Was suicide the answer to be loved and respected

CW: Suicide, mental health issues, emotional abuse, and violence towards animals

I was born into a family of seven children. The seventh died in childbirth. I was the sixth child, born with a few physical disabilities. One leg was shorter than the other by a few inches. This gave me a lopsided walk if I did not have a shoe adjusting the difference. The thumb on my right hand never formed. This left me with a hand of only four fingers. I had a cleft lip, with a left eye that had great difficulty in focusing.

My parents were farmers owning several hundred acres of land situated deep in the country, many miles from the nearest city. The only form of life outside the farm was a small village that was a testimony to the past. Most of the younger people had left to find a husband or wife and a good job in the city. In the village there was no doctor, only a veterinarian.

My parents' life had been a continual struggle to provide for their growing children, waiting for the time a child could put in a day's work on the farm. The fact that the sixth child had been born with certain physical disabilities seemed to annoy them. My father was a hard man with little compassion and a deep sense of discipline and duty. His whole appearance looked like it had been chiseled out of granite rock. If one of his farm animals gave birth to an offspring that had handicapping blemishes, he would shoot it on the spot. Mother was a gentler creature, but totally dominated by her husband. His word was the law of the farm.

In my early years, I had no idea what it was going to be like to live with my physical problems. I was looked after by my two sisters, who were young teenagers. My mother, at the direction of her husband, was ordered not to devote sympathy and time to my failings. “Let the young girls look after him. You are needed on the farm.”

Two of my elder brothers were already working on the farm. The other two were still at a school some ten miles away. No matter the weather, they all had to cycle there every school day. I must have been five when I realized that my sisters were getting bored looking after a young child that had certain physical defects. I was soon left to look after myself. My brothers had always shown little interest in me. Schooling was soon on the horizon. There was no question of anybody taking me there, but one of my brothers did teach me how to ride a bicycle with a special pedal.

When the day finally came and I pedaled to school for my first day, I thought I would be subject to brutal teasing. The students looked at me as something strange: a cleft lip, an eye that could not focus correctly, a right hand that was odd, and a special shoe on one foot. From the school’s record photographs and various references to sporting events, my brothers had made their mark. The youngest of my brothers was in his last year. He never offered to give me a helping hand. I am not sure the students believed I was from the same family. The general consensus was to leave me alone and just ignore me.

I spent my school years living a lonely life, often craving human warmth and understanding from my parents and teachers. My report cards showed I was an excellent student in all subjects. The only occasional praise I received was from my mother. My sisters had long ago abandoned those early years of cuddling and kissing. Now they had lost interest in their younger brother. Their minds and energy were on working and mixing with the local boys.

Once I had left school, my mother asked me to attend the biweekly meeting my father had with his children. The meeting was held to assign tasks for the coming two weeks. None of my brothers and sisters were married, and all worked on the farm. With this labor force, the constraints of tight money appeared a thing of the past. In fact, the family had taken over another farm in the district. To please my mother, I sat there listening to the various work orders handed out by my father. When he came to me, he cruelly said, “That dog won’t hunt.” I left the room and went to my bedroom in tears. I would never attend these biweekly meetings again.

That night, I scanned the local paper to find a job in the city some eighty miles away. The paper advertised three jobs that appealed to me and were in my area of competence. I sent them letters supported by my school results. Three days later, I had two replies with dates for interviews. One, which seemed the most promising, was looking for a young person for their administration department. That night I told my parents of my plan. They seemed delighted, and to my surprise, Father gave me a small sum of money to tide me over before I found employment.

There were no fond goodbyes; my brothers and sisters were working in the fields. Only my mother gave me a kiss on the cheek and asked me to write to them. I never said goodbye to my father. No doubt he felt he had done his duty by giving me some money. As the bus sped toward the city, I felt a deep sadness that the family I was born into had no love or respect for me. I was just a member who should never have been born.

I found a youth hostel and prepared myself for tomorrow's interviews. I was trying to grow a mustache to hide my cleft lip. I was not very successful. I decided to put a patch over the eye that wandered. My hand I could do nothing about. The raised shoe had already been a long struggle to get my parents to buy.

The two interviews ended in a no. I felt my disastrous physical appearance was the cause. As my family and the school had just ignored me, I was not totally surprised by being refused. I didn’t even register as having any capabilities. Here in the city, I painfully realized my physical appearance was of great importance. I could see in the interviewers’ eyes that they were not prepared to take on a person who appeared as a misfit, regardless of his excellent school grades.

