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Alyssa Lee Clear

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The Death of Betty Williams, Part II

September 20, 2018

March 20, 1961
I want everyone to know that what I’m about to do in no way implicates anyone else. I say this to make sure that no blame falls on anyone other than myself.
I have depressing problems that concern, for the most part, myself. I’m waging a war within myself, a war to find the true me and I fear that I am losing the battle. So rather than admit defeat I’m going to beat a quick retreat into the no man’s land of death. As I have only the will and not the fortitude necessary, a friend of mine, seeing how great is my torment, has graciously consented to look after the details.
His name is Mack Herring and I pray that he will not have to suffer for what he is doing for my sake. I take upon myself all blame, for there it lies, on me alone!
Betty Williams

 

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When I first read this note, I swore it was something I had written. Putting pen to paper and replicating it, I could feel the pain and exhaustion that Betty must have felt. Obviously, I’m not shy about my struggles with mental illness, and I’m pretty candid when I talk about sensitive subjects, including suicide. Still ... this note hit me pretty hard. Betty was just 17 when she wrote this, and some classmates remarked that she wrote it in a joking manner, characteristic of her melodramatic personality. Then again, everyone seemed to interpret all of Betty’s suicidal claims as jokes.

The sophisticated language Betty uses is indicative of someone well beyond her years, and her clarity and accuracy in describing her mental turmoil is undeniably striking, but realistic to anyone accustomed to the torment of depression. Betty grew up in the 50’s in a small, conservative town in Texas. She is said to have taken issue with segregation, with the arbitrary rules placed on women and girls, and with the idea of blindly following the status quo. If Betty was already struggling mentally, this environment was a decidedly terrible one to bring her any peace. Compounding all of this, Betty was known for her dramatic nature and her desire to be the center of attention, traits that extended to her sexuality as well. She was known for being unabashedly forward with the boys at her high school, and she had no qualms with sneaking out to meet them in the backseats of cars after they’d taken their girlfriends home to meet curfew.

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Her actions may have gotten her the attention she desired temporarily, but it brought on a wave of negative attention as well. She brushed off the talk of a bad reputation, but those close to her knew it still stung. Then, Betty, who had been a stellar drama student throughout her years in high school, was demoted to stage manager her senior year after a new teacher took over. She had ambitions of going to college and staring on Broadway, but her depressingly realistic view of the world curbed any excitement she may have had for the future — her working class parents could never pay college tuition, especially for an acting school out of state, and her part time job wasn’t enough to cover expenses either. She seemed doomed to stay in Odessa, Texas forever, surrounded by people who didn’t really understand her and often disliked her. 

It’s not surprising to me that Betty would have wanted to commit suicide. Her cousin, author Shelton Williams, and her close friends from high school cite her melodramatic nature and her infatuation with her ex-boyfriend as reasons for her actions. They believed her antics were all in jest, and a ploy to win back the boy she saw as the love of her life: Mack Herring. Sure, Betty’s suicide attempts appeared as cries for attention — taking four aspirin (what I would consider a typical dose,) climbing onto the stage rafters and telling people she just couldn’t bring herself to jump. But cries for attention and the desire to die aren’t mutually exclusive. I don’t doubt Betty may have been looking for someone to “save” her, but to me, all of her actions are in line with someone who is truly, profoundly struggling.

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We all react to our struggles differently, but I relate to Betty wholeheartedly. I’ve done so many questionable things in my life that I regret because I didn’t know how to cope with the intensity of my feelings. It’s embarrassing to admit that you’d act out as plea for attention — those are the actions of a child. But when you’re deeply depressed, it can be difficult to navigate the darkest recesses of your brain. You’re essentially in a state where your thoughts are at war with one another, and you’re battling with your brain for sanity. This is why Betty’s war analogies are so accurate, and for me, point to a person who is struggling. It’s not a feeling you often hear described that way unless the person has actually felt it — it’s often the easiest way to explain the chaos that your mind has become.

Obviously there is a melodramatic flair to the way Betty speaks and acts, but that doesn’t negate her suffering. And if I’m being honest, this is where I connect with Betty the most. I love to be outlandish and extravagant, I love to shock people, and I often joke about my own mental health and my desire to commit suicide. I’m stable enough to know not to go through with it, but that doesn’t stop those feelings from creeping up on me from time to time. Joking can be a coping mechanism for a lot of people — it doesn’t mean they aren’t hurt, but rather that they must laugh to keep from crying. To “push through” when you don’t know what else to do.

