Dear Heartbreak Page 6

  A month later, I started my senior year of high school. I had a mental breakdown a few times because I just couldn’t cope with what had happened to me. I couldn’t believe that I had no one to confide in. No one thought I was worth being friends with. I walked to all my classes and ate lunch alone. I felt like I didn’t have anyone left. I had to go to prom with girls I didn’t even know. I finally got the courage to go see a counselor at school. She helped me through everything. After months of therapy I finally felt like myself again. Two years after my assault I am still friendless. I’m in college now and I’m afraid to make friends. I’m afraid to trust people because everyone I ever trusted let me down. I feel like I have no one. Will I ever be able to make friends again? Will I ever be able to trust someone again? Will I ever be able to date again?

  Love,

  Lonely

  WE’RE NOT ALONE

  Dear Lonely,

  I cried when I read your letter.

  I cried for you. I cried for me. I cried for all girls this has happened to.

  Because we’re not alone.

  Sometimes when I’m walking down the street, I try to process the statistics. One out of four women has experienced sexual abuse. I try to see it in their faces, the way they move, the way they dress, but we’re good at hiding things.

  And I was one of the best.

  I grew up in a small lake town in the Midwest during the ’70s and ’80s—I spent my summers in a bathing suit, running around with skinned knees and a Kool-Aid-stained grin—I’m not saying my life was perfect; I was a quirky kid. I wasn’t into sports. I liked to sing and dance, which was pretty weird in my community, so I spent much of my time alone in the woods, making up stories and games to keep myself company. I was lonely, but there was an undeniable spark burning inside of me. I knew that one day I was going to use my talent to get out of there and do something spectacular with my life.

  When I turned thirteen, boys started to take notice of me; I even won a beauty contest, which made the other girls hate me. I was long and lean with tanned skin and hair the color of spun sugar. I loved having the attention. It was fun—a lot better than talking to myself in the woods. I had a quick string of boyfriends, sometimes a different one every few days. It was innocent. Pushing each other off the dock. Holding hands under the water. A few kisses under a capsized sailboat.

  One evening, toward the end of summer, I got invited to a bonfire/campout. This wasn’t any bonfire, this was THE bonfire with all the cool kids. And I was about as far from cool as you could get. I couldn’t believe my luck, and when the hottest guy came over and handed me a wine cooler, I felt like I was dreaming. I remember actually pinching myself to make sure it was real. He was three years older than me, absolutely gorgeous, an athlete, an all-around dream guy that everyone wanted to be near, and he was talking to me. He asked me all kinds of questions about myself. Laughed at my corny jokes. Introduced me to all his friends. Didn’t pay any attention to the high school girls vying for his attention. He even wiped the chocolate from the corner of my mouth from the mess I made of my s’more. He made me feel important, cared for, like I mattered. And I kept thinking, if he sees something in me, maybe everyone else will, too. It felt monumental, like after this night, my whole life was going to change.

  And I was right.

  As everyone started pairing off, he asked if I wanted to go in his tent. He told me we didn’t have to do anything … we could just talk. I remember thinking how cool and grown-up it was for him to say something like that. I knew I was supposed to go home, but I was afraid that if I left I’d never have this opportunity again. I didn’t care if I got grounded. Because this would be worth it.

  As I followed him inside, I was nervous, but excited-nervous. Sweaty palms, nonstop grin. With the cicadas serenading us in the dark, we lay down, side by side. There were a million stars that night and a moon so bright I could still see every detail of his face, the rise and fall of his chest with every breath. He said he couldn’t believe that we’d never hung out before. That I was different from the other girls. Special. He turned on his side, twisting a strand of my hair around his finger, and told me how pretty I was, that I looked like the girl from the Velamint commercial, and then he kissed me. It wasn’t the fumbling, strained, accidental-teeth-bashing kisses I was used to. This was something else. He kissed me with a hunger that I wasn’t sure I liked. He put his hand down my bathing suit, touching my breasts. Or what I had of them. But his touch was too rough. Whatever he was doing, it didn’t feel good; it hurt.

  I finally got up the nerve to tell him I was tired, that I needed sleep. I laughed and blamed the wine cooler, that it must’ve gone straight to my head.

  “Stay,” he said as he smiled up at me, that charming smile. “You can sleep here. I just want to hold you.”

  And that’s all I wanted, too.

  So I stayed.

  Turning away from him, I curled up into a tight ball. He put his arm around me. I felt the weight of it like he was trapping me there, and soon I could feel his body pressing up against mine, every part of him.

  He whispered my name. I pretended like I was asleep.

  But that didn’t stop him.

  As tears streamed down my face, he slid the bottom of my swimsuit to the side. That’s the first time I left my body.

