Archive for family values

Broken People, by Scott Hildreth is working…..

Posted in ALCOHOLISM, BULIMIA, CODEPENDENCY, depression, divorce, PTSD, suicidal teens, SUICIDE, suicide book, suicide novel, suicide prevention, SURVIVOR, TEEN, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 9, 2013 by scottdhildreth

Broken People, the novel by Scott Hildreth is working…..

A lady in Alabama emailed me (I placed my email address in the introduction page of my book). She said on Fourth of July, her friend committed suicide. She read the book in one day, the 7th.
Her review is below. Wow.
“I will admit the book starts a tadbit slow. But, once the characters are developed and the dots start connecting, it is a page turner. I was eager to see where each character was going to go with the theme of the book. I can definately tell the writer put his heart and soul into this book, and that is refreshing. To not just put something out for a paycheck, but put something out that they are passionate about. It is rare to see that in a book. I am typically a romance novel reader, so I am used to a bit more description about the characters in the books, but that I feel does not detract from the meaning in the book and it’s purpose. I recently dealt with the suicide of a friend so this book resonated with me deeply. This is a very clean written book that would be a wonderful book to introduce into school curriculums at the pubescent age, it may save lives. That is if schools would stop making suicide a taboo thing and introduce it as a chapter in the development of children. Move with the times people. This book is a MUST read, not for its for art thou shakespearian intellect, but for it’s raw emotions and real people. Thanks Scott, STAY HUMAN. ”  – interestingrl review on
Also, someone sent me the following picture, from “Whisper”. I guess it’s a Tumblr like site.
Lastly, a cut and paste from the book. An Egyptian girl has just received a brand new BMW for her birthday. She depressed, suicidal, and disgusted with her parents.
Placing my phone back into my purse, I turned, looking at my parents. My father reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys, dangling them from his fingers, as if he were going to drop them in the driveway.
“Do you like?” he asked. He began, with my mother and sister, to walk in my direction.
“Here, take the keys. It is yours Britney,” he continued.
“It’s white. And it’s a BMW. I wanted a Mercedes, father.” I explained as I walked toward them.
“You do not appreciate the gift?” he asked.
“Father, I appreciate the gift, yes. Thank you.” I wiped my eyes and tried to smile.
As he handed me the keys, he held his arms out, opening them wide to give me a hug. Reluctantly, I gave him a hug. As I did, I began to softly cry. My father was so inconsiderate, and probably made me cry more than anyone else I know. Probably more than everyone else combined. He just didn’t understand. Being sixteen and being a girl was so impossible. Getting someone to love you is so impossible. Being happy is so impossible. Hugging him made me want to just die.
Stepping back, I took the keys from his hand, and dropped them into my purse. “Can we go now?” I pleaded.
“Do you wish to drive?” my father asked.
The night before, I had been up until 4:00 am, updating my Twitter, Facebook, posting photos on Instagram, Snap Chat, and Tumblr, and updating videos on Vine and YouTube. “No, father, I am tired, and just care to ride.” I stated, attempting to wipe my eyes free of any tears.
“Are you pleased?” he asked, smiling. He continued to squint through his retarded glasses.
Frustrated, ready to leave, and tired, I lied. “Yes, father, I am pleased.”
Overall, I was pleased about the gift. I stood and stared at it, disappointed at what it was. My sister, mother, and father started walking to the garage, all talking, looking at the car. I stood and stared at it, thinking to myself. How could they actually expect me to make any form of progress in finding someone to love me, if I were to be seen driving this car every day. It was almost as if it were some form of punishment. Like a scar on my face that would prevent someone from actually seeing me for who I am. They would see the car and just say “no” before they got a chance to actually see who I was. People could be so shallow. So inconsiderate. So fake. Fake people were so prevalent in my school. All I want out of life is for someone to love me truly for who I am. How could they expect that to ever happen if I was forced to drive the white BMW?
Some of the girls in school did drive cars that were similar to the white BMW, but they are prettier than I am. They are always pretty. They wear makeup. They don’t have as nice of a collection of clothes as I do, and they don’t have my sense of fashion, but they are pretty. I am pretty, but it takes time. I have to wear makeup, which my father prohibits, have my hair fixed, and be dressed properly. If I have enough time, I can be almost as pretty as the prettiest girls in my school, but not quite. I needed this car to be the thing that put me over the top of the other girls. Something that put me in a category all by myself. Something that defined who I was.
READ THIS BOOK. you will see what the few that have read it are talking about.

Scott Hildreth, author, Broken People


FEELING GUILTY, SUICIDE, RACISM, and FALLING IN LOVE (lifted pages and quotes from Broken People, by Scott Hildreth)

Posted in ALCOHOLISM, BULIMIA, PTSD, SUICIDE, SURVIVOR, TEEN, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on July 9, 2013 by scottdhildreth


This book is filled with satire, seriousness, and always has a story to tell.

