Taming the Monster

Maybe he left because I left too, because every night I sat alone and prayed. And just as I never told my father how Mom had stuck up for him against Janette and Janine, I never told him that I was praying that Mario of Super Mario Bros., my favourite video game, would chase away Dad’s demons and bring him back to us. I remember thinking, listening to my mother, that maybe moving wasn’t a bad idea, that maybe it would cure his depression, that maybe being away from all the relatives and old friends would help, but I never told my father that I did love him, that I was just a small boy wanting to build a snowman with his father, that I just wanted to be like other kids.

Three weeks after my Dad’s second suicide attempt—the one on June 10, 1987—we did move, to Joliette. The doctors, who, this time around, cut him loose early, had said that a change in environment might help. The main attraction in Joliette for young people was the parking lot at Dunkin’ Donuts. There wasn’t a whole lot to do, but the move was good for Mom. Mom and I never talked about it directly, but there was an understanding between us. She knew that I knew. I thought a lot about numbers back then, the five days of the week and the concept of threes. I went to school, came home, watched my Dad. Mom, I think, did and thought the same way. She watched my Dad, went shopping, made dinner.

That summer, as June rolled into July, we kept pretty much to ourselves. Then, one day in early August, my cousin Sylvie asked me to go to Toronto with her. She said we could go to the top of the tallest tower in the world, to Canada’s Wonderland, to see real mummies at the Royal Ontario Museum, anywhere I wanted to. Money was tight, but it was a seductive offer. I was excited, and Mom was excited for me. I thought maybe I could bring back a Toronto Maple Leafs jersey for Dad and that he would be pleased. I said yes. When I came back, four days later, my father was dead. He had hung himself on the tallest tree in the woods near Joliette. He had told my mother that he was going to pick some blackberries so that she could bake a pie.

I don’t remember the Toronto trip very well, but I do remember thinking until just last year that if I hadn’t gone we would still have a life of three. After Papa died, it was just Mom and me, a life of two. It would have been different, no doubt, if there had been siblings. It might have helped in some ways, but it is also hard to keep secrets, to keep things quiet, with large groups of people. I stopped talking about Papa and never cried in front of Mom. We were two, but our sorrows tunnelled underground, secretive and private. I wanted her—needed her—to be proud of me, and while she wanted me to talk about it, I wouldn’t. So during my teenage years, I settled for a world inside my own head. Things were safe there, away from the bullying, finger-pointing, and laughing behind my back. My Papa had committed suicide, and the outside world is cruel. I was never the kind of kid to get involved in rugby or football at school, and during those years I watched The Simpsons, listened to U2 in my bedroom, and read quite a bit. I spent a lot of time alone in my bedroom, reading and writing stories. One of my favourite books was Sartre’s No Exit, and this made sense because outside of my mother, hell was other people.

On August 7, 1987, Papa committed suicide. Obviously, he felt that he had to leave, and perhaps he did it for us. Still, I have been sad and angry and hurt for a very long time. Things are a bit better now, and, as I have discovered, if you need to tame a monster, writing helps. There is nothing quite like controlling character.