The Deconstruction of Dennis (standard:Psychological fiction, 9317 words)
Author: Karen Fellows	Added: Mar 06 2009	Views/Reads: 3943/2554	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Dennis was deep in the grip of a severe illness but could find no help, even from the people he loved the most. He was trapped.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

the free-floating aloneness that threatens to devour me.  She gazes at 
me with that flat look in her eyes and turns away, closing the door 
softly behind her. I hang my head, accepting my punishment.  We have 
reached a point where she can barely tolerate the sight of me. This is 
my fault...I have done this to us.  I have done this to myself. I have 
become inconvenient. 

In January, I am fine. By May of this year I no longer have a job.  When
I became too distressed to work, my wife's attention turns to issues of 
money. I am no longer contributing financially, not shouldering my 
share of family responsibilities. The arguments replay themselves in my 
mind. I tell her to take my retirement to pay the bills. She tells me 
that would be fine in the short term, but she is looking at the big 
picture. She is bitter. She tells me I will never get better. She 
predicts I will never work again. She says she will end up carrying the 
whole financial load by herself. She talks of divorce. Conversely, she 
says knowing her luck she would divorce me and then I would get well 
and find some other woman. I realize how badly I have hurt this woman, 
but it seems that my fixation has more power over me than even she 
does. I dread a divorce, still I cannot stop, cannot “grow up and snap 
out of it” as she insists I could do if I wanted to. And my hair 
continues falling out by the handfuls. I defend myself the best I can, 
but my defense is timid for I know I am to blame for this crisis. We 
are not poor, I quietly remind my wife. We have savings. I have my 
retirement account. Our house is paid for. 

My twenty-year-old daughter says to her mother, why don't you just get
rid of him? Why are you fooling around with him anyway? I had a 
vacation planned and he's ruining it! And now he won't work! What good 
is he?  Each word is a blow to me.  What have I done to my child?  I 
have turned her against me.  That's what I have done. 

I have loved being a father. Every part of it. Tears of joy at the birth
of my children. Tender love overflowing. Heart full. Sitting at the 
kitchen table with my daughter, my angel, gazing at the shiny cap of 
curly dark hair as she bent over her homework, the curve of her cheek 
delicately and sweetly cupped in her pudgy hand and her asking me is 
this right dad? Is this right? I remember the swim meets, spelling 
bees, cozy bedtime stories, giggling slumber parties, fierce tennis 
matches, family vacations and the feel of her little hand in mine when 
we crossed the street.  She used to look up at me with adoring eyes.  
But now I have alienated her and I see that she despises me.  My first 
response is disbelief but it turns gradually to acceptance. Of course 
she would feel this way. I have let her down, too. I tell her I am 
sorry. I am so sorry. She is unforgiving. 

My confidence is somehow linked to my hair and it begins to diminish
with each small loss. I experience decimating self-doubt. Niggling 
fears skitter relentlessly around in me like furtive mice in a dark 
room.  I am driven to check and recheck my hair continually.  This 
started as a secret worry years ago, but it lived in the background for 
the most part. It stayed in its place. But it hides no longer. 

I am fifty years old. I have fathered two children. I am a faithful
husband, I have won weight training competitions. I am tall and 
correctly proportioned. I am a business major, a CPA, a master of 
numbers. But, I am not good with words. I see this is a failure to 
communicate. If I could only do a better job of explaining myself ... 

I plead my case to my wife on many occasions. I say if I could just get
hair transplant surgery, I would be myself again. It worked before and 
it could work again, I tell her. I have lost my confidence, but I can 
get it back if I could just fix the way I look. She says, it won't do 
any good.  She says it costs money we can't afford to spend. We have a 
son and daughter in college, she reminds me. She says I am thinking 
only of myself.  She says I have no income now. I am ruining her life, 
she says. I hear these things and I don't blame her. I know frustration 
is speaking for her. I also know her accusations are true. I am 
thinking of myself....I can't stop thinking of myself and my 
affliction. 

I am ashamed. Ashamed of the way I look, ashamed that I cannot work,
ashamed of what I am putting my wife through. She looks at me now and 
her gaze no longer holds any warmth or respect.  She looks at me now 
like the useless piece of shit I have become. My shame grows and folds 
over itself inside me, expanding and pushing outward to make room.  
Will it extend beyond me someday when my body can no longer contain it? 
My breathing becomes shallower to accommodate its painful presence.  
Shame with its leaking acidic drip rolls inside me like a malformed 
fetus turning over in the womb. Shame, my new constant companion. 
Shame, my new best friend.  I feel sorry for my wife shackled by 
Catholic marriage to a man like me. 

