Hole in the Soul... Pt 1

Because this post and the future posts on this topic are sensitive, emotionally raw and may be difficult for some to deal with, I have created a new blog for this journey in particular. Future posts will be here.

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I gave serious thought over the past 24 hours whether I would deal with this situation publicly, whether I would bare my soul, give glimpse into a family that fractured many years ago, whether I would share the beginning of the end.

But the truth of the matter is that I am, if nothing else, a writer. This is how I process my life. I write about it. I share my own process because someone out there, someone doing a Google search in the midst of their own confusion and torment, might find this useful. It is a way of offering a branch out to the community, a way to say "you are not alone".

It deals with a serious issue. Suicide. I am not even sure how it will turn out myself because I am going to document this from my own beginning, my own middle and my outcome. This is the beginning.

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Sunday afternoon around 5.oo PM, I got word that my father walked into the den at his home, put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. It occurred on 12 April 2007. There were notes left for his wife and his adopted son. I don't want to be a burden to anyone. He had wiped the hard drive on his computer so as to leave no trail behind, no computer forensics to give insight into his decision for those left behind. We are just left with the remnants of his life, pieces of a puzzle that we must work out for ourselves.

What I remember about my father is that he was a very closed person, not one to communicate with anyone. He was quiet but the quiet didn't overlay serenity. He had a mean streak. He would tease me when I was a kid. He would tease me until I was hysterical with tears and then laugh. I always hated that teasing. For some reason, he either chose to ignore or couldn't believe how much it hurt.

He was a self-made millionaire by the time he was 32 years old. That was back when "millionaire" meant something. He invested in real estate. Ultimately, he designed houses himself, had them built and sold them. They were custom homes, the kind very wealthy people buy. He owned property in Malibu, Beverly Hills and Bel Air. He owned an apartment building in West Los Angeles.

He did not have a college education. The man was very, very bright. It was inherent intelligence rather than cultivated. He could read a book on any topic and learn it. He taught himself how to play piano. He taught himself how to design houses. He taught himself how to do anything he wanted to do and never struggled a bit.

It was during a visit to his house 17 years ago, one of his houses in Malibu, that I was introduced to the music of Enya. When I was growing up, he always played the classics. As he got older, he widened his musical taste to include New Age artists such as Ray Lynch and Nicholas Gunn. I still own the CDs I bought during that visit.

His houses were decorated with Art Deco. Maxfield Parrish. He had indoor aviaries and fountains inside. It was always beautifully landscaped. He didn't hire people to create that. He did it himself.

He was a womanizer. He'd had several extra-marital affairs. Finally he met the woman he would leave us for. And leave us, he did. We ceased to exist. Like yesterday's newspaper, we were left on the park bench. The pages blew hither and yon, finally landing in separate parts of the park. When he left, his side of the family also left. We had no further contact with grandparents, aunts, uncles or cousins from the C****** side of the family. We were invisible.

Anyone looking from the outside in would have thought he had the perfect life. The women.. the money... the houses.. the independence.

And I sit here, all these years later with the lyrics of "Richard Corey" running through my head.

But there was much more to my father than just being some rich white guy whose emptiness drove him to one day take his life. Just the same as there is more to my mother than my "Mommie Dearest" portrayal on these pages. I am not some overly spoiled rich kid with trivial complaints. My family situation was nothing if not complex. The money just provided a way to hide most of it from those who surrounded us.

There was a viciousness to my father's suicide. He did it in a room where he knew his 12-year-old adopted son would find him. He disinherited my brother, my mother and me. He even tried to cut out his current wife. He left one of his granddaughters as executor of his estate. The bulk of the estate is to go to her two daughters, his great-grandchildren.

The way I found out Sunday night was by way of an urgent email from my mother saying "call me". Knowing my mother, she would not do that frivolously and it wouldn't be an appeal for reconciliation. It is no secret that my mother and I do not get along.

I called her. She told me that she had some bad news, that my father had passed away. When I asked how it happened, she told me that he had shot himself.

TG: "The final fuck you."

I said that without even realizing what I'd said until it was out of my mouth.

Mom: "Yeah."

We talked for a few minutes and she shared with me rather openly how he'd tormented her over the years, even after they were divorced. We sat in silence for a few minutes, said a quick prayer for the peace of his soul and hung up.

What is there to say?

Right now, with the news so fresh, I am finding it very difficult to find compassion for a man who would be so indifferent to others, so selfish, that he would not only wound a young boy for life ~ but would stick a dagger into the backs of those he brought into his life voluntarily and the children he created as a result. This isn't about money. It's about betrayal.

But I must find compassion for the hole in his soul. I must. Because it is the only acceptable thing to do. The anger has to stop somewhere.

Finding it is what this series of posts will be about. I don't know how long it will take. I don't know how many posts I will write on the topic or how far apart they will be. What I do know is that my journey will be on this site. Wherever it takes me...


Peace,


~Chani