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This is CHAPTER 1, RICHARD.

  • Writer: David "Joe" Sanders
    David "Joe" Sanders
  • May 8
  • 7 min read

Just after midnight on August 18, 1968. I finally accomplished my goal of suicide. Over the three months prior to that I had made a couple of fruitless attempts, or at least what I thought were attempts. Thinking back, it could have just been a couple of unheard cries for help. Unfortunately, no one was listening; no one had a clue what I was going through.


Before final edits and before chapters were formed and before the book title was changed from a Guide to Suicide to the present title, Bonded A Brother’s Love. I have decided to try something a little different. I think you will like it. I may or may not end up going through the whole book like this, one chapter at a time. Enjoy.

 

Just after midnight on August 18, 1968. I finally accomplished my goal of suicide. Over the three months prior to that I had made a couple of fruitless attempts, or at least what I thought were attempts. Thinking back, it could have just been a couple of unheard cries for help. Unfortunately, no one was listening; no one had a clue what I was going through.

 

The first cry for help I made was by slicing my chest several ways, all superficially, then rushing home to tell my father about the black guys that had jumped me. Living in the area of Santa Ana, California that we did, it was a very believable story. Our neighborhood was known for drugs, gangs, and racial tensions. It wasn’t the best place to raise a family, but all my father could afford.

 

As usual my dad wasn’t home and would not be before 2:00 am, so I cleaned myself up and got ready for a little more of my normal style of pain relief. I got a quart of Coors out of the fridge and rolled a joint. As I knew would be the case, I didn’t get to tell my dad about then fight until the bars closed that night. He was semi-interested since a knife was involved but was pretty used to me fighting with someone.

 

We did not have money or health insurance, and I had stopped the bleeding myself, so a trip to the hospital was not needed, neither were the questions that the doctors would obviously ask. Dad quickly changed the conversation from my wounds to the number of pool games he had won that night. In his prime he could really shoot some good pool. Somehow after his divorce the pool table had become more important than anything in his life, including his children.

We did not have money or health insurance, and I had stopped the bleeding myself, so a trip to the hospital was not needed, neither were the questions that the doctors would obviously ask. Dad quickly changed the conversation from my wounds to the number of pool games he had won that night. In his prime he could really shoot some good pool. Somehow after his divorce the pool table had become more important than anything in his life, including his children.

 

The following day one of my friends and I spent at least an hour looking for the people that had jumped me. Common opinion was that the black folks in our neighborhood were usually causing some kind of problem, and when they weren’t it was always easy to blame things on them. Anyway, on that day we were unable to find the right imaginary culprits, so we returned to my house for a few quarts of Coors and an afternoon of smoking pot. We could always catch up with those guys on another day.

 

There was always plenty of beer and pot to be found at our house. I was sixteen at the time and had been openly drinking alcohol and smoking pot for several years. I had given up on school two years earlier and school had given up on me, as was too often the case in the 1960s. At that time period if you had any personal problems such as drugs, anger management, even reading disabilities, or just being a slow learner of any type and showed a desire to drop out of school there was no effort made to save you.

There was always plenty of beer and pot to be found at our house. I was sixteen at the time and had been openly drinking alcohol and smoking pot for several years. I had given up on school two years earlier and school had given up on me, as was too often the case in the 1960s. At that time period if you had any personal problems such as drugs, anger management, even reading disabilities, or just being a slow learner of any type and showed a desire to drop out of school there was no effort made to save you.

 

Terms like attention deficit disorder did not even exist, and if they did no one would have taken the time to treat it. A bad kid was just that, a bad kid no matter what the circumstances were. The school systems were better off without them. Everyone would be better off without me.


I knew I didn’t need to be in school. I was way too smart for that place anyway. School was lame and the people who attended school were lame also. Most people in school knew how to smile and had reasons to be happy. They actually participated in group activities that did not involve getting high. The school staff expected everyone to be there by 8:30 a.m.

I knew I didn’t need to be in school. I was way too smart for that place anyway. School was lame and the people who attended school were lame also. Most people in school knew how to smile and had reasons to be happy. They actually participated in group activities that did not involve getting high. The school staff expected everyone to be there by 8:30 a.m. That is crazy, who in the world parties all night and gets up that early? Not me or any of the cool people I hang out with.