She pushes me to change. She pushes with condemnation, scorn, and
threats of divorce.  I feel the sharp fear of being alone, the sick 
apprehension of losing her. I will do anything to hang on. Anything, 
but stop worrying about my hair. That I cannot do. Contrary to popular 
opinion in my house, it controls me, not the other way around. 

I wonder how we ever could have thought we were superior, that we had
the perfect family, that we didn't have these kinds of problems. Is 
this some kind of karmic retribution for our snobbery? A divine 
dressing down?  My wife has done no wrong that I can see. My children 
have done no wrong.  Is it then a lesson meant only for me to suffer 
with and learn from? Will I emerge a better man? I fear it is 
permanent. 

I also fear it is a curse, but not a real one put on me by some evil
magician or anything. More an accident of fate, I think. I am targeted 
for this affliction like some people are assigned MS or cancer or 
brittle bone disease. I won't find a reason for this before I die. 

There's nothing wrong with your hair, my wife says yet again. Listen,
she says, you need to shape up and you need to do it quickly.  But I so 
clearly can see the problem. Could it really just be my perception? Is 
it my perception that is wrong? Is it?  I feel my head carefully, 
fingers flying over the surface of my scalp with intimate familiarity. 
I go to the mirror. No, it's not my perception, I cry out silently. 
Look! Look at it! My hair is falling out. God. It is falling out more 
and more each day. I think my implants are shriveling, dying. Something 
is badly wrong. I look like a radiation victim. I don't say these 
things to my wife, however. Not yet. 

At the end of June, my former boss offers me a lesser position (since
mine has been filled) and my wife wants me to accept the job. I tell 
her I did not spend all those years in school to become a bean counter. 
She misinterprets these words as combative although I did not mean them 
to be.  You are going to do this, she tells me, you are going to drive 
to that job and work it and you are going to keep on working it until 
you retire. 

But when the day comes for me to start that job, I find I can't do it.
My nervous hands keep flying to my hair of their own volition, checking 
and checking. It is a compelling force I can no longer resist. I call 
my boss and tell him I am struggling with my nerves. He is a 
compassionate man, and he gives me a week to try and feel better. A 
week doesn't make a difference. In a week, I am actually worse.  I have 
to let the job go. I am too sick to function, too sleep deprived to 
think clearly, too fearful to face people. 

My parents keep saying go to the doctor, go to the doctor.  Finally one
morning I feel inside me a small hard nugget of self-preservation. I go 
to my mother's house and ask my parents to take me to the hospital. 
They jump up immediately and rush me out to the car before I can change 
my mind.  I sit up front with my dad and pull the sun visor down so I 
can check my hair in the mirror. I feel a strange sense of relief at 
noting the ugly condition of my head has not changed.  I am not crazy. 
My hair really is falling out. I really am deformed. How can no one 
else see this? 

We have to wait quite a long time in the emergency room. I am extremely
nervous, afraid I will see someone I know.  They will know why I have 
come. They would think ill of me and perhaps even discuss me with other 
people, talk about my decline, talk about me behind my back, perhaps 
even joke about me as my wife and daughter sometimes do. Only when I am 
finally taken back to a room and I can close the curtains do I feel a 
measure of relief. 

The ER doctor is unhelpful. It is a fruitless exercise. I do not tell
him I think more and more about dying. I do not tell him about my hair 
problem which I find so deeply shameful. I only tell him I cannot sleep 
anymore. And I tell him I am depressed. He doesn't ask the right 
questions.  And I don't volunteer much. He prescribes an antidepressant 
and a sleeping pill and tells me to follow up with my regular doctor. 
He is brusque and hurried. After all my anxiety and apprehension, it is 
over with in a few minutes, an anticlimax. 

Why didn't you tell him the truth, my mom asks me as we are leaving. 
You don't want them to lock me up do you, I respond. Of course not, she 
says, but how can the doctor help you if he doesn't know the whole 
story?  I don't know, I say.  Well, son, you take the pills like he 
said and maybe they will help you. 

When I get home, my wife goes with me to the pharmacy. I can tell she
disapproves in some way, but she remains silent on the subject. But the 
pills don't help.  In fact, they make me feel worse than ever. I feel 
sorry for anyone who has to take this kind of medicine on a daily 
basis. I hate the way it makes me feel, the bright hard edges to the 
world, the dry taste in my mouth, the increased agitation. After only a 
few days, I know this is not the answer for me. I stop taking the 
medicine. It's the only thing I can do. Still, I can't pass a mirror 
without looking. My hair continues to fall out, my bald patches enlarge 
noticeably each day, and I know it is only a matter of time before my 
whole head will be a big disgusting orb with patchy sick-looking hair. 
I am turning into a clown, a troll, a sideshow freak. And I can't stop 
it from happening to me. 

