Still Catching My Breath

I’m so grateful I will never again be required to attend school with throngs of jackasses and budding psychopaths. Some might try to dismiss or diminish my experience by saying it surely wasn’t that bad, or it could have been worse. Well, not every minute of every day was hell on earth, but there wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t experience terror, and no, I’m not exaggerating. Fear just isn’t strong enough. I was terrified. Especially when I went into the boys room or the locker room.

Thankfully, I wasn’t one of those kids who got beat up, so yes, it could have been worse. But that doesn’t mean the danger of assault wasn’t something I lived with all the time. I learned to keep my mouth shut. I learned to keep my distance. I successfully avoided confrontation. I was good at that. A master. But the fucking threat was real, and it was pretty much constant.

And I knew I was alone. I knew I couldn’t count on teachers, my parents or fellow students to protect me. They would have done nothing to make the environment safer. It was just accepted that kids would be cruel and mean. If a boy couldn’t take it, he was expected to man up and learn how to fight. If you were a boy, and you couldn’t protect yourself, you were considered pathetic and not worth anyone’s trouble.

Every day I heard the most unimaginably hateful things said about boys like me…faggot, cocksucker, queer. The words were said with derision and utter contempt. The hate speech usually wasn’t directed right at me, but I heard the words, and I got the message. Often dozens of times a day. No one, not a single fucking soul, said anything in defense of the homos. Not ever.

I was traumatized. I was afraid. I was right to be afraid. I was like a spy in enemy territory, and there were no safe houses. I couldn’t turn to anybody. I was alone, utterly and completely.

And when I got home, my mother who suffered from schizophrenia, had the radio on constantly because she was listening for coded messages, and she incessantly talked to invisible people. She slept on the sofa right outside my bedroom door. It was an unending stream of stress. There was no escape. It went on for years.

So pardon me if I’m on disability. Excuse me if, at age 50, I just want to stay in my house by myself most of the time and not talk to people. I’m not comfortable around people, and I’ve already tried to “get some help.” So don’t you dare tell me to get over it. I survived, damn it. Most of those who think I could have and should have managed more would not have survived.

I’m still catching my breath, and my heart is still racing, but I take comfort in knowing that I will never have to go back there, back to those years and that miserable life.