The Day Angels Wept

I am a survivor.

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July 31st of the year 2000, I was informed my father killed himself. He took a shotgun and blew his head off. His brains were splattered all over the ceiling of his bathroom. The cops could tell by the positioning of his body that he was looking in the mirror as he pulled the trigger. I often wonder what thoughts were running through his mind at that moment. Was he crying, resigned, angry? Did he call out to God? Was he thinking of the people he was leaving behind; how they would react, or was he thinking only of himself? How long did he stand in front of that mirror before saying goodbye to this world?

Is everything going good for you Connie? Are you happy? I want you to be happy.

I replay those words in my head often. My father making sure I was happy just days before he blew his own head off? Did he ignore the fact that his actions would bring me pain and make me unhappy, or was he just in a place that allowed him to believe that I would actually be fine after his death? I will never know.

I have had many years to deal with this terrible thing that my father chose to do to himself and to me. Yes to me. He left me broken for many years by one quick pull on that trigger. I have gone through the 'stages of grief'. The first year after his death, my spirit was weakened so much it was like I was the walking dead, totally numb. I refused to accept he was gone and what he had done. It took over another year to even begin to realize the impact that his death had on me. It took even longer to remember the impact his life had on me.


lyrics by Mamas and Papas-Monday Monday


Monday Monday, so good to me,
Monday Monday, it was all I hoped it would be
Oh Monday morning, Monday morning couldn't guarantee
That Monday evening you would still be here with me.

Monday Monday, can't trust that day,
Monday Monday, sometimes it just turns out that way
Oh Monday morning, you gave me no warning of what was to be
Oh Monday Monday, how could you leave and not take me.


    It was a Monday. I was in a place in my life where everything, for once, seemed absolutely perfect. My position as an Education Resource Leader at a Preschool was rewarding. I was making decent money, and I loved the work. I had a pretty, three bedroom apartment that my girls and I absolutely adored. I had an almost brand-new car named 'Ben'. My life had no drama, no real worries, and I was enjoying it.

    I went to work. I knew nothing of what the day held in store for me. The day started well. I had been worried about my father's state of mind since his breakup with his fiance. I lived on edge knowing that he had tried to commit suicide weeks earlier by sleeping pills, but tried reassuring myself that he was seeking professional help and I knew this man. This man would never let anything get him down for too long. He had lived through a childhood filled with poverty and abuse. He had served in Vietnam and came back a whole man, both in mind and spirit. I watched my father, in awe, as he put out a rather large living-room fire with his bare feet only to return to work days after, burns and all. This was the person who had just been awarded a certificate of excellence from his job for not having a single sick day in ten years. He would make it. I assured myself with the knowledge that this was the strongest person I knew. I went on with life the best I could and this particular Monday he was not in my thoughts as I performed my duties at work.

I arrived home for my lunch only to find a note from the Police taped to my door. It instructed me to make an (((URGENT))) long distance call to my Uncle Chet in Indiana. My father had moved to Indiana ten years earlier from California where he had raised me and my sister. Dread filled me as I remembered a dream, a nightmare I'd had a few nights earlier. It was ominous and I only remembered a phone call and some words...the same words which would bring on a sense of déja-vue only minutes later.

"Well, He went ahead and did it!" was all I heard before dropping the phone and letting out a primordial scream that seemed to last a lifetime. I can still 'feel' that scream.

The days after the phone call were a blur. I walked through the following days like a zombie. I flew to the funeral, numb- I do not even remember the flight to Indiana. I walked through the funeral processions keeping my head bowed. I did not cry. I nodded to relatives, who were offering condolences. I behaved like the proper grieving daughter, but inside, I wanted to scream and never stop.  I stared at the coffin, wondering why the funeral director did not allow me to see my father before he was encased in that box. I wasn't even allowed to hold his limp hand and say goodbye.


Reality had a hard time settling in. My soul just refused to digest what it was being fed. He was not dead! He couldn’t be! He was my world! What the hell would I do without him there? He was the one person in my life that I felt loved me unconditionally. No! NO! NO! My mind refused to grasp the fact he was gone forever from my world and by his own choice.

The questions started and guilt consumed me. Why couldn't I cry? People cry at times like these don't they? I did not consider myself normal. I felt I had some kind of problem with my emotions. I felt I was not a good daughter. I thought I could have stopped him before it was too late. Thoughts raced through my head. I should have been there. I could have flown down earlier and saved him. He would not have done it if I cared more! He would not have done it if I was there! Oh God, he was all alone! He must have been thinking- as he looked into that mirror with the gun propped under his chin- he was alone in the world! He must have thought no one loved him; no one cared if he lived or died! But I did! I did!

I cried out in pain, screaming into the night air, "I can't live without you.! You were my father. You were my source of unconditional love. You were my mentor, my protector, my Daddy! Who will take care of me now?"

I felt so small.

"You left me!" I screamed, finally collapsing into fits of jagged sobs.


My mind can only take so much
my heart, even less
I know you’d want me to be strong
I promise to do my best

Depression is like my shadow
I do not know if I can take it
Sorrow takes hold of my soul
although I try hard to shake it

You left me in a world of confusion
you left me in total chaos
You left me alone when I needed you
YOU LEFT ME!
YOU LEFT ME!
you left me...
without even a goodbye said.

I wasn't done with you,
I wanted you until the end.
You left before your time was due,
you left your child to fend...
ALONE!
ALONE!
Alone...
without even a goodbye said.

(written Aug. 12, 2000)

They say time heals all wounds; nine years later and I am still wounded. I have come a long way in healing, but I will always be left with the scars. I still wonder from time to time, “Why?”  I know there will be no answers to that question, ever. I am left with a terrifying fear that someone else I love will choose death over life. I have been diagnosed with Panic and Anxiety disorder and Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome since his death. I have seen numerous psychologists, psychiatrists, and doctors trying to heal this hole in my heart. I know now that this void can never be filled. He can have claim to that part of my heart.  I will continue to fill the rest of my heart and my life with as much joy as I can. Fond memories of my father in life have taken away some of the sting of the memories I have over his death. I try to remember all the good things about him as a man and father, not the suicide victim. I am still working on forgiving him. It will get better, one day at a time.

I am a survivor of suicide. I choose life. I wish my dad had.

My hope is with my sharing my story, others will be able to share theirs.  Suicide is a taboo subject and we are often embarrassed or ashamed to answer those questions, "Oh how did he/she die?" We have the intense pain of knowing our love one chose to leave 'this way', we have guilt, and there are those never-ending questions that we can never find answers to, or at least answers that satisfy us.  Survivors, sometimes, have little to no support in healing. People can tend to avoid suicide survivors like the plague, even those that have survived a suicide of someone close to them may refuse to drag up what they feel is the past. As someone who knows how lonely this place can be, I would like to share my story in hope that you might not feel so alone. I share my story in showing those who have not suffered a suicide but are contemplating it just who they affect and how far reaching that affect can be.