The days have started to run together. The nights are long and tortuous.
I am beyond tired from my pacing and my slavish devotion to the mirror. 
My son comes home from college for a visit and I tell him.  He utters 
kind reassuring words. He does not belittle me. But, he can't wait to 
leave again. I don't blame him. For just a moment in my memory, there 
is a flash of the boy he used to be, his little blond head bobbing in 
the car seat, tiny hands patting my face, baby talk, big hugs for Dad. 
And later, the basketball games, the weight lifting, the cars, 
motorcycles and debate club. I love him so much it aches. I wish he 
would stay longer. 

My son is smart.  He has changed his major several times. I used to joke
that he is a career student. He spends a lot of money. It's expensive 
keeping him in school. 

I tell my wife I think I may need to see a doctor. A small part of me
fervently hopes she would say yes, let's get you to a doctor. I will go 
with you, and I will stand by you. Don't worry anymore. Help is near.  
I want her to put her arms around me and tell me we can work this out 
together. I want her to tell me I matter to her, matter more even than 
the good life we have built.  But that is an unreasonable hope.  What 
really happens is that she reminds me that doctors are expensive and 
tells me our insurance has a $5,000.00 deductible. So high! I think. It 
didn't work very well last time, did it, she asks pointedly. But, go to 
the doctor, she says, and use up your son's college money. Be selfish. 
No, I say, I am talking about a psychiatrist, not our family doctor. A 
shrink, she says flatly. That kind of doctor? Like a crazy person? 

She is right. The humiliation will not only attach itself to me, but
spill over to her and my children as well. Her father was sick in the 
head, I know. But, she is strong because she never had a childhood; she 
had to grow up fast; she did what she had to do. The implication is 
there that I could be strong too, if I wanted to be. But, I do want to 
be strong.  I envy her that strength.  Physical strength (which I have) 
in no way compensates for emotional weakness. Such weakness is 
unacceptable. How long can I hide this weakness from the world? But 
even more important to me, how long can I hide my hair loss from the 
world?  Already I know I am being stared at and whispered about when we 
go out in public. How can I keep my disfiguring deformity from being 
noticed? 

My wife says I call her too often now. I call her at work. If I keep
going, she says she will have no choice but to tell her boss what's 
going on. You know how embarrassing this is? She asks.  Yes, I respond. 
I know what embarrassment is. I live it every day. 

Another hot day rolls around after another sleepless night.  Outside the
oppressive heat lays its steamy hand over the wilting landscape.  I 
want to go to the mall, my daughter announces. Come on, says my wife, 
we're going to the mall. I tell her I'm not up to it. She levels me 
with that look. Why not, she asks, her tone dangerous with the promise 
of trouble. People will look at me, I whisper. I hear my daughter 
snort. Nobody's going to look at you, she scoffs, you're an old man. 
Believe me, no one is interested. 

So, I go. 

I wish I could wait in the car. My wife turns to look at me and I
realize I have spoken my wish out loud.  You are not waiting in the 
car, she says. You are coming in with us and you're going to act like a 
normal person. She opens the door and waits expectantly for me to get 
out of the car.  I step out of the car in full view...and hesitate. I 
am twisting in the wind. My daughter sighs with irritation. My wife is 
exasperated, her mouth set in firm lines and her posture squared for 
battle. I don't want to fight. I trail behind them toward the entrance, 
trying to see my reflection in the glass doors. 

I am aiming for a surreptitious look at my hair when something in the
reflection behind me catches my eye.  It is heat rising in little waves 
off the parking lot behind me. It shimmers delicately. Funny, I think, 
I only see the heat in its reflection. I wonder if the same principle 
applies to my hair. Maybe my flaw only shows in a reflection.  I ponder 
this concept as we drag from store to store wondering how can I ever 
see myself from the outside to test this theory.  Then I notice the 
people staring as they pass by and I know what they see when they look 
at me. I am intensely uncomfortable but there is no place to hide. 

I am disjointed. The real me is transposed over the man I ought to be
and the two do not mesh. I don't mesh anymore. But I can't explain this 
to anyone. 

Days stretch out, one after another. Nights are more awful than I can
describe.  I work on a secret plan. But, where would I do it? What 
would happen to my body? Who would find me?  The first problem is how 
to do it.  A gun, of course, is the best way.  Quick, absolute and 
irrevocable.  I do not own a gun. However, luck is with me as my son 
does own a shotgun. Only recently, my wife told him to bring it home 
from college because she was afraid he would get in trouble if he was 
caught with it in his dorm.  He did so one weekend and stored it in the 
closet of his old room.  So there it is now, standing like a patient 
soldier in the corner. Problem number one is solved with the knowing or 
unknowing collusion of my wife. I will never know if she deliberately 
placed the gun within my reach to make it easier for me or if she just 
forgot the danger. Nonetheless, it is there if I need it. Maybe it is 
her subconscious gift to me and to our family.  Such a respectable tool 
can not only stop the suffering but also destroy the part of me that I 
hate...the top of my head.  I think about this for awhile. Mull it 
over.  Taste it until I became comfortable with the idea. At least in 
death my disfigurement will not be seen. 

