Broken People Page 3

  “That’s right Joseph, straight to hell,” my mother said as she took her hand down from her mouth.

  It was as if she was relieved that we were now killing fags, and leaving the sacred Marines alone. I looked at her, and looked back at my father. My mother walked out of the room, and my father looked at me, and raised his hands into the air, as if asking the question, “What?” Before I had a chance to even think of what I may want to offer to this conversation, he sighed again.

  “I have to pee.” I said, and I stood up, facing him. It was as if I were asking permission to leave the room.

  “Piss, son. You have to piss. Men don’t pee. See, that’s what I am talking about. You’re eighteen years old now. You are a man. Do you understand that, son? The instant you turn eighteen, you become a man. Start acting like one.”

  I was trying to get comfortable in the seat, and felt a cool breeze in my armpits. The fan in the room was blowing, as Dr. Baritz’ office was old, and the heat was always unbearable in the winter. I realized as I felt the chill that I was sweating profusely.

  Dr. Baritz entered the room, and handed me the bottle of Perrier. I thanked her, and began to take a drink. I was sweaty and cold. I felt miserable. As I tipped the bottle to my mouth, I could see that I was shaking. Maybe I was having a seizure. I always felt embarrassed when I would shake. I looked down at my pants, and I noticed my khakis were still wrinkled. A brain hemorrhage. That could cause shaking. I felt my head. It did not feel enlarged.

  “Well, have you had time to think about the questions we discussed, David?” she asked as she began to sit. The third button on her shirt was unbuttoned, and I wondered what she had been doing in the bathroom.

  “Yes ma’am, regarding the homosexuality, and telling anyone. Well, I have not told anyone yet. I have, as we said last session, never been with anyone of my own sex. That remains unchanged. I have, however, felt as if I may be able to tell a few of my girlfriends, but I am not totally comfortable doing so. Not yet.” I took another drink. I felt the fan on my wet armpits. Embarrassed, I lowered my arm.

  I continued, “It’s just, well, as we have talked in the past, ma’am. In this community, there isn’t a tremendous support system for homosexuals. I know of no one in school that is homosexual. And, other than speaking to people on the internet, I have no knowledge of any homosexuals actually existing, if you know what I mean.” My hands felt numb. I rubbed them together, wondering if my heart was working properly.

  The sound of water flowing came from the sound system in the office. It was on some form of rotation, and during the course of our meetings the sound generally changed three times. It was calming, but the more I thought of living a homosexual life, the more I felt sick. I tried to focus on the sound of water flowing, hoping to become lost in the sound. I loved listening to certain things, and found tremendous comfort in some things that others did not. Sometimes, I would take my iPod into the media room and listen to Jazz. John Coltrane. The sound of his music gave me reason to believe that there was a God. I knew that God existed, and I was quite certain that his blood flowed through Coltrane’s veins as he played his music. God’s blood. Coltrane had the ability to make me forget being homosexual, and just exist. Just be myself. I could listen, and get lost in being me. And, as the music played, nothing mattered. There were no strange stares, no feelings of guilt for secretly admiring other classmate’s clothes, no thoughts of driving my car into oncoming traffic, just soothing music. Coltrane.

  “David, did I lose you,” Dr. Baritz asked, as she tapped her lip with the pen.

  “No ma’am. I was thinking about music. And what music does and where it can take the mind. Music frees me, Doctor. Does that make sense?” I smiled as I asked her the question, thinking of Coltrane’s music.

  “Yes, David, it does. Have you had time to consider what we talked about? It’s about time to end the session.” As she finished speaking, she buttoned her shirt.

  “No ma’am” I lied. Not necessarily feeling like thinking about the day of my father and his reaction to the protestors on television, I stood from the couch, and had hopes of her ending the session. I stretched, and walked to the trash. I bent down and placed the bottle in the trash. I disliked tossing things into the trash, and preferred placing them there. It was quieter, more peaceful. I bet John Coltrane placed his trash in a receptacle. I bet he did.

  “Well, you want to think about the questions I asked, and we can discuss them in the next session?” She stood and slowly walked toward me, pen in hand.

  “Yes. I would prefer that. I feel cold. I am ready to leave.” I tried to hide my armpits. I still felt the breeze of the fan. I walked toward her, meeting her half way across the office. As always, we shook hands. She watched me as I turned to walk to the door. Reaching the door, I turned back to her, smiled and waved. She smiled.

  I walked to the parking lot to get in my car, wishing we would hug at the end of the sessions. I would really like that, a hug. Hugs were like Coltrane’s music. Hugs healed the soul. At least for a little while, but heal they did. I bet John Coltrane hugged people. I bet he did. I straightened my pants, and looked for my car. I feared that it had been stolen. I feared calling the police more, so I continued to look. I finally found it, certain that it was parked elsewhere from where I had left it. Brain hemorrhage. I was certain.

