Chapter 2, “2 Inches”

I’m going to run with this idea for a while. I like the way it lets the reader really sink into an individual chapter. I know many people have read the entire book in one single night. Here is a way to see it clearer. I know it did that for me while creating this as a blog.

So here it is in development, prior to final edits, what would become… Chapter 2 “2 Inches”

My second cry for help, only a month or so after my chest had been cut up was far louder than the first cry. This time I slit my wrist. I did it and admitted to doing it. No imaginary thugs had jumped me. I got high and did it myself; real good too. It was a cut approximately two inches long, running length wise with the arm at the wrist instead of across the wrist. I used a double edge razor blade, and I was careful not to cut any arteries, but it was still a mess, lots of blood.

This one would definitely require a trip to the emergency room. Surely this would get everyone’s

attention. Someone would have to do something to help this time. Lucky for me I still had enough sense and strength to go next door for aide. That was my intention all along. How loud could I cry, “please help” and to how many people without having the right person hear it?

The doctors did not want to release me that night to my dad. It was obvious to them that I needed help, especially after seeing the scars on my chest from the imaginary knife fight. They really thought a few days of inpatient psychiatric evaluation was needed. Unfortunately, it was not mandatory, and they did not force the issue. The doctors had heard my cry for help. My dad had not heard a thing.

My father told the doctors that he was aware of my occasional drug use. There was no way my dad could admit to what was really going on at our house. On the outside, I was saying dad please get me out of this lame place. While on the inside, I was praying he would listen to these doctors and get me the help I needed. My dad only heard the words coming out of my mouth. Those were really the only words he wanted to hear. He also had his own selfish reason for wanting me out of here. He needed to believe me when I told him I was high and only playing around. It was easy to believe, since my being high was something, he was very used to.

Everyone knows that strange things happen while you’re high. My dad knew cutting my wrist was not an accident. But he was also sure I really didn’t mean to hurt myself. After all, it was me that had gone for help when I saw the real damage the cutting had done. Cutting my wrist was just another way of me acting like a fool while I was high. I would never intentionally hurt myself while I was sober and in my right mind. But when was the last time dad had seen me when I wasn’t high? When was the last time he had seen me sober or in my right mind?

He made the choice he thought any loving father would make. He didn’t let them keep me in that nasty place, even though the wounds on my chest had not yet fully healed. Now I had twenty new stitches on my wrist to go along with the chest wounds. Dad never even considered or at least said openly that he thought the wounds on my chest could have been self-inflicted. Why was it so easy for dad to accept the fact that I was high? Why did being high make my actions okay to him?

His loving eyes were blinded. He did agree with the doctors though, that to have me come back for some outpatient evaluations was probably a good idea. He wanted to make sure he did the right thing by me. My father’s love for me was never in question. He would do anything for me. I never did go back for an evaluation. It wasn’t hard to convince my father that I didn’t need help, besides that he didn’t need that type of hassle in his life. He really didn’t have time or money for it. Anyway, in just a couple of months it wouldn’t matter, my suicide was now imminent.

***Since this chapter was fairly short, I would like to take some time to comment on this particular chapter today, decades after it was written. As close as Richard and I were, this was my first indication of any kind that he was suicidal. It was also probably my father’s first indication of it. Prior to that he was a fairly violent teenager. I remember him being in several gang type fights, usually drawn along racial lines, blacks against whites. At that time those type fights involved fists, chains and an occasional knife, no guns. The fighting started around age thirteen, along with the drugs and alcohol.

Knowing what I know now about suicide this was probably the best opportunity and time to save his life. Yes, it was the first real indication of suicide, but it was also a definite attempt at following through with it. Professional attention needed to start right then! I believe even in the 1960’s there were programs for families that couldn’t financially afford counseling.

The decision to not force him to get counseling at that time was probably not because of financial reasons. But made more because my father would have to admit what was now happening at our house on a daily basis.

LOOKING FORWARD TO CHAPTER THREE.

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**Reach out to me at any time. 

I am not only willing, but I also look forward to taking a share of your pain. Email: David@bondedabrotherslove.com. You will get a caring same day response.

Nothing scripted. 

You are not alone, and you matter.

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If You’re Struggling

If you or someone you love or know is in a dark place, please know you’re not alone and there is help available. Reaching out is a sign of strength, not weakness. There are people ready to listen, ready to walk with you, and ready to help.

Immediate assistance is available:

National Suicide & Crisis Lifeline  

📞 988

Veterans Crisis Line  

📞 1-800-273-8255 (Press 1) | 📱 Text 838255

Survivor Support / Crisis Group  

🌐 https://www.crisishotline.org  📞 832-416-1177

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💡 If you know someone who needs to hear that they are not alone, share this story. Together, we can create echoes of hope that outlast the pain.

For more than five decades, I carried this story in silence. Silence nearly broke me, but telling it is what keeps hope alive.

Bonded: A Brother’s Love : One Bullet. A Thousand Echoes my hope is that it offers understanding, connection, and even a reason to hold on when life feels unbearable.

📖 Order your copy today and join me in breaking the silence. Together we can spread hope, honor the lost, and change the future.