I went back to the youth hostel and lay in a depressed mood on my bed. Today's meetings had shown me that life in the city would be extremely difficult. I deeply felt I had no place in this world. I was just not accepted. I had a vision of my father shooting baby animals that had physical defects. He should have shot me.

Then another thought entered my brain. Last year, I read an interesting essay about unsatisfied and disturbed humans—that when they die, their spirit lives on until they have tried to rectify the wrongs committed against them. All my life I was an outcast and never respected as a human soul with feelings and emotions. These unbearable attitudes and wounds I laid at the door of my parents, brothers, and sisters. I also included my teachers, aunts, and uncles. What if I died? Would my spirit live on as a ghost? Would that ghost be capable of making my wrongdoers show me respect? I fell asleep with a warm feeling that maybe my soul could disappear into the heavens… respected.

Two days later, the city police sent a car to our farm. A senior officer spoke to the owner and his wife. He told them their son had been found dead in the city’s youth hostel. After an investigation, his death was classified as suicide resulting from an overdose of drugs. The officer then said, unless you have wishes to the contrary, the funeral will be held in two days at 1500 hours at the city cemetery. The officer left with no special requests. Driving back to the city, the officer felt a sense of sadness, as neither of the boy's parents had shown any deep emotion regarding the loss of their son. At the funeral, the mother was present, accompanied by one son, much against his wishes. There was no priest, no flowers, just two gravediggers. He died as he lived—just a nobody.

The night of his funeral, a few strange events occurred at the farm. The evening's milk turned sour. During the night, the family heard somebody walking about in the attic. The next day, the cows would not leave their stalls to be herded out into the fields. This meant there would be no milk that day. The farm supported a large flock of hens; not one hen had laid an egg. Extremely unusual! Ten miles away at the school, the chalk would not write on the blackboard. Also, the school bell kept ringing at odd times of the day without any human intervention.

The following day, the situation on the farm started to get out of hand. The hens continued their strike of laying no eggs. Probably the most concerning thing was that they were beginning to lose their feathers. The tractors seemed to have invented a game of stop-and-start without human intervention. The dogs would not go into the fields and herd the sheep. The pigs neglected their food.

The family gathered at lunchtime to assess the situation. After much discussion, they all came to the conclusion that the farm was being haunted by some spirit or ghost that wished them ill. They asked the mother if she would go to the village and ask the old woman living there if she had any ideas of what was happening. The old woman was known for giving advice to the villagers on strange happenings. It offered her a meager living. At the evening meal, the mother recounted her talk with the old woman.

“Her first comment was that she was not surprised, as the head of the local school had spoken to her this morning about strange things happening there. Her first question was whether we had had a recent death in the family. If so, was that member loved and respected?”

At this question, the room felt suddenly cold, as though all the windows were open and cold night air had swept in.

Mother continued. “The old woman then asked if the person went to the local school. After a long pause, her conclusion was that the person who died was deeply troubled in his spirit. This spirit would not rest until he had found the answer.”

The room fell silent. Tears could be seen in the women's eyes; three of the young men took out their handkerchiefs. The atmosphere was suffocating with guilt and regret. No family member could find a word to say. The children had never seen their father like this. As he started to get up his granite like profile seemed to have developed a crack of emotional disturbances that he knew he never thought he had. 

Father with difficulty haul himself up to his true height. I can only speak with a deep sense of disgust and sorrow. When I think about that we argued for days about having a special boot made for him. In the last few years none of you children have ever extended a hand to make his life more bearable. The day I treated him like a dog. No, no, our injustice towards him will be scarred in my memory for the rest of my life.” He paused ladened down with the memories and sadness. “Tomorrow I will go to the city and recover the body of my son. He will be reburied in our village cemetery with full honors and respect. Each of my children will place a wreath on his grave. All mine and your mother’s family members will be invited. I will insist that my son's teachers from the local school be present. May he rest in peace.” That late evening his wife found him in his dead son’s room lost in his thoughts. She took his hand in hers and said.” We all failed him.”

The turnout at the funeral exceeded all expectations. Most of the farmer's and his wife’s extended family came. The teachers of the senior classes were there in strength with their students. His brothers and sister each step forward with a magnificent bouquet of flowers. As they laid the flowers on the coffin they kissed it. Even some of the villagers attended. The father was the last to leave the graveyard; he stayed late into the evening.

That night, no sounds were heard from the attic. The next day, both farm and school enjoyed their normal daily routines without any strange happenings. The father of the family never again shot a disabled animal at birth.