Ten Year Celebration of Chances and Changes!
While many people in this nation use this time of year to celebrate their own versions of holidays religiously based or not. I use this time of year and even the day of Christmas as a celebration of life; a celebration of chances and changes.
This year is the tenth anniversary of this event in my life.
As many of you know, there was a time in my life when I had made the decision to end it. It was December 2008 and a few days before Christmas when situations in my life came to an unbearable point. My job was at a stand-still, my family was making their unacceptance abundantly clear, the person in my life at that time was distancing himself in a way that I wasn't clear why or what was going on, people were beginning to see me as a disease rather than someone they had known previously and gay wasn't part of who I am, rather something disgusting that I chose to be part of. By this time I had been cutting myself but hiding it from everyone. Don't get me wrong though, there were a few good times through the months and weeks leading up to this, but the difficulties, rejection, and false acceptance continued to build, even through the cutting. When I say false acceptance I mean people faking their acceptance while pushing their own agendas and messages of "changing".
I came home from a rough day at work, and this combined with everything going on in life I felt like my world was caving in, falling on my shoulders. My emotions were nothing but oppression, unquenchable desire for acceptance, love, and understanding; agonizing hopelessness, and utter sadness. I had no one to talk to, very few friends outside of people in the church circle who wouldn't listen with a helpful heart. No avenue to be who I am, express my loves, likes, desires, dreams, hopes, pet peeves, or anything about me that made me, me.
While in my room that evening, crying into my pillow waiting to hear back from people I had hoped would be there for me - I broke. I had reached a point where I no longer desired to breathe. I no longer wanted to feel. All I had felt for months was conditional "love", conditional friendship, conditional happiness, all of these conditional terms turned in to true pain. I felt this pain in the deepest insides of me. I felt pain in my heart, my gut, my mind, my emotions, my body; I felt pain everywhere. I decided it was time to stop feeling and that I wasn't needed or wanted for who I truly am. Sure, I was wanted for someone who can play instruments in church. I was wanted as a son who could write music, fly planes and the desire to do it for a living; someone who could do anything he wanted as long as he set his desire to do it. I could make my family laugh by pretending an empty milk carton weighed hundreds of pounds, but would it have been funny to them if they knew that I was gay? Would they let me play in church, and express my musical artistry in church if I was openly gay? Would they have truly loved me regardless of who I loved if they knew I was gay? The answer to all of those questions was no. Therefore, my answer to life was no.
I began to text people goodbye. I had always heard when someone decided to end their lives, that their friends and loved ones always said: "They didn't even say goodbye." I began texting people that I knew didn't have my address so they couldn't call for help. My plan was to say goodbye to the people that didn't know where I lived, and get those out of the way, then when I got to a point that I couldn't be able to be saved I would text those others that did have my address, with the exception of my parents because they were in the same house. I got through the first round of texts and through the process I was about to start texting those of my friends and contacts that did know where I lived when I heard a knock at my door. My door was locked, and it was my dad. I just spoke through the door from my bed asking "What?". My dad said, "There are some gentleman here that want to talk to you." I had no idea what that meant, or who my dad was talking about. I couldn't think of anything some "gentlemen" would need to talk to me about. I tried to think of something pertaining to work, church, or friends and had no idea what this was about. I covered up what I had done so far with long sleeves, threw the materials under my bed and answered the door. In black uniforms, carrying a look I hadn't seen on anyone's face before were two police officers. They were on a mission, but not a mission of intensity like you would think them to be. They weren't preparing to run after a thief, or be ready for a high-speed chase. They were on a mission to save the life of someone who was broken. They knew that whoever they were sent out for would be a broken shell of a person. They knew that the only tool they needed for this call was unconditional compassion. This was visible in their face, body language, demeanor, and the way the addressed my parents and me. They requested I come downstairs then kept me separate from my parents. A female officer pulled me aside and said they had received a report that I was going to be harming myself, and that my parents didn't know why they were there. At first, I didn't know what to say or tell them because I wasn't sure who cared or who to trust. She asked again if I had plans to harm myself. I told her I had been going through a lot and was cutting. I didn't tell them I was in the process of completely ending everything. She then pulled me a little bit further away from my parents while the two male officers occupied and were speaking with them. The female officer then let me know, "We received a report that you had plans to commit suicide. Is this true?" I told her "Yes, that was what I was doing in my room when you guys showed up." She asked me what has been going on that would drive me to this point. I briefly explained that I was just done with everything going on in my life. I told her I was gay and that I'm not accepted by anyone in the close circle of family and church. I have no vehicle or way to meet people or make friends that aren't in the church circle other than work, and I was tired of feeling, and was drained beyond a point no more could be drained from me. She asked, "If we were to leave you here alone with your parents, would you continue with your plan?" I told her "Yes I would." She then offered to call an ambulance that could take me to a hospital and I could speak to someone. My initial reaction to this offer was no. All I could think of was the fact that my parents would know what's going on. I had struggled so much with any acceptance of who I was from my parents that this would be a full admittance to them that I am gay, and the reason I am filled with pain was in large part because of them. The female officer made the offer again and expounding on the offer let me know there were community groups available around town for these types of situations and they could help me get out of it and find places to live and work to support myself. I reluctantly accepted the offer and she took me outside to wait for the transportation. The male officers informed my parents about what was going on and kept them inside the house. All I had was the clothes I was wearing, and what was in my pockets, and I left. I boarded the big red square to a place that hopefully could help ease the pain I was feeling, or at least offer something I couldn't find anywhere else - hope.
