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January 13, 2012
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A true story of how my father was suicidal after a foot massage mishap. My family is tapped.

A few summers ago I decided to take my dog for a hike at a park close to my home.  After hiking for several hours I headed back to my car slightly hypoglycemic, hungry and thirsty.  I lived five minutes away so I didn't bring snacks or water with me.

I arrived at my car to find my father (whose wonder and glory has been posted in Car for Sale and Stalkers) standing next to it clearly distraught.
"I've been roaming the park looking for you.  I couldn't find you so I just stood here and waited at your car for a few hours."  He was crying.
"Okay..." I braced myself.
"I think I might need to go to the hospital."  He looked at me desperately.
"What's going on?"  I assumed he was having some sort of health crisis.
"My girlfriend won't have sex with me anymore."  He opened the door to my car and sat in the passenger seat without my invitation to do so, put his head in his hands and started sobbing.

I began praying to Jesus to create some sort of diversion, perhaps a forest fire that would engulf my car, allowing me to escape.  Nothing happened so I sat down in the driver's seat.
"She won't have sex with me anymore.  I bought her all these sexy nightgowns and she still won't have sex with me.  You're a woman; do you think it's a hormonal thing?  She went on the birth control pill a few months ago and I think that messes with your hormones."

At this point, most people would say something like, "Your sex life is your private business.  I am your daughter and it's inappropriate to tell me this shit so stop immediately.  If you are suicidal I'll take you to the ER but I am not talking about your sex life."  Instead I was so shocked, stunned and horrified I sat their paralyzed. 

I threw up in my mouth a little bit and took a deep breath.
"Why do you think you need to go to the hospital?'  I skirted around the topic of sex.
"I am really scared.  I want to kill myself.  Do you think I should go to the hospital?"
"Well, if you feel unsafe I can drive you to the hospital right now." I replied.
"I think she wants me to move out.  I keep trying to initiate sex with her and she won't have sex with me.  I think it's hormonal.  She said she wants me to move out."  He continued talking about his lack of sexcapades and I kept praying that I had an aneurysm that was about to burst.

Finally I spoke, "I need to go home and eat something.  If you need me to take you to the emergency room for a psychiatric evaluation I'll bring you."  Desperate to end the conversation I said, "I'm sure it's hormones and she'll come around.  Do you want me to take you to the emergency room before I go home?" I turned on my car.
"I'll follow you back to your house."  He got out of my car and into his.  Unfortunately he knew where I lived.

I drove home trying to come up with a plan.  I didn't want to send him on his way and have him go off and kill himself.  I also did not want to hear him going into detail about his sex life at my kitchen table.  I decided I would do my best to assess his mental status (something I've been professionally trained to do) and either have him hospitalized or send him home.

We arrived at my house.  I quickly went inside and began snacking on something.  He entered and said, "I need to use your bathroom."  A few minutes later he came out and sat down at my kitchen table.  He continued to talk non-stop about his personal problems which included his lack of sex. 

"I think she wants me to move out because I wouldn't give her a foot massage."
"What?" I asked despite being afraid of the answer. 
"Well, two weeks ago I went over to Priscilla's house for a visit.  (Priscilla is his baby momma.  He had a child with her about 20 years ago.)  I was visiting with my daughter when Priscilla came home from a long shift at McDonald's so I gave her a foot massage.  I told Susan (his live-in girlfriend) about the foot massage.  Then last weekend Susan did this sixty-mile charity walk for cancer.  When she finished she said her feet were really bothering her and she asked me for a foot massage.  I said no."

(There must be a Pulp Fiction joke in here somewhere.)

"Why did you refuse?" I asked.
"Well, Susan chose to walk sixty miles.  Priscilla needs to work.  It wasn't her choice.  Why should I give someone a foot massage because they decided to walk a lot."

There were so many things that went through my head.  The number one thought was, "What a total fucking dickhead."  His live-in girlfriend had a sibling who had cancer.  But, my main goal was to get him the fuck out of my house either to a hospital or his home so I just agreed with him.
"Wow, that's really crazy.  I bet it is hormones.  I mean, that's just ridiculous. So do you think you need to go to the hospital?"
"I'm not sure but I guess I'll go home now." 

After a one hour conversation with him at the park followed by a one hour conversation with him at my house he finally left.  I walked into my bathroom shuddered, turned around, and walked to my phone and called my friend.

Thankfully she answered after one ring.
"Hello?"
"My father hunted me down at the park and is suicidal because his girlfriend won't fuck him anymore after he cheated on her feet with his baby momma's feet and he followed me home and pissed all over my floor." 
"Do you have Ativan, vodka and chocolate at home?"
"Of course."
"Take those and I'm on my way."

She came over and talked me down.  She reminded me that I was not his case manager, mental health counselor, crisis intervention provider, caretaker or janitor.  Thank God for friends; and for Ativan, vodka and chocolate.

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