Please take time to read it, you’ll be changed forever.

From a FAT KID Chapter…

And, as the mother completes one more scheduled late night careful administration of anesthesia, their daughter swallows in a Seven Eleven parking lot. The preteen cries for help went unanswered. Teenagers, eventually, turn into adults. Adults get married, have children, and expose their children to the abusive behaviors of a codependent relationship. And the cycle continues. Shellie would be no exception. But, it was the suicide threat that concerned me. As I drove, I wondered what was behind the suicide. There is always a reason, something, an event that takes them over the edge, making the pain unbearable. Sometimes it may be a combination of items that the person just can’t comprehend living with, but it’s always one thing that takes them over the edge. It’s not that they actually want to die. Generally, they just want the pain to stop.


Grant me the serenity,

To accept the things I cannot change;

The courage to change the things I can;

And the wisdom to know the difference.


Why could people not just apply this prayer to everyday living? Maybe, to all things that life offered them? I often wondered. For me, it was second nature. Still thinking about what may have taken Shellie over the edge, I drummed my fingers on the gear shift to the music. It seemed as though my hands were always busy doing something, and I rarely sat still. Just as I was finishing the current song on the play list, I looked up at the road. When I did, I noticed the brake lights of the car in front of me, but I forgot to react. I watched, in horrific slow motion, as the front of my BMW hit the rear of the twenty five year old Ford Taurus.

As I impacted the car, and pushed it about five feet forward, I did not think about damaging the Taurus. I didn’t wonder if anyone was hurt, or what may or may not have happened. I wondered what my current wreck count was. Fifteen? Thirty? Seventy? I had, over the course of the last year or so, rear ended at least five people. Each time, I needed a new hood, the front bumper repainted, and new grilles. In past years, I typically had a wreck about twice a year. Each time, I would rear end someone.

Disappointed, I got out of the car, not even paying attention to the car in front of me. I turned and looked at the front of the BMW, and as I suspected, it needed the standard repair. Hood, grilles, and bumper repaint. This was my third e46 platform BMW M3. I had driven this particular series of car for ten years, and it had become a trademark of mine. All I did was change colors. I vowed to never have anything else.

As I turned to the car that I had hit, and then focused my eyes on the fifty something year old woman that had exited from the Taurus. She got out, turned to me, and said, “What in the world were you doing? I can tell you what you weren’t doing, and that’s paying attention to driving. I watched you for the last three miles. Are you just drunk?” Her voice sounded like it was created by a rubber band that was stretched too tight, and left in the California sun for a summer.

She was dressed like a bum, and it appeared that her last few dollars were spent on her cigarettes, one of which hung from her right hand. She stunk like a tobacco bonfire, and I was ready for her to vanish. Her hair didn’t look like it had been washed for quite some time. Nice look, lady. Dreadlocks on a fifty year old white woman. Well, if she fell asleep smoking, at least her hair wouldn’t immediately go up in flames. Or would it? I stood and wondered if the grease in the dreadlocks would be an accelerant or a deterrent.

“Ma’am, I am sorry for the damage to your car. Maybe we should pull over and discuss matters,” I looked at her hair with disgust, but offered a smile. I suspect I looked like a liar.

“I have called the police,” she said. “That’s what I was doing while you were looking at your car.” She blew smoke from her grotesquely tan nose as she spoke. Her lips were wrinkled and covered in lines.

“Police?” I uttered. “Why did you call the fucking police? This is something we can settle right here and now. I do not want to wait for the police.”

“Well, when you are involved in a wreck, you call the police. It is required” she said, taking another unnecessary pull from what appeared to be a cigarette butt.

Standing in front of her, I made eye contact. With my hands in my pockets, I tried to convince her, “It is not required, it is recommended,” I lied. “We can settle this right here and now, without the police, and go about our way, and everyone’s happy.” She started to interrupt, but I continued, and added a little embellishment, “You decide what the damage repairs to your car are worth, and I hand you cash. It’s that simple. You decide, plain and simple. I haven’t had my insulin shot this morning, and I need to get home as soon as possible. Truth be known, I am sure that’s why I was daydreaming. What do you think?”

Puzzled, she looked at me and spoke, “Let me get this straight, I give you an amount, and you pay me caaaaaaaash?” The word ‘cash’ lasted a lifetime. I waited, as she attempted to finish her sentence, for the rubber band in her throat to snap.

“Yes ma’am, cash,” Pointing to the side of the road, I continued. “But we either need to settle this, or move to the side of the road. We are going to get hit. Again.” I was trying to encourage her to make a decision so I could leave before the police arrived.

People had gathered, and were watching the show, asking to make sure we were not injured. She looked at the rear of her car, looked at the sides, and placed her hand on her chin. Turning to face me, she made her offer.

“Two hundred dollars.” She raised one eyebrow, and tossed the butt in the street, stepping on it with her toe.