I arrived at a general hospital where I was processed and had to fill out the paperwork accepting the debt that was about to come my way because I didn't have insurance. I was kept in a bed at the side of a hallway next to a nurses station. I saw doctors and nurses coming and going every second. Their board for patients, doctors, attendings, and residents was visible to me. I could hear them talking about patience and conditions and quickly learned that I was an "SI" case, meaning suicidal intentions. I initially spoke to a nurse who asked if I needed anything while I was waiting for the doctor. I didn't need anything, because I was now in a place where no one knew anything about me except my case identity. They, of course, knew my age, height, and weight, but I wasn't defined by any of that information. A psychiatrist came by, spoke to me for a few minutes about what was going on and how I was feeling. She asked if there were any particularly strong emotions, or if I felt like I would hurt myself with any of the objects or equipment around me. I told her that I was still upset, and sad but that I wouldn't be making a scene right here in front of the nurse's station. She understood and trusted me, and said that if I started feeling like that to let someone know immediately, and the staff would work on finding placement for me in a mental institute in town that accepted patients without insurance. Many hours passed, and I don't actually know how long, but I do know it went from day to night, to morning. During this time I just watched. I watched doctors come and go. I watched staff update their chart and doctors assignment board. I memorized all the nurses, doctors, and staff names while I was there. At one point a physician checked in on me and asked if there was anything I needed or if I was hungry or anything. I was hungry, so he said "Well let me see if I can grab you a sandwich or something. We're not supposed to because you're not admitted here, we're just waiting for placement, but let me see what I can do." I few minutes passed and sure enough, he came back with a sandwich. This small act of kindness and following through with what he said he was going to do for me meant a lot. This simple kindness and generosity toward someone he didn't know was the first glimpse of unconditional human kindness I saw and felt in a very long time. I finally received word from a social worker that they were able to locate a facility that had a room available and would work with my insurance situation. Once all the administrative processes were complete they loaded me up in another big red box and transported me to the intake facility. I was given hospital clothing and surrendered all my street clothes and possessions. I was escorted through the facility, through several doors and then into the main corridor area where to my left was a window where you could speak to an attendant, and just around that corner to the left and on the left was the medicine window, meaning when it was time to take meds everyone lined up and was given their medications. To my direct right was a hallway with rooms on the right side, and just past the lounge room were additional patient rooms on the left. To my 4 o'clock position was the lounge room. All this really contained were a few couches and a TV hidden behind plexiglass. I was directed to the right and the first room on the right was the door to my room. They showed me where everything was and left me to be. I wasn't able to have a private room so I did have a roommate, but he wasn't in the room at the time. It wasn't much time until I broke down. I cried some of the hardest cries I have in life. All the emotions, feelings, frustrations began to come out. Tears flowing down my face, that knot you get in your throat, and a sense of helplessness, I fell into my foam bed that was covered with plastic and just cried. I don't know how long I was crying, but I know at one point my roommate came in and got ready for dinner and left. I just laid there with every emotion leaking out of my face, and puddles on the rubber-plastic "bed" under me. I don't know how much time passed but I somehow fell asleep. I woke up the next morning to my roommate checking to see if I wanted breakfast. I was in no condition of having an appetite or eating. He left the room and I still could do nothing but cry. Later that day sometime after lunch I ran out of tears. Laying on the rubber mat I just stared at the ceiling. Laying down, my bed was on the left side of the room and my roommates on the right side of the room. In the upper forward-left corner from me was a camera that was being protected by plexiglass box to monitor us. In the forward-right corner was a mirror type reflective surface, most likely polished metal for staff to see around the corner of the room's door. Just to the side of the main door on the adjacent wall was the door to the restroom that did not lock. Both beds were approximately three inches thick of foam and covered with a dark-blue rubber-plastic cover with no sheets, only a hospital pillow that didn't have a pillowcase. The purpose of not having sheets or pillowcases was so we couldn't use them to create a noose out of. Later that afternoon I was pulled out to speak to a social worker to explain my situation and for them to offer help and suggestions. I still remember her name because she was really sweet and had the same name as Deloris from the Sister Act movies. After I spoke with Deloris I was sent to speak with a psychiatrist. I explained how I was feeling and he asked me several of the typical diagnostic and positioning questions to see what he should prescribe me. I didn't feel