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You can allow your loved ones to make morbid jokes, and in fact, they may feel more comfortable sharing their innermost terrible thoughts with you if they’re anything like me. But sometimes, when things start to get a little weirder than usual, or you notice a subtle shift in the way they’ve been acting, or maybe you just haven’t checked in in awhile — that’s when you have to check. Most of us who have dealt with depression for sometime are pretty good at managing suicidal tendencies, but they can still sneak up on you, and it never hurts to check in. Have an honest conversation. Put the joking aside if necessary, and see where they’re at mentally. Can you help? Does something need to change? Maybe everything’s fine, and that’s great! But the morbid jokes are often placeholders to cope with real feelings, so don’t write everything off as silliness and assume your friend is fine. And if they’re like Betty, and ask you to pull the trigger for them, maybe just … don’t do that. Find them help, talk with them, get some Oreos and watch Forensic Files, whatever, almost anything is a better option.

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← Ada LeBoeuf, Sensationalism, & the Rise of True Crime as a GenreThe Death of Betty Williams, Part I →

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Tree climbing in heels, Christmas edition ❤️🎄👠 . . . . . #alwaysinheels #nevergrowup #heelsforever #climbingtrees #treeclimber #treehugger #fromthe60s #60sstyle #vintagestyle #santastyle #vintagefashion #vintagewardrobe #thrifted #thriftedwardrobe #thriftedstyle
It was our entire life, going up in flames. Cork, silently suffering while I frantically searched for help, help that would never come, help that was never there. That never existed. I’d been watching him burn alive for years now, screaming at
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I realized — this was the physical manifestation of the pain I’d been watching him suffer through all these years.
I realized — this was the physical manifestation of the pain I’d been watching him suffer through all these years.
I never did admit this back then, but ... there was a moment ... as I became transfixed on that car, engulfed in flames, wrapped in the the still of night and surrounded by lemon groves — those waxy leaves catching the light of the fire and ref
I never did admit this back then, but ... there was a moment ... as I became transfixed on that car, engulfed in flames, wrapped in the the still of night and surrounded by lemon groves — those waxy leaves catching the light of the fire and reflecting it back into the darkness. A futile attempt at illuminating something so much more vast and encompassing then they could ever be. After the shattering of glass, the frantic scrambling through the bushes, the screams into the nothingness surrounding me, there was only silence. I was the only one making noise. That stagnant night air had wrapped itself around the car like a blanket, like the blanket wrapped around Cork, who, the entire time, had been silently burning alive, too sedated to move, too sedated to feel, too sedated to scream.
Cork was beautiful. He was brilliant. He was kind and sweet and loving. He sent me a dozen and a half roses before we even had our first date — ‘I hope you’ll find these pretty, even if you won’t join me for dinner this weeken
Cork was beautiful. He was brilliant. He was kind and sweet and loving. He sent me a dozen and a half roses before we even had our first date — ‘I hope you’ll find these pretty, even if you won’t join me for dinner this weekend, but I do hope you will.’* I couldn’t have loved the man more. But he never could see it — not the love and admiration I harbored for him or all the wonderful qualities in himself that made me love and admire him. He saw all his faults and shortcomings. He saw my overspending and blamed himself for not making enough money. I loved Cork so much, but none of that love could ever make him love himself. Do you know how difficult that is? To see someone you love and cherish just ... falling apart ... right in front of you. *Fabricated: Lucille’s father recalled the note Cork sent to Lucille & it’s general sentiments, but the exact wording isn’t documented.
Maybe I wanted too much. I wanted the life that society says means “I made it,” whatever “it” is. The beautiful husband, the beautiful children, the beautiful house and beautiful things to fill it with. I drove us into debt, I
Maybe I wanted too much. I wanted the life that society says means “I made it,” whatever “it” is. The beautiful husband, the beautiful children, the beautiful house and beautiful things to fill it with. I drove us into debt, I can’t deny that. There was just ... always something more. A dress that made me feel beautiful, a home that felt special, another man that looked at me like I meant something. That’s always been my downfall, I guess. Nothing is ever enough. I want it so desperately until I have it. Then I don’t know what to do with it. I convince myself that this time it’ll be different, this time it’ll satisfy me, this time I can stop looking. Just this once. But then I have it, and I’m still empty, and something else comes along and catches my eye and I start the longing process all over again.
