Coach goes on after wife kills self, young son

Truth is, that's a pretty good piece of writing, too. Didn't overdo it. And used quotes, too. Fuck, people still do that, instead of turning it into one massive first-person paraphrase?

 

I hope that somewhere in hell, Satan is ordering Chris Benoit to put a Crippler Crossface on her, or else.

 

D-3,
I'm in the same boat as you with the parents.

My step dad got drunk one night and came home and beat the holy living hell out of my mom. I called my grandparents and woke them up (it was after midnight, and I was about 9 or 10 at the time) to get them to come over. My grandpa tried to get my step dad to leave, but he wouldn't. So I picked up my little sister (who was 2 or 3 at the time), ran down the hill to my neighbor's and called the police.

After about 20 minutes, the cops (about 20 of them) finally got to my house. It takes another half hour, but the cops get him to leave and escort him to his apartment.

Even now that is something that's still burned into my memory and it's still hard for me to talk about. In fact, up until last Sunday night after church, I had never opened up to anyone outside my family about it.

Part of me has never forgiven him for that, and I know part of him has never forgiven me for calling the cops on him that night. But I did what I thought I had to do, I guess.

 

My dad was abusive, too. On good nights, my mom would grab me and my sis and run out the door with the car keys. On bad nights, she didn't make it.

One night, she made it without the keys. We ran two blocks and picked a random house. We knocked on the door, and they called the cops for us. They didn't even let us in, and I remember looking over my shoulder in fear that my dad would appear. We spent a weekend in a shelter and two weeks at a friend's house.

After the paperwork went through, my dad was forced to leave our house. The cops knocked on his door, helped him grab his things and escorted him from the house. I believe he had time to prepare, but I don't actually recall.

For the next year, neighbors called us to report that he was a block or two down the road, or that he was driving by, or that he was walking by the house. One night, not long after the big night, he walked right in the front door. He was covered in sweat. He jogged six miles across town. He broke into crazy sobs as we called the police. I might have called. I don't remember.

On another night, he was driving by as we were walking into the house. He stopped. Mom jumped into the car, and we followed. As we pulled out of the drive, he threw himself wildly in front of the car.

We had supervised visits for a year or so. He often read scripture, pointing out bizarre passages that seemed to deal with poisoning people and so forth.

One day, he pulled a trick. He had planned a camping trip, but he didn't tell anyone. It wasn't allowed, and he knew it. I didn't say anything. On the way out of town, a belt broke on the truck, I guess. He pulled into a church and walked inside. I went in after him, and I found him collapsed on the floor sobbing uncontrollably.

I walked a quarter-mile to a pay phone and called my mom, who came to pick us up. Then I waited with him and my sister. He was sitting outside on the grass by then. I'll always remember him sitting there with a cigarette. He seemed to be burning his skin, or at least singeing the hair on his arms.

A few times, he knocked on my window at night. I heard him calling for me. I'm talking about 2 a.m. I was 14 and so scared that I had trouble sleeping for several years afterward. He showed up at my school a few times, and they pulled me out of class to talk to him in the hallway. I think he just wanted to see me.

I've spoken with him three times in the past 21 years. I'm still not sure what I'll do when he dies. Part of me wants to reconcile, but part of me wants to beat the shit out of him.

 

These stories remind me of how lucky I am. I didn't get along with my parents for five years until recently, but it was for nothing compared to the three of you guys. More power to you, folks, and everyone else with similar tales.

 

I have nothing to say other than this intensifies my hope that there is afterlife justice.

 

It's especially tragic to me because I know Tim.
After I found out about it, it made me think of Euripides' Medea.

 

Ah, but her death still inspired a tribute ...
http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.isssp.com/Images/Professionals/fparmeterpaula.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.isssp.com/index.asp%3Fpage%3Dprofessional_profile%26show%3D16979&h=116&w=100&sz=18&hl=en&start=6&sig2=ldUrdKh4W8hxbgxS1eeZdQ&um=1&tbnid=6ppOZ-DgH0FaXM:&tbnh=87&tbnw=75&ei=NyGGR_WyK6Oseb3inNUI&prev=/images%3Fq%3D%2522paula%2Bparmeter%2522%26svnum%3D10%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26safe%3Doff%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-USfficial%26hs%3DeLI%26sa%3DN

 

She was a Six Sigma living in Thatcher? Six Sigmas do not live in Thatcher, they live in major metropolitan areas. They are big business types, not rural Arizonians.

 

I was about to express my incredulity at that, but I'll wait to see if it was actually her. Didn't anyone else expect her to be a little younger, as well? Or is that just a bad picture?

 

That is one of the most evil, vile, horrifying things I have ever read. Jesus. Words fail me.

 

I'm not doubting it's her. I'm just saying she was a fish out of water in Thatcher.