I take to visiting my parents.  They are very worried about me. My wife
doesn't like these visits because she is convinced I tell them things 
that might alter our image in their eyes. I see them anyway, but it's 
just a small defiance. I do tell them about my problem. I describe to 
them my agony, the repetition, the joyless cycle in which I am trapped. 
I ask them over and over, what am I going to do? They have only the 
same old answer for me....see a doctor. 

In their home, I feel an acceptance that I do not feel any other place,
but I do not feel relief. They are kind to me. But kindnesses have 
become ineffectual little arrows of warmth that bounce uselessly off 
the hard armor of my self-loathing. Compassion cannot penetrate the 
unyielding layers of my misery. I make my mother cry and I regret it. 
It is not my intention to hurt her but my suffering does just that. It 
is hard for her to watch and know she is helpless to change it. I pay a 
price for these visits. What did you tell you mother today, my wife 
asks. 

I now often call my mother just to talk. I have to keep my voice down so
my wife won't hear. I am now afraid of making her even more angry with 
me.  I whisper into the phone and my mother strains to hear me.  I try 
not to do any more damage to my home life, but these are some wretched 
days. I ache for the comfort of my mother's voice. A mother's love is 
unconditional and permanent. I am needing that now. I know I have 
pretty much destroyed any love in my own home. 

I am not refusing to be normal; I have just lost my grasp on the
definition of the term. I can't find my way back to myself.   I am not 
mentally ill. I have a hair problem. But for the sake of argument, 
let's say I am sick in the head. What is my motivation to get well, to 
make that long hard upward climb? What would I be going back to?  A 
grown man, living with his parents. No job. No wife. No children. No 
home.  No life. 

I tell Mom my new idea. I should just shave my head, I say. My mother is
noncommittal. My wife, however, doesn't think I would like it and 
advises against it. I try to think this through. Frenzied thoughts run 
through my brain like rats in the timbers. If I shave my head, my old 
hair implants will show, I realize. I need to either get more 
transplants or have the old ones removed. But what if the removal 
leaves scars?  That would be ugly. Could I get a hairpiece? No, because 
I would have to shave my head to wear one. And my old implants are 
there.  My idea is a dead end. I am trapped. Mom just listens. 

I need a consult with a specialist. I know this is the answer. However,
my wife will not relent on this point. She has already moved our money 
around in the accounts so I can't access it. She suspects I might be 
desperate enough to go against her wishes and have some sort of hair 
treatment. I have to protect our savings, she explains patiently to me 
as if she were addressing a dull witted child. I can't imagine I would 
do anything that drastic without her approval, but she doesn't believe 
me. And I don't believe her when she tells me my hair looks fine. No 
one will admit the truth to me. 

This dis-integrating, dis-assembling, dis-ordering of my life continues.
 I am an anguished shadow of my former self, hopelessly chasing one bad 
thought after another around in my tired brain, compelled to go to the 
mirror time and time again. Each day is worse. Each night is longer. 

I have a plan, a plan hatched in dark hours of desperation over many
sleepless nights. The gun is already in the trunk of the car, fully 
loaded and waiting to deliver me from my tortured existence. I am 
always hoping that somehow this problem will magically reverse itself. 
But, every time I see the disgusting ugly bald patches, my hope 
dissolves. The answer is so obvious. If I could just cease to live, 
problems would be solved. My family wouldn't have to put up with me 
anymore. I wouldn't have to put up with me anymore. But most 
importantly, my wife would have my insurance money. I have paid into 
that policy for years and now that I need it, it is there like an old 
friend telling me comfortingly to go ahead and let it take care of my 
family.  Lord knows I can't do it anymore. 

There is a hand held infrared device that stimulates hair growth. It
looks like a robot's hairbrush. It costs a staggering $600.  I would 
order one from the internet, but my wife has taken my credit cards. 

My parents offer to take me out of town to a psychologist AND pay for
it. That way nobody will know. Also, it will not cost me a cent.  My 
wife is welcome to come along too, they say, we will go as a family. 
For a minute, I feel a tiny upward tug on my spirits.  My wife, 
however, regards this as interference. Her response is go ahead and go, 
but don't bother to come home.  She is simply fed up with my weakness.  
She is appalled that my parents indulge it. I am barely clinging to my 
marriage. Divorce is no longer a mere threat but now a distinct 
possibility.  I have no choice but to decline the offer if I want to 
keep my family. We continue our new unnatural routine, me pacing, her 
sleeping apart from me, her going to work each day, me wandering about 
the house from mirror to mirror measuring and assessing my deformity. 