I can’t say I was ever really a good mother. To be honest, I’m not even sure I can say I’m a good person, but that’s so hard to define, isn’t it? Who decides what makes a person fit into the parameters of “good&rdq
I can’t say I was ever really a good mother. To be honest, I’m not even sure I can say I’m a good person, but that’s so hard to define, isn’t it? Who decides what makes a person fit into the parameters of “good” or “bad?” A court decided I was bad, as did a prosecutor, a couple detectives. But you take the fragments of a terrible accident, and the fragments of an imperfect life, an imperfect marriage, an imperfect person, you toss them into a binder and you read the worst parts of it all. Anyone can seem terrible when you only look at their flaws, can’t they?
Here’s a hastily-made hyper dramatic “trailer”/bts for my upcoming story, based on the life & trial of Lucille Miller. Look out for it after the weekend! 😘 In the meantime, a little background on the premise of Lucille’s story & Arsenous Apple Pie in general: Now’s as good a time as any to address this. These stories, while rooted in true crimes, are told from a perspective I couldn’t possibly understand. I pull from films, from interviews and articles, from observations and life experiences, and I try to create stories that do more than describe a crime. The crimes become a lens through which we view human experiences, taking the most severe actions & emotions present in humanity, exploring the deepest and darkest aspects of our minds, and ruminating on the things that push us to that place. That being said, I don’t always believe in the guilt of the convicted women I portray — something I try to make clear when appropriate. Nonetheless, they’ve been pushed to an extreme place, and are facing tragedy, demons, or a cruel court of public opinion. I believe there is always a great deal to learn from researching these cases, especially when you attempt to mentally put yourself in that position. In the past, I’ve told stories from the point of view of someone suffering with depression or some form of mental illness, as it’s a perspective I’m acutely familiar with. With Lucille, I decided to flip it, & show a person deeply in love with and hopelessly trying to save a husband suffering from depression. Much has been written about Lucille Miller, including “Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream,” a highly-regarded essay by the great Joan Didion & “A Mother’s Crime,” a touching piece for the Los Angeles Times by Lucille’s own daughter, Debra Miller. Many people harbor opinions on Lucille’s crime, her character, and her life. This was true when it all went down in the 60’s, and remains true to this day. For better or worse, this is not one you’ll have read before. 💋, Miss Arsenous Apple Pie
Epilogue: And that, my loves, is how I came to be remembered as the first woman hung by the state of Louisiana. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this too was inaccurate. I was the first white woman to be hanged by the state, but certainly not the first woma
Epilogue: And that, my loves, is how I came to be remembered as the first woman hung by the state of Louisiana. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this too was inaccurate. I was the first white woman to be hanged by the state, but certainly not the first woman. But again, facts be damned, right? History wants what it wants, and all it really wants is a good story. So many lives, reduced to nothing but grocery store gossip and dinner party conversation starters. In a rare instance where someone seemed to realize the gruesome nature of a trial becoming mere entertainment for the bored masses, Arthur Brisbane of the San Francisco Examiner asked, "Does a great State deserve to have on its records the first hanging of a white woman, or a black woman, either?" It all depends on who you ask, Arthur, it all depends on who you ask.
Of course this left me as the central figure in all this nonsense. The adulterous, vain, manipulative "siren," who lured all of these men to their doom. Knowing full well they were cementing my death sentence, reporters made themselves feel
Of course this left me as the central figure in all this nonsense. The adulterous, vain, manipulative "siren," who lured all of these men to their doom. Knowing full well they were cementing my death sentence, reporters made themselves feel better by insisting I loved their attention. Stoic, uninterested, and defiant in court, I "giggled" for the press and "entertained" in my jail cell. They truly seemed to have convinced themselves that not only did I enjoy the attention, but that they were somehow doing me a favor by making me into a celebrity. Or perhaps they just saw this as the pinnacle of their careers and weren't concerned with mere fatal casualties. Facts be damned, they wanted a good story, and a good story needs a good ending. A good ending, it seems, never does include a living antagonist.

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