 

Dropping out of school started slowly for me by not showing up for those first few early morning classes. There was no way I was going to wake up by myself that early, and there was no one at home that would make me wake up. Once I was up, I needed to take a little extra time to smoke my first joint of the day before finding a way to get to school. What a hassle school was. It would be damn hard to party like I did every night and keep trying to attend class, especially those early morning classes. Something had to give.

 

It seemed as though there was a never-ending party at our house. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, even after the bars had closed and my father would finally come home. Depending on how he felt, he would sometimes join in the party, asking for one of those funny smelling cigarettes. I had the coolest dad in town.

 

The police department knew our address well. From their attitude toward the constant partying, I guess it was okay to have one house like ours in every neighborhood. At least that way they would know where to find most of the troublemakers of the area when they needed to talk to us. Usually, the police would just come around once every few weeks and ask us to keep the music and noise down. Or stop by if one of the nosey neighbors had reported seeing a fight going on.

The police department knew our address well. From their attitude toward the constant partying, I guess it was okay to have one house like ours in every neighborhood. At least that way they would know where to find most of the troublemakers of the area when they needed to talk to us. Usually, the police would just come around once every few weeks and ask us to keep the music and noise down. Or stop by if one of the nosey neighbors had reported seeing a fight going on.

 

Most of the people that hung out at our house already had many encounters with the police and were very well known by their names and faces at the police department. Everyone that didn’t have their head stuck in the sand knew that you could use, buy, or sell pot at our house on any night. I personally was involved in the sales of pot or connections for it, just enough to keep myself supplied with smoke and enough money to contribute toward the purchase of booze.

 

It was not unusual to have at least one keg of beer brought over on a Saturday night. Everyone would chip in. No telling how many times someone’s school lunch money was spent to help pay for our kegs. All those so-called good kids that lied to their parents so they could come over and party with us. The parties were always bigger on the weekends when the people that had been working or going to school the rest of the week were able to join in.

 

During most of the work week our party group was smaller, sometimes just two or three of us. On those days we just drank quarts or singles. Coors was always my drink of choice. It went great with reds, (Barbiturates) and pot. Most of my group had done reds a few times, but it was not part of every night ritual high, and not something everyone was into doing.

During most of the work week our party group was smaller, sometimes just two or three of us. On those days we just drank quarts or singles. Coors was always my drink of choice. It went great with reds, (Barbiturates) and pot. Most of my group had done reds a few times, but it was not part of every night ritual high, and not something everyone was into doing.

 

My dad knew about and was okay with the pot use. He had also been buying the beer for my friends and I for a long time. I remember that in my dad’s opinion it was better that he bought alcohol for us and have us drink it at our house, rather than us getting it from someone else. Then possibly drinking and partying out on the streets or somewhere else that we could get in trouble. I guess he never considered how other parents might feel about where their children were getting their alcohol.

 

Obviously not everyone could have a cool dad like mine. I remember how easy he made it for us to get high. Buy the booze, ignore the drugs, and not worry about school. What a great dad! Dad loved all his children so much he would do anything for us. My dad and I never talked about the barbiturates, but I know he had seen the reds in my room. They were left out in the open a couple of times when I had gotten too high to worry about putting them away. I wonder if he ever even thought about the fact that he was killing me with kindness.

Obviously not everyone could have a cool dad like mine. I remember how easy he made it for us to get high. Buy the booze, ignore the drugs, and not worry about school. What a great dad! Dad loved all his children so much he would do anything for us. My dad and I never talked about the barbiturates, but I know he had seen the reds in my room. They were left out in the open a couple of times when I had gotten too high to worry about putting them away. I wonder if he ever even thought about the fact that he was killing me with kindness.

 

On weeknights when we would run out of beer, I would get a ride to the bar and get dad to come out long enough to go to the liquor store next door for me. My dad was really the coolest. All my friends agreed that he was the best.

 

 

 

**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.

**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.




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

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

 


💡 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.


Bonded: A Brother’s Love — One Bullet. A Thousand Echoes.This book is more than my story. It is a voice for every family devastated by suicide and a lifeline for those standing at the edge of despair. My hope is that it reaches the one who needs it most. If even one person chooses life because of it, then every tear and every word will have been worth it. 📖 Order your copy today : https://tinyurl.com/3h87mjy6 and join me in breaking the silence. Together we can spread hope, honor the lost, and change the future.

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.


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.

 
 
 

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