever come a day when I’m not.
written 6/11/2025
This collection of blog posts will include poetry, retellings, introspection, and train-of-thought additions until I decide I have got it all out and can breathe. I recently published a poetry book that coincides — My Father, the Mountain — and you can find more information and follow the blog at http://www.faunalewiswrite.com
Fauna Lewis Writes 