Fic: The Odyssey, xxxi. joanna
Warning: Suicide.
--
“I never talk about my wife and daughter.
I’m only going to say this once.
My daughter committed suicide.
There was nothing after that.
Jill and I--
We married young. Twenty-one.
We were in love. Crazy.
We had Joanna when I was still in school.
We had a house, a yard, a cat.
We lived that way for sixteen years.
Georgia summers, cool mint tea.
I never eat peaches.
Space lets me forget the past.
My wife was the love of my life,
but she and I
couldn’t
our daughter’s death.
Jo was thirteen.
Jill took everything. I wanted nothing.
It’s not about blame but what you can bear.
I left home. Enlisted.
They almost didn’t take me, psychological risk.
But I told them it’s either space or the bottle--
I didn’t much care.
Made a second life there. Here.
Space makes me angry.
That’s why I’m alive.
I don’t think about what went wrong.
Might have been, could have been.
I’m a doctor. I’m a doctor.
My baby girl.
It’s possible to pick up the pieces
but the rearrangement might have you
scratching your head. Sometimes
I wake up, wondering how the hell I did I get here
wasn’t everything supposed to be different?
Didn’t I have something else in mind instead?
My baby girl.
I don’t ever visit Joanna.
I don’t call Jill. I don’t visit old haunts.
I haven’t stepped foot in the state of Georgia
since I left. As far as I care,
the place is gone.
We loved our girl, but she somehow hated
her life, her skin, she couldn’t see--
eleven is young for self-mutilation.
We had family and individual therapy,
enrolled her in a private school with
teachers, counsellors specialized.
A course of pills that would leave her
hyperactive or catatonic,
but there were precious, glorious days
when she was happy, radiant.
For a while, we’d achieved balance.
It was never easy, but we had months
when the good days outnumbered the bad.
The experts say
and I’m an expert
that puberty
hormones
brought on too many changes
her body didn’t adjust properly
caused chemical imbalance, led to depression
anxiety, obsession, you get the idea.
Mostly I hear
I failed
as a parent
as a doctor
as a father
as a person.
Jill felt the same way.
We blamed ourselves and each other.
Joanna bled herself
to death.
You’ll say that a child doesn’t know what she’s doing--
she wasn’t a child.
She knew what she wanted.
She couldn’t see an end to the battle with her body.
There’s nothing to say when someone wants death more
than anything life offers.
Never mind perspective, age, the neurotransmitters.
My girl loved to play music
and win holovid games.
She giggled when Jill
would make silly faces
I’ve only got my bones left.
Sometimes she would cry and cry
as Jill and I held her,
other times there was rage.
We took her to a Betazoid mind healer
who couldn’t do anything
said she must grow into her mind.
This is the last time
I’ll say something about her.
Jill knew Jo better.
She saw deeper inside.
My daughter
loved the color yellow
because she loved lemonade,
and honeymelons,
and french fries.”
--
--
“I never talk about my wife and daughter.
I’m only going to say this once.
My daughter committed suicide.
There was nothing after that.
Jill and I--
We married young. Twenty-one.
We were in love. Crazy.
We had Joanna when I was still in school.
We had a house, a yard, a cat.
We lived that way for sixteen years.
Georgia summers, cool mint tea.
I never eat peaches.
Space lets me forget the past.
My wife was the love of my life,
but she and I
couldn’t
our daughter’s death.
Jo was thirteen.
Jill took everything. I wanted nothing.
It’s not about blame but what you can bear.
I left home. Enlisted.
They almost didn’t take me, psychological risk.
But I told them it’s either space or the bottle--
I didn’t much care.
Made a second life there. Here.
Space makes me angry.
That’s why I’m alive.
I don’t think about what went wrong.
Might have been, could have been.
I’m a doctor. I’m a doctor.
My baby girl.
It’s possible to pick up the pieces
but the rearrangement might have you
scratching your head. Sometimes
I wake up, wondering how the hell I did I get here
wasn’t everything supposed to be different?
Didn’t I have something else in mind instead?
My baby girl.
I don’t ever visit Joanna.
I don’t call Jill. I don’t visit old haunts.
I haven’t stepped foot in the state of Georgia
since I left. As far as I care,
the place is gone.
We loved our girl, but she somehow hated
her life, her skin, she couldn’t see--
eleven is young for self-mutilation.
We had family and individual therapy,
enrolled her in a private school with
teachers, counsellors specialized.
A course of pills that would leave her
hyperactive or catatonic,
but there were precious, glorious days
when she was happy, radiant.
For a while, we’d achieved balance.
It was never easy, but we had months
when the good days outnumbered the bad.
The experts say
and I’m an expert
that puberty
hormones
brought on too many changes
her body didn’t adjust properly
caused chemical imbalance, led to depression
anxiety, obsession, you get the idea.
Mostly I hear
I failed
as a parent
as a doctor
as a father
as a person.
Jill felt the same way.
We blamed ourselves and each other.
Joanna bled herself
to death.
You’ll say that a child doesn’t know what she’s doing--
she wasn’t a child.
She knew what she wanted.
She couldn’t see an end to the battle with her body.
There’s nothing to say when someone wants death more
than anything life offers.
Never mind perspective, age, the neurotransmitters.
My girl loved to play music
and win holovid games.
She giggled when Jill
would make silly faces
I’ve only got my bones left.
Sometimes she would cry and cry
as Jill and I held her,
other times there was rage.
We took her to a Betazoid mind healer
who couldn’t do anything
said she must grow into her mind.
This is the last time
I’ll say something about her.
Jill knew Jo better.
She saw deeper inside.
My daughter
loved the color yellow
because she loved lemonade,
and honeymelons,
and french fries.”
--