My daughter still has her friends over, but she asks me to hide in the
bedroom until her company leaves. I do this for her. I don't want 
anyone to see me anyway. I look so ghoulish. 

Without my confidence, everything is difficult. I had never before
realized how every little thing a person accomplishes depends entirely 
on self image. My life is narrowing to an existence that is truly 
unbearable and I can see no way out. My job is gone, all those years of 
schooling and struggle for nothing now. My wife no longer holds me in 
high regard. My daughter loathes me.  My son stays away either because 
he just doesn't know how to handle the situation or because perhaps he 
too finds me repulsive now. 

There is no help for me. Every avenue is blocked. Hair
replacement...blocked. Medical doctor...blocked.  
Psychiatrist...blocked.  Anyway, I am afraid of mental hospitals. I 
have images of myself as a drugged-up zombie, imprisoned in the state 
hospital, shuffling senselessly from hallway to day room, my 
incarceration an embarrassment to my family and my hope for recovery 
remote. I could never piece my life back together after that, and I 
could not bear knowing I had robbed my son of his future and my wife of 
her security and my daughter of her place at the center of attention. 
Look what I am doing to my family, I tell myself. And I love them so 
much! 

But the love I feel for my family can't compete with the darkness I have
fallen into. How powerful this obsession is, I marvel.  If I could go 
around the house collecting up my fallen hairs and glue them back onto 
my head, I would do it. My looks offend me, I admit to myself. They 
shame and frighten me.  I hate them as badly as my family hates my 
failures. The loneliest place in the world is inside your own mind 
sometimes. 

My mother-in-law suffers from a disease of the mind. She is in a nursing
home, her memories erased by Alzheimer's.  My wife suggests that I go 
stay in her mother's old house at night and come back home during the 
day. My daughter quickly agrees with this idea. You keep me awake at 
night, my wife says. I need to get my sleep, she says in her reasonable 
voice. After all, I have to work for a living. 

My mother hates the idea. There isn't even a stick of furniture in that
house, she says. I won't have you over there in that empty house every 
night, she tells me.  She says to pack my clothes and come home. She 
says there is always a place for me at her house. I tell her I will 
think about it. What no one seems to understand is that I don't want to 
leave my home at all. I want to be with my wife and daughter, even if 
it seems they no longer want me. 

I tell my wife that I could go stay with my parents for a couple of
weeks and give her a break.  She says no. It won't look right. I 
suspect the real reason is that she can't keep tabs on me as well. And 
she resents that my parents know about our situation. It violates our 
privacy. So I am allowed to stay in my own house. 

The brush of my anguish paints distorted pictures. Once I make the
mistake of telling my mother that my wife is very disappointed in me. 
To my surprise, my mother says, well, you can tell her for me that I am 
very disappointed in her.  She could try being a little kinder to you, 
my mother says.  The rift between my family and my parents becomes a 
gorge. My mother believes with all her heart that I am being 
mistreated. My parents have lost respect for my wife. My wife and 
daughter resent my parents.  I am torn by conflicting family loyalties. 
 The confusion over right and wrong renders me helpless.  But still 
above all, it is my hair loss that plagues me the most. It is 
paramount. My flaw, my defect, my shame. 

I need to see a professional about my hair loss. I need it so badly.
Selfish or not, I am desperate to have this. I can't solve this problem 
myself. It is the answer to everything. I know this for certain. If 
only my head looked normal, everything else would be all right again. 
My wife will not hear of it. But my parents are willing to try anything 
at this point. 

A few days ago, my mother was trying to reach me. She has good news for
me, she says. My parents decided to cash in an IRA and use the money to 
take me to a hair specialist out of state for a consultation.  They 
will pay for it all and they will drive me there.  They will do 
anything they can to help me, they are nearly as desperate for me to 
feel better as I am. Hope blooms a tiny blossom inside me. 

But my daughter is onto us. Tattletale. She can hardly wait to get my
wife on the line and report that Grandma has been calling me.  Shortly, 
my cell phone rings and it is my wife. My daughter has contacted her 
and told her something is up with Grandma. What's going on now? My wife 
asks, her voice weary with longsuffering.  I tell her of my parents' 
offer. 

