yoga heals series
murder-suicide, growing up
in the
middle
addiction,
of
surviving trauma,
being grateful Melody Tarver |
for
and
all of it
Instagram: @mellyybell
Photos: Allan Hayslip
It was the summer of 1997 when I received the phone call from my mother. My first husband and I had just gotten married and we were in newlywed bliss. “Jeremy has murdered his wife and committed suicide.” Just days before, I had spoken with my cousin Jeremy. We were very close. I could tell he had been drinking, and when I confronted him, he didn’t deny it. He had been having some struggles with his wife, and she was ready for divorce. He told me he was going to take a three-hour road trip to shoot her after she got off work and then turn the gun on himself. I told him he needed help and that he needed to reach out to his father or I would. He told me he would come after me and kill me first if I was to tell anyone about his plan. By the time I told my mom, it was too late. It was done. He left two very young sons behind that were raised by their maternal grandparents. Our family was estranged from them. After his death, I suffered severe PTSD. I couldn’t be alone. I thought his ghost was going to come back and take my life. The feeling was potent and real. There were times I blamed myself for his death and his actions because I was under the illusion that I had the power to stop him. I chose to stuff all of it and never look back.
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As if that wasn’t enough, I had already lived a life of constant chaos all of my childhood. My father was a raging alcoholic. I remember being five years old, hiding in my baby sister’s closet when he would come home drunk, screaming at the top of his lungs, throwing things, threatening my mother. My father is a force to be reckoned with. He has been in and out of psychiatric hospitals and prisons (once escaping a maximum security prison), halfway houses, and has had several attempts at suicide. For years, my father has battled with his addiction and depression, and somehow he has survived. Once my brother was born, he found recovery for what feels like a minute—nine years to be exact. But if you know addicts, once they find recovery, the real shit starts surfacing— the things they have hidden behind the bottle. He went to several psychologists and psychiatrists, attended AA meetings, and was a guinea pig for medication and shock treatments. His depression was unbearable to watch, and his temper was still just as terrifying. I was so tired of living in trauma. It wasn’t the life a teenager hopes for. After his nine-year stint with recovery, he fell off the wagon. He became a full-on drug addict. Crack, meth, heroine, pain pills, the list goes on. My mother decided that divorce was the only way to keep us all safe. He threatened to take us away if she left. He held us all
hostage. It was a fucking miserable way to live. I wanted to run away. I wanted him to die. I was broken. I was scarred. And I hated God enough for all of us. I was 19 when my parents finally divorced. My mother had to file a restraining order because my father was so unpredictable and couldn’t be trusted. My mom, my brother, my sister, and I became one unit. We couldn’t be alone. We all slept in the same bed together because we were scared he would come back in a drunken rage. And when he did, the police would take him away, which was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to watch. It wasn’t long before my father became my sole creator, and the men I found myself involved with became my higher powers. I lost myself completely. I became a people pleaser and over-extended myself. I allowed myself to be sexually, verbally, and emotionally abused. I became someone that thought she could control every situation by some form of manipulation or by isolating herself to the world just to protect her heart. I had abandonment issues and low self-esteem. I refused to be alone, so I became a serial monogamist. I couldn’t stand being in my own skin. I was so afraid that if someone really knew me, they would stop loving me. I was a mess, but I found out quickly that I was also a survivor. ›