a need for any sort of tranquilizer or mind-altering medication, so he prescribed me Wellbutrin. I went to dinner that evening and was appalled by the stuff they were giving us to eat. I had a few bites of what they had given us and just went back to my room. I just laid in silence until they came and got me for my medication, then I returned to my room resuming the world of silence until I went to sleep. I skipped breakfast again but was up for lunch. After lunch, I decide to venture out of my room and see what everyone who was here for a similar reason was up to. During my venture time, I met a couple of people and everyone was in there for a similar reason under the different circumstances each of us was going through. I remember one person, in particular, her name was Denise. Over the week I was in that facility I got to speak with several people, most of which the overall populous would consider normal. What set us, inside this facility, apart from the outside world was our breaking point. Each of us had reached a point of which we felt nothing but pain and helplessness. This helplessness isn't what you feel when your car breaks down with no one to call, but a feeling that everyone around you has somehow broken a part of you and there aren't enough whole pieces of you left for you to put yourself back together.
I continued the process of sleep, skipping breakfast, taking medication, going to lunch, going to dinner, taking medication, and sleeping. The third day in the facility I attempted calling my interest at the time who from the time he found out about my suicide attempt had disappeared. Through my stay in the facility and even when I got out he never responded. I know now this was for the better. I was able to have friends visit including one of my best friends to this day, Caylin. For once I had the power to control who was in my life and who wasn't. I didn't let my parents come visit, and I didn't let church people visit me. There were some church people that came anyway and I had the staff tell them to go home. For once, even though through another outlet, was able to take control of who was in my life, and this was a pivoting point for me.
It was about the third day of my stay I moved rooms. I had reached a point where I stopped crying and just wanted everything behind me. When they moved me to my new room I asked for two things, a pen, and some paper. The staff questioned me and had to make sure I wasn't going to use the pen to stab myself or others with. These materials weren't for writing my feelings down, to write letters to people, or some other cliché form of expression. I began writing out the script to one of my favorite movies at the time, Pirates Of The Caribbean, Dead Man’s Chest. Yes, I began writing the script from the beginning, and yes I had watched it so many times I could do that.
Around this same time the Wellbutrin I was taking began to take effect, but not in a mental alteration but in physical symptoms. I was light-headed, constipated, and my ears started ringing almost constantly with increased volume from time to time. I asked the staff about these symptoms and apparently, these were known side effects but there wasn't anything they could do about them, and my body over time will adjust to them and would subside.
There were people at points in life where they've run out of money, out of family, out of reasons to live, but somehow we were all still here. I could also see in other individuals a mental type disease or disorder and I began to feel more and more like I truly didn't belong in there and I could build on this experience rather than live in it. I recall one larger woman who carried a Bible around with her saying she was Jesus and to save you she would throw the Bible at you.
As others did, I shared my experiences and what I was going through. Others learning about my passion for music and aviation among other things, I began to feel nothing but genuine unconditional love from the people around me. These strangers around me showing me a love I had otherwise not felt before. Through Christmas eve, Christmas day, and the day after Christmas these were just normal days, we were surviving while the majority of the nation was surrounded by family and friends. The love continued up to the point where administration determined I was ready for discharge. I remember many of the people that I had befriended in the short time I was there kept telling me that I was fine, everything will be fine, just push through, and I returned the optimism to them encouraging them with their internal battle.
I remember it was my last day at the facility and it hit me, the music and the lyrics at once. The first song I ever wrote was while I was in the mental hospital. The song starts by saying "Christmas has come and gone" building on the fact that just because my relatives weren't there, or people I was familiar with I still had people around me that cared, them, those people were right here. People who cared unconditionally. I grabbed some paper and wrote the lyrics down, and although to this point it had never been played on an instrument before, the melody to this song rang through my head. The facility staff came and got me. I went to the same window I surrendered my belongings to and retrieved them. I rode home with my mom, and the whole time there may have been five or so words exchanged. I arrived home and the first thing I did was write the music portion to the song that had been in my head, "Right Here".
It wasn't until later I found out directly from him, an ex of mine who no longer lived in Tucson, called the police. He still had my address on the night I text him goodbye.
