Parenting
By Sam Thompson
Updated: Aug. 8, 2016
Originally Published: June 18, 2015
The harsh reality is this: On July 8, 1980, my father, Mark Thompson, made the irreversible decision to end his life. I was just 13 years old, and my sister was 9. He was a month shy of turning 37. My father’s life came to a tragic close in a dilapidated trailer in Conroe, Texas—his temporary residence after my mother finally chose to leave him due to his anger, deceit, and infidelity. He didn’t leave behind a traditional farewell note. Instead, he called my mom around 9:30 that night, sounding intoxicated. After years of separation, she was used to these phone calls and was about to hang up when he uttered a chilling phrase: “I want you to remember this sound for the rest of your life.” Moments later, a loud bang echoed through the line. My mother, raised on a farm, recognized the sound of a gunshot. In the background, the haunting melody of a George Jones song, “He Stopped Loving Her Today,” played softly, like a cruel soundtrack to the moment.
The Impact of Loss
My first reaction upon learning about my father’s death was to punch a hole in my bedroom door. I was consumed with anger, but even more, I felt an overwhelming weight of guilt. The separation of my parents had occurred just before summer vacation, and the collapse of our family felt like a bomb had gone off. Dad had moved into that shabby trailer, while my mother, sister, and I remained in the rundown house. I tried to visit him when I could, but his night shift at the carbon black plant made that difficult.
The Fourth of July weekend approached, a traditional time spent at my aunt’s ranch. I decided to stay with my dad, sensing his downward spiral as he drank more heavily and returned to old habits. I thought my presence would show him I still cared. But when I expressed this to him, he informed me he’d be working through the holiday and that I should join my family at the ranch. Reluctantly, I went with my mother and sister, and just four days later, he took his life.
Navigating Grief at School
1980 was a year marked by significant events, but in my small Texas town, the most scandalous news was my father’s suicide. When I stepped off the bus on my first day of eighth grade, I was met not with excitement but with a wave of pity and avoidance. I had once been the class clown, but now my peers looked at me as if I were radioactive. To maintain some semblance of normalcy, I resorted to humor, masking the heavy burden of guilt I carried—believing that if I had only insisted on staying with him, he might still be alive.
For years, I kept this belief to myself, even from my then-wife, convinced that my father’s decision was somehow my fault.
A New Perspective at 27
By the time I reached 27, I had made a vow to myself: I would not become like my father. He was a hot-tempered, hard-drinking man who abandoned his family. I thought I’d escaped that fate, but I found myself repeating his patterns in relationships, filled with intensity followed by withdrawal. I had sworn off kids and marriage—until I met someone who changed my mind.
Therapy became a game changer for me. I realized I had transformed my guilt into deep-seated anger over my father’s abandonment. I began to understand that my relationships were doomed because I expected everyone to leave me.
After a decade of marriage, we finally broached the topic of having children. I learned to enjoy drinking without needing it, but I still stumbled and made mistakes, including infidelity. Sometimes, I wondered if I was destined to repeat my father’s mistakes.
Becoming a Father at 36
The birth of my daughter, whom I affectionately call “Boo,” came when I was the same age as my father when he left us. At that moment, something inside me shifted. I realized my life was no longer just about me. I held her in my arms, and a profound understanding washed over me: I would never abandon her. I knew I would stumble in many ways, but I would never leave her to navigate life without me.
It was through Boo that I found the capacity to forgive my father. As I sought her forgiveness for the mistakes I would inevitably make, I also recognized the importance of being present in her life. My daughter has a different experience than I did; her mother and I are amicable and actively involved in her life.
Understanding the Fallout
The impact of my father’s death continues to linger. After extensive research, I concluded that mental illness likely plagued him, a topic rarely discussed in 1980s Texas. Recently, I learned that I, too, have a major depressive disorder. This realization helped me understand that my father’s suicide wasn’t a “choice” but rather a tragic consequence of mental anguish.
I will never fully understand why my father took his life, but I do know that I am here for Boo—now and always. Though he was my past, I strive to be the father she deserves.