  I drove the entire way home in a trance. I did not even remember the drive. My brain often fails. I vaguely remember thinking of Paul, and how much I liked him in the dream. He sure was a fantastic friend. I always felt guilty for feeling as if he may be gay. I always told myself it wasn’t feeling as if he were gay, it was hoping. I cherished him as a friend. He was splendid. I had very few male friends, and always felt somewhat intimidated by them. Paul was different, he would allow me to just be me, and never question me. He was a true friend. I remember once he told me, “If we can’t be ourselves, why even be?”

  I always wondered if there was an underlying reason for that statement, if there was some hidden meaning. I had always ended up dismissing my thoughts, feeling as if it was merely hope. Hope that there was someone that could reassure me that I was normal. That this was okay, and that one day, one day, I could possibly find love. True love, from someone that appreciated me for being me.

  Me being me. The thought was laughable.

  Pulling into the driveway of the house, I came out of my trance. I knew that my parents weren’t home. Realizing that it was almost three o’clock in the afternoon, I regretted not stopping at “Cups”, the frozen yogurt place. I loved that place. The yogurt was so good. And the toppings; almonds and peanut butter cups. Sometimes, on special occasions, I would get red gummie bears. I loved almonds. My mouth watered as I pulled into the garage and parked.

  Getting out of the car, I considered getting back into the car and going to Cups for a yogurt. Maybe Michelle and her friends would be there. She was always there on Saturday afternoons. She was so nice, so considerate, and so off limits. She was Egyptian. I often wondered if she knew I was gay. She seemed so intelligent, street-wise, and such a bitch to most that approached her. I respected her for having the guts to be an individual. She wore combat boots to school every day, and took shit from no one. Seeing her with her friends always made me comfortable. It was the way she looked at me. Her eyes were inviting. The eyes never lie.

  As I stepped up the step from the garage into the house, I stumbled. I realized that I was tired, and that a nap was my best option. As I turned the handle from the mud room door to enter the house, I thought of my father.

  God hates fags.

  Chapter 3

  I’m worried about the Beaver

  FAT KID. Driving home from the coffee shop, I began to think about Shellie. She had continued emailing me regarding having thoughts of suicide. She had reached a point that the pain of living life, to her, was unbearable. Her resources for coping with her pain had been exceeded by the pain itself. I had not heard from her in a few days, and was considerin
g emailing her to see how she was doing. Feeling. Thinking.

  Threats of suicide were something I did not take lightly. In fact, I lost a girlfriend to suicide. I had gone to her house to see her one day. Her father answered the door, handed me a poem, and shut the door. I never recovered from that loss. I probably never will. Survivors of suicide are often consumed with guilt for not being able to prevent the suicide, and I was no exception.

  “She left this for you,” her father said, handing me a folded sheet of paper.

  “Where is she,” I asked.

  “She’s gone. Suicide. While you were away,” he said. And he shut the door.

  Suicide is tough to digest, and all of those exposed are affected. I didn’t want anyone to ever feel the pain and loss that I felt. Dealing with natural death is difficult, but eventually, we all recover. Suicide passes the pain from the victim to the survivors, and that pain, to the survivors, lasts a lifetime. A lifetime of trying to make sense of something that never will.

  A recent series of problems with Shellie’s family and her boyfriend had prompted her initial email to me. She had felt alone and as if she did not know where her life was headed. Not that any sixteen year old knows where her life is headed, but she was worried. Typically when I assisted people over the internet, I requested a personal photo shortly after the initial correspondence. I was surprised at what her photo depicted. I deduced the photo was taken in the winter, as the trees were without leaves, and the people posing with her were wearing sweaters. She appeared to be a hundred pounds at best. She wouldn’t give me her weight, but that was my educated guess. She said she was five foot seven, and for sixteen years old, she was tall. She had a dark complexion, and smooth skin. She was, or would certainly be, gorgeous. The people posing with her were school mates, and they truly looked worried. My initial surprise came from the worry. The worry on the faces of the two people in the picture, standing next to the otherwise beautiful waif, was the same. It appeared to be genuine and not some form of theatrical pose. They were sending a message.

  Help. This. Girl.

  Few people were ever allowed to know the extent of my ability, but since I was a child, I had an ability to look at someone, and see inside of them. See who they were. Not what they are, but who. The sum of their character defects, character traits, strengths, and weaknesses all rolled up into what appeared to be, to the layman, a normal human being.

  Define normal.

  I wasn’t always capable of performing the “trick” as many called it, with just anyone. Some people I could “read“, and yet others I could not. It was not uncommon for me to mentally critique people as they walked into or through a restaurant or as they walked into the coffee shop. This gift allowed me to categorize people as I met them, and often prevented me from allowing myself to meet someone that wasn’t necessarily appealing to me.

