Marise Gaughan: 'My father pours himself a vodka. He hasn’t been my Dad in seven days'

Marise Gaughan was 14 when her dad first tried to end his life. She went on a spiral of self-destruction when he died by suicide when she was 23. In this extract, she talks about their complicated relationship

Sat, 09 Apr, 2022 - 12:38

Below is an extract from my book Trouble, a coming-of-age memoir that deals with the suicide of my father and my own struggle with mental illness and ensuing self-destruction. Those are heavy and serious topics, but Trouble is not a heavy and serious book — I believe lightness and humour can be found in the darkest of places. My relationship with my father was a complicated one. His mental illness was intertwined with his addiction, as is often the case, so it was not something I could recognise until the night detailed below, when he made an attempt on his life. After this night, it still took me many years to truly comprehend the magnitude of his pain, and by then it was too late. When depression takes hold of you, and you are staring down the mental abyss, suicide can often feel like the only exit path. It never is. I feel lucky to have learned that wisdom, and I will always be sad that he did not.

I am fourteen. It’s the night before my business studies mock exams, sometime in February when the nights are still long and it rains every day. For the past two years I have been a straight-from-Hell nightmare of a child. Disruptive, my class reports say. Needs to learn to control herself. When you don’t understand the whirlpool of emotions inside you, anger is the easiest one to pull out. There are weekly meetings to discuss my behaviour. My teachers point to my test scores as an example of my potential. We want to help you. I sit, slumped down in the chair with my arms crossed, shooting them daggers. I don’t see anyone that needs help.

Only my mother shows up to these meetings. Only my mother listens earnestly to the same things my teachers said the week before. Only my mother grips the steering wheel tightly as she asks me to please, get your shit together. My father, he’s busy. He is asleep when these meetings happen. He is looking the other way when I throw textbooks across the kitchen. When I scream I hate you, it’s to my mother, because she is the only one left. My Dad has already walked out of the room.

Dad isn’t the enemy, though. He collects me from hockey practice and makes my friends laugh by cursing in front of them. He shows up to my school, unannounced, and lets me skip Irish class so we can have a long carvery lunch. He sneaks bags of sweets into my room at night. Don’t tell your mother, but I know you love sugar. And what’s so bad with indulging in something you love? My Dad gets me, because I am a carbon copy of him. We are made from the same stuff, so he always says. And he’s been sober for the past four years. He hasn’t been my enemy in a long time.

I am fourteen, and I am studying, because I am still doing very well at school, despite my behaviour problems. During the Christmas exams, I easily finished the maths paper. The questions seemed like a joke. How could anyone not know this?

How stupid do they think we are? I spent the next hour looking around the exam hall, my eyes catching a girl in my class called Shauna. I wasn’t friends with Shauna, but I knew about her. I had heard her name roll off the tongues of boys. That was the biggest currency. To have a boy talk about you. Hot, slut, frigid, bitch. It didn’t matter what they said, just that they had you in their mouths.

I looked down at my finished paper, and then over again at her. Her blonde hair somehow glistened in the dark exam hallway. Beautiful Shauna, with her straight teeth and big tits.

Beautiful Shauna, who all the boys wanted to fuck. Her lips were puckered in concentration. Her brows furrowed, like she had to take a shit. I kept staring. I knew Shauna was thick.

She didn’t find the very easy questions easy. These second-year maths exams were her Everest, and she was getting frostbite.

Why do you care? I thought to myself. If I looked like you, none of this would matter. As soon as the words entered my brain, I felt embarrassed. It wasn’t very feminist of me. But it was true.

If I looked like her, I wouldn’t give a shit about this. But I didn’t, so I did.

I am fourteen, studying for an exam I know I’ll get an A in, and my father walks down into the kitchen, drunk, and pours himself a vodka. He hasn’t been my Dad in seven days. He’s fallen down at the same hurdle he’s easily jumped over for four straight years. I have been waiting for this day. Every time he had come home during the past four years, when he would struggle to get his keys in the door, I would bolt up in my bed. It’s back, I’d think, walking out to the landing. Relief filled through my body when I saw my normal Dad staring back at me. Now the timer has been restarted again.

It’s just me and him in the kitchen. I put down my pencil.

Why are you so pathetic? He ignores me, finishing his vodka in three quick gulps. He pours another. I walk up behind him and slap the drink from his shaking hand. Glass shatters on the kitchen tiles. Fuck you, he snarls.

Am I just imagining that? Does anyone really snarl? Or do we just create villains out of people to make us feel better?

I watch him as he pours another drink. He holds the cup high as he walks out of the kitchen, trying to lose me. I follow him from room to room. You sad, loser cunt. I hate you, do you know that? My voice is calm. It’s just a fact. I hate you I hate you I hate you. I’m almost singing it. Shut up, you fucking bitch! He runs up the stairs, his dressing gown exposing his naked body as he moves. I watch him lose his drink as he takes each step, precious liquid hitting off the glass and splashing on to the carpet. I smile.

You’re a loser, I shout after him. I sit back down at the kitchen table, thinking about what I’ll say to him next. How much more biting it will be. How it will finally make him listen.

An hour later, I hear my Dad call my name. What the fuck now? I stomp up the stairs, taking two at a time. I wish my Dad would hit me, like the alcoholics I see in movies. I wish I could have a concrete reason to hate him, some big AHA moment, that I can point to and say, This is it! Instead, I just hate him because I love him. That’s barely hate at all.

I walk into his room. The curtains are drawn and the lights are out and he’s in his underwear on top of the bed, his fat belly hiding his face. Sometimes as a kid I would rub his belly, pretending there was a baby inside. Oh, I can feel it kick!

There’s a hot, thick smell in the room. Not for the first time, I feel suffocated. What. Do. You. Want? He tells me to grab a pen and paper, he needs me to write something down. As annoyed as I am, I comply. I am still his daughter. He starts calling out words that don’t mean anything to me. 805488567 with AIB bank, to your mother. The house, you and your brother.

Anything left to a dog charity.

I look up at him, confused. Wait, what? Why are you telling me to write that?

It’s my will. I want to have a will. I don’t laugh at the absurdity of me writing his living will and testament on the back of a receipt for the weekly shop. I don’t shut him down for his over-the-top dramatics. His words are slurred, and not in a usual drunk way. He’s speaking like he’s paralysed. Spit drools down his chin. The colour of his face reminds me of my cousin Paul, at his open casket after he died. An unnatural pudgy paleness. He is drenched in his own sweat, and even though I’m on the other side of the room, I can tell it’s cold.

There’s something else happening in this room that I am unaware of. I don’t know what compels me, what undercurrent is dancing through the stiff hot air, in between me and my father, but I run over to him and hug him. I wrap my arms tightly around his belly, leaning my head on his chest. I hear his heart beat. As a kid, I’d listen to that same sound for hours, until I drifted to sleep.