Pass the Contrition
By: Jeffrey Bartl
Tags: Mental Health Awareness, Mental Illness, Suicide Prevention, Suicide Awareness, Mental Health

I was born December 17, 1981. This year, the date also marks two different anniversaries — Year 7 of my mother not acknowledging my birthday, and exactly one week since my father wrote in a suicide note that I’d turned out worse than he could’ve ever imagined.

Mental illness hurts. This is part of my story, told the only way I know how.

A soft creak from the turning knob sprang Mandy from her bed. She’d trained precisely for these moments.

“Don’t come in yet! She’ll rip your head off!”

Numerous handwritten notes cloaked the aging door I’d cracked ever so slightly. I missed the most important of them all.

KNOCK FIRST! GUARD DOG INSIDE!

“OK. You’re good. There’s a sign out there, man. She was ready to tear your face off.”

Bob had sunk $3,000 ensuring that the now 8-year-old Mandy, a pit bull the color of a dark greystone Chicago three-flat and just as sturdy, would be his protector. She watches over Bob and the Van Duyne Motel, the self-proclaimed “Best Motel by a Dam Site,” which sits along the Kankakee River in Wilmington, Illinois — population: 6,076.

Bob and I spoke for the first time four days ago, and his gruff voice soothed my nerves yet again. He’s in his mid-50s, gray, burly, and speaks with purpose through a slight southern drawl. His outdated desk complements the tiny, concrete motel lobby, which also contains a washer and dryer, industrial-sized hot water heater, and enough ashtrays to supply a Las Vegas casino.

“It’s nice to meet you, buddy,” Bob said while extending his fist and rising from the desk, away from his burning cigarette. “I’m glad you came.”

Bob skipped Sunday church specifically for this meeting. His sister-in-law instead informed the congregation to pray for my family. I’m not a religious man by any means, but the gesture brought comfort.

Four months ago, my father made the Van Duyne Motel home, paying a $220 weekly rate following a $100 deposit. He blew through the nearly eight grand he’d saved, spending it mostly on delivery pizza, beer and vaping products. Abruptly quitting his job as an admissions advisor for an online college left him without the insurance that enabled him to afford the inhalers required to treat his COPD. He purposely became broke, sick and drunk in order to feed his ongoing anger, all while ignoring family and friends who reached out offering support.

It was all part of his plan.

On Thursday, December 10, 2020, at 9:33 a.m., 13 days shy of his 62nd birthday, my father informed me through text message that he was about to commit suicide. I made the hour-long drive to the Van Duyne three days later to meet Bob and gather my dad’s belongings.

“John was a great man. Funny, talked a bunch,” Bob said somberly. “We all loved him. Mandy would even let him pet her. She got used to him being around. We’re very sorry to see him go.”

I thanked him for the kind words, all of which I’d anticipated. My father made friends with strangers who didn’t want friends, forced smiles from the most disheartened, and broke group awkwardness with an even more awkward joke just to start conversation.

He also ravaged the emotions of those closest to him, constantly seeking help because he lacked motivation and refused personal responsibility, while conversely telling those he leaned on to leave him alone, to stop telling him what to do and to stop asking questions.

That pattern developed over years. In October 2008, my dad got into an argument with a woman he was living with, then with me. He went to his favorite Chicago bar, the California Clipper, drank himself hammered, and drove — to Arizona, blowing through $7,000 along the way.

He’d drink, become agitated, and then walk three miles home in the pouring rain. Every comment from others became a personal slight, while every judgmental observation or insulting remark from my father was just a joke. Alcohol often triggered my father, causing him to go silent for days, weeks, months, or worse, act out with illogical responses to perceived adversity. But he’d always come back, expecting his family to accept his actions and just move on while he began the process all over again.

My father often mentioned suicide, but played it off as if he could never do it. Constant suggestions to receive professional help were brushed aside and outright ignored.

Bob didn’t need to know any of that, though. He liked my father, they liked each other, and that’s all Bob will ever need to remember about my dad.

“OK then, Jeff. Let me take you on up there.”

Bob guided me across the parking lot, casually mentioning he used to live on the property but doesn’t anymore. The Van Duyne might not survive the next mildly strong gust of wind that passes through Wilmington, but the metal-grate outdoor staircase leading to an equally solid walkway surrounding the motel could withstand the most imaginative of apocalyptic events. Bob walked ahead, turned left at the top of the stairs, then removed a key from his right pocket and unlocked Room 21.