  I allowed few people into my world, and tried to maintain that posture. I had no part-time friends, only full-time friends, as I called them. If someone stopped talking to me, communicating with me, or caring about me, I deleted them from my address book entirely. It wasn’t uncommon for me to receive a rambling text message from an unidentified number that included two or three well phrased paragraphs, to only have me respond, “Who the fuck are you” I always made a big issue, right then and there, about them being excluded from my life. They knew the rules coming in. If they couldn’t live up to their end of the bargain, they were out. Kaput. Gone. Sayonara. Bye. “Yes, this is Fat Kid, and you are excluded from my life. You aren’t allowed to speak to me any longer. You made this decision, I didn’t. Good bye. Do not text me or call again….”

  Shellie had not, for fear of exposure, told me where she lived, but it was obvious that the location had definite seasons. Spring. Summer. Fall. Winter. Her physical location was not important, but I always wondered. I needed details in order for things to make sense in my head. The more details, the better I felt. I had learned little about her, but what I had learned was pretty textbook stuff. Typical. Same story, different girl. She suffered from bulimia, and often binged, eating way too much food. Guilt would follow the eating, and purging herself of the food would follow almost immediately afterwards. She had self-esteem issues, and viewed herself as fat, regardless of her weight. As with many people who suffer from bulimia, she had other things she obsessed about. Shopping and exercise to name a few. Additionally, she craved attention, and didn’t feel that she received any at home. Her parents were an anesthesiologist mother and an architect father, neither of which had time to include her in their lives. Their feeling of necessity to obtain the largest possible savings account, all the while claiming they were ‘broke’, prevented them from including themselves in her simple life of attending high school.

  Work trumps children. Welcome to 2013.

  I often found myself wishing we were in the fifties again. Leave it to Beaver. June and Ward would pay attention to their children’s needs and necessities. The Beav’ wouldn’t need to ask his father to attend a school function; Ward would be there for certain. And upon completion, rest assured June would have a pie for the boys, including Eddie Haskell. Eddie fucking Haskell. How many of today’s parents, I wondered, would allow an Eddie Haskell to even enter the premises of their home? Parents today seemed to be far more concerned with who their children befriended and were far less concerned with being friendly with their own children.

  “Ward, I am worried about the Beaver….”

  I suspected, and I am certain rightfully so, that no one ever said, “Dear, I am worried about Shellie.”

  She, at sixteen, was in a relationship with an eighteen year old. This, on the surface, didn’t seem strange. She had indicated there was some concern of him possibly taking advantage of her, and his distribution of nude photos of her to classmates. Additionally, there was concern with her parents regarding the relationship, and the nude photos. Finally, she had begun to question her boyfriend’s motive or motives.

  The pattern develops. Codependence.

  With my blog, I had learned through experience that the typical codependent woman started dating early. Shellie, considering all things, clearly fell well within the limits of what would be the makings of a codependent woman. Frequently, they dated older and often abusive male partners. Men that may resemble their father. Seeking recognition, praise, and love from a partner, because in my opinion, they couldn’t get it at home. Codependent women were willing to sacrifice themselves, as well as their health, for the relationship. Poor treatment and abuse, at some level, were a guarantee with codependent relationships. Shellie, starting this early, was typical of every girl in America these days - at least the ones that were neglected by their parents. As their parents were earning their next million, their daughter was out performing orally for an eighteen year old “bad boy” in the parking lot of the local 7-Eleven. For one sentence of praise, the typical fifteen year old codependent girl would do whatever her abusive partner required. The lack of self-esteem and codependency were almost always hand-in-hand. So as mother and father earned another day’s wages, working late and nonstop, their daughters formed lines in the parking lots, filling the passenger seats of their abusive boyfriends’ car, performing orally in hope of a moment’s praise.

  Maybe tonight he will tell me that I did a great job, that he’s proud of me. That I’m a good girl. That I make him happy. That he loves me. I hope he doesn’t say it feels good again. I know it feels good. I want him to be pleased. I want him to stay. I want him to hold me tonight when we are finished, and tell me how important I am to him. Please don’t let him tell me “that felt good” again. Maybe if I swallow he will be pleased. I’m going to swallow. He will surely say he is proud of me if I swallow…..I think next week, I will tell him that I want to call him Daddy when we are doing this. I wish he would bring it up. I wonder if we could just call it role play? Surely he will agree to that. I just hate to bring it up. What if he gets mad and leaves me. Okay, I will not bring it up. That wa
s a bad idea. Bad. Bad idea. I love him so much.

  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.

  God…

  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.

  Amen.

  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.