Get. Home. Now. She says. Terse. Clipped. What did I do wrong, Honey, I
ask her. What did I do wrong?  The last thing on earth I want is to 
give her more reasons to be angry with me.   I rush home dreading the 
confrontation I know is waiting for me.  I am hardly in the door when 
it hits like a storm.  She is livid. What do you think you're doing, 
she rails. She is furious with my parents. They are babying this 
sickness of mine.  They are trying to circumvent her right out of the 
picture. They are doing the worst thing they could do, sympathizing. 
Sympathy does not solve a problem like this. It just makes it worse. I 
have stabbed her in the back. I have gone behind her back. I have 
betrayed her. She absolutely forbids this. She tells me once again that 
if I go to this doctor, not to bother coming home. And she means it.  
She is at the end of her patience with me. It doesn't actually matter 
that we won't have to pay for it. That's not the point. What matters is 
that my parents interfered in our personal business.  That's the point. 
What matters is that we made a decision that she opposed, knowing full 
well that she opposed it. I try, but I can't convince her that I need 
this, and I know if I do it now that I will be going against her 
wishes. I briefly consider self surgery. I can see myself at the mirror 
with a sharp little knife and a pair of tweezers. 

She winds down and the guilt rises up to choke me.  I am so worn down. 
I don't know how to manage my own despair let alone the unhappiness I 
am causing her. She is a good woman and does not deserve this. I know I 
have destroyed her dream of a perfect family.  It seems that no matter 
which way I turn, I am always causing sorrow for someone. I am a 
disgrace and the penalty is rejection.  I am expelled from the circle 
of love that used to surround me. 

Have you seen my cell phone charger, I ask my wife. I put it up, she
says, we don't need you running up the bill. My phone is dead. A few 
days later she relents and gives it back to me.  I don't know why. 

My wife and I are standing in the driveway. She is looking at me with
barely contained rage. That's it, she says, give me your keys.  But 
why, I ask her. She says we can't afford to insure the car anymore now 
that I won't work a job. If I want to go somewhere I will need to ride 
my bike or walk. Part of me wonders if this is really a punishment for 
talking to my parents about our private business. But I dismiss that 
thought.  How will I get into the house without my keys, I ask her. You 
can wait in the garage until we get home from work and we will let you 
in. I don't want to give up my keys and my fingers tighten around them. 
 Come on, she says quietly but firmly, you don't want to make a scene 
out here in front of the neighbors. I hand her my keys. If you want to 
drive the car, then you will need to go down and get some insurance on 
it, she tells me.  But I have no money, I say.  Well, I guess you 
should have considered that before you quit your job.  She is right. 
This is a situation of my own making. I don't make a fuss. I worry that 
my bald spots are showing. She puts my keys in her purse and we go 
inside.  My daughter smirks as I head for the mirror. 

I call my mother and ask her to come get me. She says of course but
what's wrong with my car. I tell her I no longer have the key. I tell 
her about the insurance. Sitting around their dining room table I 
confess to them that I am destroying my family. I don't know what to 
do. My dad keeps repeating go to the doctor, go to the doctor. I know 
he means well, but I am tired of hearing it. We have tried that, and I 
am afraid. What if they hospitalize me? What if my son's college fund 
is eaten up by my medical expenses? What if my wife leaves me and I am 
alone?  What if my children hate me? 

Another hot windy day fries the streets. My eyes have dried out and I
need my contact solution. I can't get into the house to get it. I have 
my parents drop me off at home and I wait in the garage until my wife 
and daughter get home. It feels like my contacts are adhered to my 
eyeballs.  It was a long wait. 

My appetite is poor now. I am losing weight.  My mother wants me to eat
something. Don't you think I should wait and eat with my family, I ask 
her. I try to call my daughter, but she doesn't answer. I try to call 
my wife, but she doesn't answer either. I think perhaps I will eat 
something with my parents. Then my cell phone rings and it's my 
daughter calling me back. She says if I will walk down to the corner, 
they will come by and pick me up. (My wife will not drive up to my 
parents' house)  I set off down the dusty street, hands in my pockets. 
I look back to see my mother standing in the door, watching me walk 
away. It looks like she is crying. 

You need to mow the lawn today, my wife says. Now remember you don't
have a house key, so don't lock yourself out. I can't be leaving work 
to let you in the house. 

Morning dawns with a soft rain that breaks up the persistent summer
heat, granting a reprieve in more ways than one.  The rain has given me 
back my car. My daughter doesn't like to drive. She had a close call, a 
near miss, and now her mother and I drive her where she wants to go. 
That morning my wife hands me back my car keys because my daughter 
wants to go to the Y. We can't bike there in the rain. I don't know 
what happened with the insurance matter. I don't ask. It turns out I 
will now keep my car until the day I die. 

After the Y, my daughter is hungry. I want a taco, she states. But I
have no money, I say. I want a taco, she repeats, and I'm not spending 
my own money on it. You're the dad, you're supposed to feed me.  In 
fact, you still haven't reimbursed me for the stuff I bought last week, 
she says.  I pull over and we search the floorboards, glove compartment 
and cracks of the seats. We find enough change to buy her taco, but not 
enough to buy a drink. She sullenly eats her meal, refusing to look at 
me. I've let her down again. I realize my hands are trembling slightly. 
I grasp the steering wheel harder to steady them. The rain lays a hazy 
gray coat over the world. I drive her home in silence as the heavens 
weep. 