“I’ll give you some privacy. Just lock it on up when you’re done.”

A composition notebook with a plastic purple cover sat at the end of the bed, just as my dad described in his text three day earlier. I previously vowed not to read his suicide note immediately — not until I had others around me providing comfort — but the flimsy cover flew open as I reached for it.

Jeffrey – Well, the day is finally here…

I read every angry word in his voice as if he was hovering over my shoulder reading aloud.

You turned out worse than I could’ve ever imagined. I wish I left you at the hospital with your mom the day you were born. My life would’ve been much simpler.

Nearly seven years earlier, on Dec. 26, 2013, my dad sat beside me, crying along with me, reassuring me of my worth and value to him and so many others, as I read a text message from my mom.

My only regret is making the decision to have you!

I never thought I’d read anything more hurtful for the rest of my life. Now, I was reading my dad’s final thoughts of regret for every moment he spent with me. He asked if I had the honor in me to accept that I would inherit nothing of everything he didn’t have. I envisioned his satisfaction upon writing his last word, taking pleasure in being able to hurt me one last time, knowing he succeeded in leaving me with the guilt of his suicide.

My legs buckled and I nearly collapsed to the shit-brown carpeting. My eyes welled as I blinked furiously to prevent spillage. I locked my knees, stood straight, and released an audible sigh only the turquoise-painted walls could hear.

I wouldn’t let him do this to me. I wouldn’t let him win. I know I’m a better person than the insults written in his note.

Or, am I? Self-doubt is natural when both parents have proudly proclaimed their wishes that you didn’t exist.

I decided to trace what my dad had intended to be his last steps. He provided explicit directions in his text message.

Find Nelly’s on Baltimore St. On the right you’ll see a parking lot. All the way in the back you’ll see 3 telephone poles in a row. Between the left and center one you’ll see a path, go down it and look to the left. I’ll be there.

I wondered about his mindset during the short walk from the Van Duyne. Was he scared? Relieved, knowing all his pain and anger would soon disappear? Did even a single happy memory flash into his head?

I wondered how and why he’d chosen this spot. Down steps of misshapen rock, through one continuous pile of fallen leaves, with only the sounds of water spilling over the nearby dam.

I wondered how that lonely, worn chair, facing perfectly north, begging for company, had gotten there. Did my dad haul it with him? Was it there by coincidence, maybe a spot of serenity brought once upon a time by a local fisherman?

And how long did he sit in that chair before deciding which moment would be the last he’d experience? Did a specific thought trigger the end? Did he say anything aloud?

I immediately attempted to call my dad after receiving his text message. When I realized he’d shut off his phone, I contacted the Wilmington Police Department. I read the text word for word, through tears and a shaken voice and instructions to remain calm.

My wife raced home. She asked questions for which I had no answers. At 10:32 a.m., my phone buzzed. No Caller ID. A Wilmington police officer found my dad sitting in that chair, in the exact spot he’d described 59 minutes earlier.

She explained my dad had a knife and made cuts to his wrist. He left specific instructions not to contact me. “I chickened out,” my father told the officer. The cuts weren’t deep. Paramedics dressed the wounds and loaded him into an ambulance.

I wondered what went through his mind being led back through that trail of leaves, up those misshapen rocks, and into a parking lot he never thought he’d see again. As I left, I thought about how, through his obvious planning, he’d made the same trip back to Room 21 at the Van Duyne from the banks of the Kankakee River.

I gathered everything my dad left behind — dirty laundry, toiletries, the purple composition notebook — and headed back to the lobby. I was sure to knock this time.

“Got it all then?” Bob asked.

I thanked him for meeting me and told him I’d settle up on my dad’s bill — $20 for two extra nights that his deposit didn’t cover, and $10 for the lost key my dad said I’d be able to find in his pocket. I gave Bob a fist-bump and headed for the door as Mandy took note of my every move.

“Hey. Jeff.”

I turned and faced Bob with one hand on the knob.

“You have a blessed day. And, remember this — contrition resides in all of us. Your dad’ll find it.”

Maybe I could use a little, too.