Suicide: My story

Suicide: My story

Boricua Confidential
This is part one of a three-part series on my own battle with suicide. With the recent suicide of singer Mary McCready, clearly it is time to tell my story around this difficult topic. I have learned the reason for suicide began long before my first attempt and most likely is true for Mary McCready and anyone else who has committed suicide such as Kurt Cobain whose birthday is today.

Spiritual bankruptcy
I was 16-years-old when I made my first attempt. There we were, my mother and I, in front of Grandma (her mother) screaming and yelling at each other at the top our lungs. I felt hopeless, desperate, frustrated, fed up and ready for it to be over.
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I grabbed a bottle of 800mg Motrin prescription pills. I vividly remember a yellow or orange mug full of water so I swallowed a handful of pills. That merely infuriated mom even more. I cramped her style because now she had to get me to the emergency room 15 miles away.
At first I refused to swallow syrup of ipecac from the emergency room nurse. ER doctors threated to strap me to the bed so they could start an intravenous line and deliver meds to make me either vomit or defecate the overdose. I relented and swallowed the absolutely most disgusting fluid I had ever tasted. Not long after the vomiting began.
I don’t remember any sympathy or concern from my mother. No tears. No concern for my well-being. No attempt to understand where I was coming from or why I felt the desire to die. No heart-to-heart. Nothing.
Boricua Confidential tackles suicide at http://boricuaconfidential.blogspot.comThat wasn’t the worst part, at least for my mother. We were mandated to attend a suicide prevention group with other parents and teens at a county mental health facility. My mother must have felt humiliated because she worked for the county. I’m sure she was hoping she wouldn’t run into anyone she knew.
While I can’t remember what I or she said, I do remember my mother repeatedly dismissed my feelings, hurts, concerns. I instantly figured out she would never take time to understand how neglected I felt. I later would find out from my late husband that my mother admitted she had been putting up with my crap since I was 5 years old. I don’t know about you but I absolutely adored my kids at that age. He thought it quite odd that a parent would make such a statement about their child. So did I.
I also now know that I regularly was being sexually assaulted by my father. My mother, a mandated reporter, was aware of the abuse but refused to come to my defense.
Rather, she cultivated enmity between us. She resented my very presence and I had no clue why because I had no memory of any sexual abuse. She likely thought I remembered the sexual meetings with my father so I was “the other woman” with which she had to contend. Had I remembered, I would have been destroyed inside.
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Nevertheless, 24 years later I was diagnosed with posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD). I began recovering specific incidents with my father, other male relatives and family friends.

I started having strange nightmares, uncontrollable abreactions, woke up screaming and generally scaring the living daylights out of my husband. I didn’t quite understand what was going on with me. Other people deal with incest. Not me.
It was well known that both of my great grandfathers were predators. One in particular forced a kiss on me for my 13thbirthday. Five years later after mom kicked me out of the house he told me that if I wanted to live with him I had to sleep with him. Mom and grandma came to pick me up.
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Suicide continued to be more than just a passing thought since my first attempt. Once I graduated from high school, I lived a life bereft of any concern for my life or reputation. I was desperate for love in any form. Some of the men I slept with died from AIDS years later.

I put myself in dangerous situations including falling asleep while driving. I remember being in the fast lane and woke up in the slow lane on my way to the emergency lane. Many times I was the only woman surrounded by men and taking PCP that knocked me out cold for at least 30 minutes.
Another time while I was in a Jacuzzi I tried to plug in my radio. I remember feeling the electricity about to run through my hands and let go. I nearly was electrocuted.
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My choices were dangerous and life threatening. I secretly was hoping I would die and be taken out of my misery. How much more pain did I need to convince myself to just drive off a Pacific Coast Highway cliff? After all, I was so reviled by my mother I wasn’t worth an invitation to spend Christmas with her and my siblings.

I ate Christmas brunch with her brother, my brother and a cousin. That evening I was alone. I prepared and ate a nice pork roast dinner and out of misery got drunk. The loneliness was killing me.
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My mother despised me. However, I have since learned that what she hates about me she hates about herself. She is insanely jealous of me and my accomplishments. She robbed my self-worth and self-esteem bank accounts without regard for my well-being. Mom was unable to rise above, conquer her fears, and challenge previously held dysfunctional beliefs and parent differently. Sadly, this revelation didn’t come until 2013.


The Catholic church wrongly counseled my parents by beating my mother over the head with the fact that she was to submit to her abusive husband. They refused to teach grace and the fact that the husband was supposed to be prepared to die for their wives and love her unconditionally as Jesus unconditionally loved the church.
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Instead, the church further stoked the fire of abuse. The church was absolutely no help or refuge for what ailed us. I was screwed.

Frankly, this dysfunction was fueled by the Catholic church. There was very little support for people within the church, much less for children. Remember: Children were seen and not heard. Period.

The scandal of overt cover-up of institutional pedophilia by priests clearly demonstrates how little regard the church had for the well-being of children.


Long before I was married I was caught in a death spiral and didn’t realize how thoughtless I was for my own safety. The desire to die would come again. This time it was irresistible and stronger than ever. However, I would have a loving husband, good friends, and a team of doctors and mental health professionals who would rescue and support me through hell until I made it back with a strong desire to live and thrive amid the ruins of my past.
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The original good ol’ boys network

Sadly, my parents, who were hell-bent on destroying me because I said aloud that I was abused by them, later would attempt to exploit my previous desires to die into an opportunity to sue me for guardianship of my daughter and not my son. The latter detail would garner the attention of at least one court investigator who would see right through my manipulating, controlling and deceitful parents.

Who knew I would ever hear my father tell a judge that he loved me but  I was “sick.”

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Boricua Confidential chronicles my new life as a single mom of two kids after my husband died from cancer on our son’s seventh birthday. Join me on this journey of change, revival, reformation, discovery and new direction ordered of God. Being a widow ain’t easy, that’s for sure. I refuse to rollover and die. Quite the contrary. I intend to thrive from this crazy life. You can’t keep this woman down. If I’m down, I won’t be for long.

God created me to bounce back. Watch me.

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  1. Wow! Thank you! I continually wanted to write on my website something like that. Can I include a portion of your post to my site?

  2. What is sad and I am learning quickly is that people everywhere are hurting. I post light, fun stuff or spiritually inspirational stuff and it gets very little attention. However, when I publish the hard stuff, people flock in droves. Guess it’s time to start putting my books together and start publishing to a wider audience.

  3. Thank you for sharing this story. I was saddened by Mindy McCready’s death. As I have worked in mental health hospitals for years, I know first hand that there is always a history of suicide attempts and ALWAYS a deeper story!

  4. Reina,
    I applaud your ability to put your story out there! I can’t wait to hear the rest. I am having a retreat for people who have been abused. Maybe you can help me pass the word around? (I’m from She Writes.) Tweet me at @jodiaman.

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