It is July 18, my anniversary. For twenty seven years I have been
married to this good woman and now it is all reduced to nothing by the 
last six months.  My mother convinces me to see her hairdresser today. 
I don't want to go, but I do it for my mother.  The hairdresser takes 
me into a back room so I don't have to wait among all the other 
patrons. She is warm and kind. She doesn't feel like a stranger. She 
looks at my hair.  Why, honey, she says, you have a beautiful head of 
hair. She says, yes I see the implants and maybe just a little bit of 
thinning, but you have gorgeous hair.  She says, I have a product that 
will take care of this. Your scalp just needs a thorough cleansing, she 
says. I guarantee you that if you use this shampoo you will notice a 
difference in a week. I promise your hair will grow back. I ask her the 
cost. Now, you don't worry about that, she says, you try it and if it 
works for you, you can pay me later. Out of the blue I tell her I think 
my wife is going to leave me. She says, oh honey, I have been married 
37 years, I know how it is. I bet things will work out with your wife. 
But if they don't, my goodness, you will have the women all over you. 
You are such a handsome man, she tells me. You just try these products 
now and before you know it your hair will be thicker and fuller. You'll 
see, she says. 

Oh my god, look what he's got now, my daughter says to my wife.  Special
Shampooooooo!  Oh, lord, my wife groans.  I am humiliated. They have a 
bit of fun at my expense.   How much did that shit cost, my wife asks. 
Nothing, I say. 

This anniversary is not a happy one. I accept their disdain and allow it
to settle like a vulture on my slumped shoulder where it makes a 
fitting companion to my own self-loathing.  I finally realize I am not 
loved. This will be the longest night of my life. 

When my wife and daughter lock themselves in the bedroom for sleep that
night, I face my demons alone in the quiet darkness.  The powers of the 
night are ever watchful that I not slip up and find some peace where 
certainly none is deserved. I take stock of where my life has led and 
all that I have lost, but thinking is hard to do. Clarity of thought 
has deserted me and only one neural pathway seems to fire at full 
capacity. That's the one that cycles me through my repetitive motions, 
the irresistible compulsion to feel my head and nervously inspect my 
hair over and over again for hours. And each time I check, my 
suspicions are again confirmed.  And each time that old familiar shame 
and panic washes over me, sending waves of disgust and despair down 
into my gut. 

The morning of July 19 finds me wide eyed, nerves sizzling from lack of
sleep, stomach churning, and heart racing inexplicably. I feel such 
heaviness of spirit that breathing is an effort and each step is like 
walking through a deep layer of heavy sand. I check my hair again but 
still it is the same and defeat overwhelms me. 

I thirst for peace. I am so tired. This is the day I will escape my
personal hell on earth. It has to be today. Tomorrow is my mother's 
birthday and I just can't do that to her. Not on her birthday. It has 
to be today. But where can I do the deed? I will go where I am loved, I 
decide. I will go where I know that my crumpled body will be lovingly 
cared for.  I will go home, where I grew up. I will step out of this 
body like stepping out of a confining suit of clothes. I will be free. 
I can't do this at my house. It would be the final insult to my 
marriage to leave such a mess for my wife. And I do not want my 
daughter to see her father's shattered body dead on the floor, just in 
case some part of her still loves me. I don't want to hurt her any more 
than I already have. 

It is only here at the very end that I have failed my family. I am sure
of that. There was a time when I had a good life. I am an educated man. 
I was successful. My wife was the single point of light in my life, 
from which radiated all the parameters of my world. I have a son who 
makes me proud, a bright assertive young man who pulls the good grades 
and goes around with all the right people. He writes brilliant papers. 
He studies. He drinks too, but I don't want to think about that. My 
daughter was, until recently, the center of our family. She is a 
cherished diamond, sharp-edged and fierce. A unique jewel sparkling 
with cold light and mysterious facets.  I had vowed to give her 
everything she ever desired and deny her nothing.  Until this condition 
took me, I did hold true to that promise.  But no longer can I find 
consolation in any of my past accomplishments because my true defective 
nature has now emerged.  I have no one to blame but myself, but life as 
I knew it is over for me. 

My wife and daughter leave for work.  I call my mother.  She says they
are going to the grocery store, but for me to come on over.  Perfect 
timing, I think. 

