#14 - Entry 1...The Rough Draft of My Autobiography

My earliest memory is one of me climbing out of my crib in the middle of the night to sleep in my parent's bed. It sounds innocent and meaningless, and it probably is on the surface. Yet, I can't help to give meaning to it. In a sense, it symbolizes the spirit that I have: I was told to stay in my crib. I was supposed to be afraid of the darkness that characterizes the middle of the night. I wasn't supposed to get out of my crib...it was designed to keep babies safe and secure while they sleep. Looking with hindsight, I never really lived my life according to the traditional set of rules and expectations.

I grew up poor. Now that's a line that a lot of inspirational stories begin with. There's the guy, like President Lincoln, who struggled from nothing and made something significant of himself. It's quite the grandeous accomplishment to come from a poor background to a life of significance, and in capitalistic, materialistic America, significance is usually defined by monetary gain. However, growing up poor isn't the real story. The story is...well...I wasn't supposed to grow up poor. My father had as good of a job as anyone in blue collar Southeast Michigan. He worked for General Motors.

Unfortunately, getting to work was always an issue for him. Thank God for the UAW. Without the union, my father might not have been able to work a fourth of the length of time he put in. He was diagnosed with bipolar disorder back in 1976...the year I was born...the year that his father, also battling bipolar disorder and alcoholism, committed suicide by shooting himself in the stomach 5 months before I was born. I never got to meet my dad's father. Although it had nothing to do with me, I regret that!

My father has been in and out of different hospitals for most of my life. I lost track of how many times he tried his hand at the same fate of his father. Rather than use a gun, his preferred method of suicide has always been medication overdose. There have been some close calls, but none of his attempts proved fatal.

I recall one particular episode, when I was approximately 13 or 14, where I had to man up and call 9-1-1. My father was sprawled out on his bedroom floor in his underwear. He could barely move. The empty bottle of Lithium was tipped over on the nightstand. I knew what he did, and I scrambled to get an ambulance as fast as I could.

My brother, who was around 5 or 6 at the time, had no ideal what was going on. My sister came home from a friends house when it all was going down. She was the eldest by two years, but couldn't handle it. I didn't crack under pressure. I somehow kept my composure and held everyone together.
The ambulance ride was a ride I'll never forget. My dad awoke briefly, only to yell and scream at me for calling the authorities. I can still hear his voice.

"Maaaa-aaark....what the hell did you do Mark!" The paramedic began his routine.

"Paul, can you hear me? Paul, who is the President of the United States?" he asked.

My dad screamed his reply. "Bill Clinton!" He paused for a brief moment, and shouted "Turn these GOD D#$N LIGHTS OFF! Maaa-aaark, what the F$*K did YOU DOOOO Mark?" You can imagine I was thinking the same thing about him.

Shortly after, he drifted into an unconscious state. We arrived at the hospital, and I waited frantically in the waiting room. My mom eventually joined me.I knew that calling the authorities was the right thing to do, but I couldn't help but be afraid that I made the wrong decision. I didn't want them to send my dad to a crazy hospital. The issues I had with my father were long-winded, but I still loved him. I needed him in my life...I just needed a better version of him...a version he seemed to be quite unwilling to provide.