A Family without Love

Every family is crazy. Not everyone has had a portly officer of the law kick down their bedroom door. (I put a ladder between the door and the wardrobe, but to no avail.) I deserved it. I said I was going to hang myself with a bathrobe tie, a felt one, in my closet because Dad loved Daniel more than me. I had proof of it, in my mind, anyway: Daniel would be allowed to work on the bedroom downstairs even though I didn't want him to. I threw a coffee cup through a double-paned glass door when Dad told me so. That's a lie, actually. The two panes didn't break- only one. So not through. At. And I wasn't aiming at the door. I just picked up the cup and threw it. It was ingrained in my neurological system.

I have "Love is patient, love is kind..." on my wall. I have the whole verse. It's worth repeating, because love should be at the core of any family: "Love is patient, love is kind, it does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails." Every operating system needs a manual. But the block lettering couldn't get through to me that day. I wasn't feeling patient and kind. I had a record of wrongs against my father so long I couldn't see past, over, or under it. Daniel is my ex-brother-in-law, but Dad loved him more than me, I was convinced. I was envious. Daniel built his own business from the ground up with my Dad's help. He actually achieved something in life. And he's from a poor family, like Dad. And he's a male. So Dad can talk to him. In a way, I threw that cup out of love. I loved my Dad so much that I couldn't handle that he loved perfect, successful Daniel instead of him mentally ill daughter. But that's not real love. Love is patient. Love is kind.

Mom wasn't there when they kicked down my door and entered my sacred space and handcuffed me and told me to stop resisting. Again, I'm not saying I didn't deserve it. I was probably resisting, but there were two of them, guys, and I weigh 120. Hell yeah, I deserved it. And hell yeah, it was traumatic. Mom was on a luxury cruise in Croatia. I didn't want her to go. She knew I was sick but, to her, mental illness doesn't really count. I asked her if she would stay if I were in a terrible car accident. She said maybe. I asked her if she would stay if I had cancer. She said no. But I think she would have stayed if I'd had cancer. It's easier to see pain when your body is broken. The mind is hidden. The feeling of being abandoned had been hidden in my mind for a very long time, and it had begun to be a sickness. Of course I was born with a sickness, too. That's why Mom didn't like me much. I was the sick one. She may have loved me, though. She is my mom, after all.

Out the front door we went, past Daniel with his work trailer. Of course he knew the smaller (by comparison) cop from the skatepark. They greeted each other, which was infuriating. He seemed delighted I was getting taken away in handcuffs. I knew it wasn't him who called the cops, though; it was my dad. He's much rather have men with guns deal with me than have a conversation. I was angry at Daniel from a few nights before, when he'd told his daughter to "know her place" when he found out she was dating someone. Dad had witnessed him there in the kitchen yelling at his 12-year-old, "Know your place!" but he didn't do anything to stop him. When I tried to talk to my niece, Daniel made sure I couldn't. So I was still fuming about that. Our family stays at a low smolder.

The cop took me to see Dad, who was standing in the driveway. "You just lost your grandson," I told him, and I meant it at the time. Of course I would never take away his grandson, the love of his life. Dad has helped me so much with my son. But all I could feel was betrayal. They'd called the cops on me again. Why couldn't they just talk to me? I would calm down if they'd talk to me. One nice thing about these local cops is they talk to you, they don't care who you are. So the cop said, "He really does want to help you." I didn't say anything back. My family had betrayed me.

The cop was mad at me, I think. He left the window down when we drove past the neighbors. They stopped chatting and stared. Then he rolled the window up. If he did that on purpose, I don't blame him. We rode in silence for awhile. Then I told him my son had tried to kill himself on Mother's Day. That he still had the ropes marks on his neck. My son was tired of me trying to kill myself. The cop started talking about his daughter. I said, "I bet you're a good dad." "Yeah," he said. "What did he use to hang himself?" "A red rope," I said. I will remember that rope for the rest of my life. "A red rope," the cop repeated. That was the last thing he said to me.