However, when I arrive at my parents' home, I am surprised to find them
still at home.  They've had a change in plans and decided to go to the 
store later.  So I bide my time.  They notice I am in poor shape.  I 
have seen my haggard face in the mirror with its deep lines, sunken 
eyes and sagging skin. Mom comments that I am wearing the same clothes 
as yesterday, something I never do. Her eyes reflect her fear for me. I 
can't comfort her because I know her fear is justified. I am sorry when 
I see the pain in her eyes.  She looks so sad. 

I tell her I am so tired of worrying about my hair, just so tired. I
wish I could just fly away. Her eyes fill with tears. 

Honey, didn't you try your new shampoo, she asks. No, I answer. Why not,
she asks. I don't know, I say. 

I decide to make one last effort for living, and I call my wife.  I tell
her I am at Mom's and that I am feeling really low, very bad.  I ask 
her if she will talk to Mom.  She hangs up on me. 

I am stunned for only a moment and then think, well, this is the way I
expected it would turn out. But this time it's ok because I am ready.  
Soon she will be free, too. 

I must soften the blow for my mother. It seems wrong to not at least
kind of prepare her for what is to come, so I ask her what she would 
tell people if I ever decide to take my life. She gasps and begins to 
sob. She tells me it would just kill her. She begs me, please don't 
talk that way.  She says she is so sorry that she did this to me, that 
it must be some genetic or hereditary factor that caused this. She 
tells me she had wanted a son so badly and she never dreamed she would 
be passing on this awful sickness. I tell her she hasn't done anything 
wrong and this is not her fault. 

My dad flies angry and tells me suicide is a coward's way out. His older
brother had done it when my dad was just a boy, and it had devastated 
him.  This meeting is going badly and I am not sure how smooth it back 
into place. My dad starts out the door, shakes his head, then turns 
around and comes back. He apologizes for losing his temper and tells me 
the following Tuesday he will take me to the hair doctor, the 
specialist, and we will get some professional answers.  He is a fixer.  
He has always fixed things.  But he can't fix this. He is trying so 
hard, but he doesn't know I have already found my solution. I don't 
have the heart to tell him.  Besides, I don't want him to stop me. 

I humor him.  I let him believe we will make this trip and I can see he
is relieved.  Then I ask my mother for a hug.  I can't tell her this is 
goodbye, but it is.  Then I tell them to go ahead, go to the store. 
They ask me to come with them. Of course, I decline. They don't want to 
leave me, but I convince them I am good.  I'm good, I say, I'm good. I 
tell them to go and I will be waiting right here for them when they 
return.  They believe when they get back we will finalize the plans for 
our trip to the doctor. They believe I am ready to buck the system, 
ignore my wife's wishes, and follow through with this appointment.  
They walk out the door believing the cure for my suffering is in sight. 
It is, but not in the way they think. 

Once they are safely gone, I sit in my boyhood home for a short time,
absorbing the particular comfort that is my mother's house. I remove my 
shoes and one of my socks. I take a final look around my mother's home, 
feel again the misery pressing down upon me, and step outside. 

I raise the garage door and drive my car inside.  Then I close the
garage door behind me so no one will see.  I open the trunk of my car 
and gaze at the gun.  Now that the moment is upon me, I am strangely 
calm. I call my wife one more time, but she does not answer. I want to 
tell her goodbye, but caller ID has exposed me and she will not pick 
up. 

I speak privately with God. I remove the gun from the trunk.  I sit on
the cement floor, lean back, and place the double barrels in my mouth, 
carefully aiming back and upward.  I cup my fingers against my lips and 
press them tightly around the gun. It is uncomfortable against my 
teeth.  I place my toe through the trigger. I have forgotten to tell my 
brother and sister goodbye. And it's too late now.  I am surprised to 
notice tears streaming involuntarily from my eyes. 

How fast is a shot? Speed of sound? Speed of light?  I don't know. But I
never even hear the blast before I am flying home, propelled into the 
arms of Jesus. I am ended. 

******* 

Body dysmorphic disorder is treatable with medication and therapy. It is
not vanity. It is an obsessive disorder characterized by uncontrollable 
intrusive thoughts.  It requires professional help and the love and 
support of family. 

There are several morals to this story: 1. Body dysmorphic disorder does
not respond to “tough love” which is an approach for a parent to use on 
a rebellious child. “Tough love” is not a legitimate technique for 
dealing with serious mental illness. It is, in fact, dangerous. 2. 
Isolating a sufferer from the emotional support of friends and family 
exacerbates the illness. 3. Deliberately depriving a person of 
necessary medical treatment is inhumane. 4. Perfectionism and 
unrealistic expectations play significant roles as well. Nobody is 
perfect. Nobody is supposed to be perfect. A person's value should not 
measured by their physical appearance. 5. Love is not a currency to be 
withdrawn as punishment or used as a tool of manipulation.  Real love 
stands with a person even if that person becomes “inconvenient”. 


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