  I went back to the woods, feeling the dense foliage press in all around me, and made up a story, one that would make this okay.

  I waited, frozen like that, until I felt him get up and leave the tent.

  It was just before dawn when I walked home with bloodstained thighs. I knew something was wrong, but I wasn’t exactly sure what had happened. I blamed myself because I didn’t say no. I didn’t say anything at all.

  And the saddest part was that somewhere in my mind I thought this meant that I had a new boyfriend. That maybe this is what it was supposed to be like.

  But he never called. No one did.

  A week later, long after my grounding was over, I finally found the courage to leave my room. I was walking along the lakeshore when a boy who had been at the bonfire pulled over on his bike, wagging his eyebrows at me. He told me he heard what had happened. I felt the blood drain from my face, the sharp pain pulsing between my legs. Apparently, my dream guy went around the lake telling everyone that we had sex, but that he was never going to hook up with me again, because I was a bad lay.

  I remember feeling a strange heat move through my entire body, like I could catch fire at any moment. I thought it was embarrassment … shame, but it was something else.

  I buried it at the time. I buried everything.

  I did my best to repair the damage. I didn’t wear my swimsuit anymore. I kept to myself, kept to the woods, but it felt like I was covered in bruises that no one else could see.

  And when school started back up, things only got worse. People didn’t even bother lowering their voices when they talked about me anymore. They made lewd jokes, laughed in my face, wrote vile things on my locker, pushed me in the halls.

  Not only was I a slut, I was a bad slut.

  And one day I got so sick of it, I decided if they were going to call me a slut, I might as well be one.

  Soon, I forgot all about my plans to get out of there and do something with my life. I didn’t dance. I didn’t sing. I didn’t care if I lived or if I died. A year passed in a drug and alcohol haze with an endless string of conquests. Nameless. Faceless. In the back of pickup trucks, fields of dried-up corn, dirty basements, against the hood of a tricked-out Mustang, where slipping in and out of my body became as easy as breathing.

  It was almost like I was practicing for something, but for what?

  It wasn’t until the following summer that everything clicked. There was a party at the lake, and he was there. My dream guy. The guy who ruined my life. My first instinct was to run, but why should I run? I was different now, surely someone that he would want to be with. I played it so cool. We joked around, took a few shots. And when I ask
ed him if he wanted to go on a walk, he looked surprised, maybe even a little wary, but he was clearly intrigued enough to go with me.

  I found myself leading him back to the same spot where we had our first encounter. I wondered if he even remembered or if it was just another summer night to him. I started kissing him, taking off his clothes. I did all the things I was supposed to do. Everything I’d learned. And when I left my body, I didn’t go back to the woods this time, I hovered above us and watched. I thought I would look powerful. After all, I was on top. I was in complete control this time, but all I could see was that little girl from the summer before, her knobby spine bulging from her skin, crying, desperately trying to fix things … to change her story.

  When it was over he said, “You’ve certainly changed.”

  But I could see it in his eyes—he didn’t mean it as a compliment—I was too dirty for him now. He liked it better when I was trembling, frozen, and meek.

  The girl in front of him scared him.

  She scared me, too.

  When he left, I crawled to the water’s edge and threw up everything inside of me. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t purge myself of that feeling. I’d been called every name in the book, all but one … victim. And that seemed like the dirtiest word of all.

  I didn’t want to feel like that anymore.

  The very next day, I stopped partying. I stopped collecting boys.

  People still talked—they were cruel beyond measure—but I had a plan to get out of there.

  And I did.

  At sixteen I became an emancipated minor and moved out on my own.

  I’d like to tell you that’s where my story ends, that I lived happily ever after, but it was just the beginning.

  Running away didn’t solve my problems. I was no longer the town slut, but it felt like those words were etched deep into my flesh. It left me vulnerable to years of inappropriate, abusive, and boundary-less relationships. I ran from one bad situation to the next. I ran from the pain, until I finally hit a brick wall. I got so depressed that I slipped out of my body and couldn’t find my way back.

  I spent a few months in the hospital, slowly coming back to the world. It forced me to sit still and face what had happened to me. And when the feelings returned, I felt that strange heat move through my limbs once again and I knew what to call it—rage.

  It was the most painful time of my life, but I survived.

  I still struggle with self-image, my sexuality, guilt over the choices I made; but the darkness that used to take years, months, weeks, days, to pass through me has turned into moments. Fleeting moments of darkness that I acknowledge and let go.

  What happened to me when I was thirteen will always be with me, but instead of kicking that little girl when she’s down, I pick her up and cradle her in my arms and tell her, It’s not your fault. You’re worthy of love.

  And I’m starting to believe it.

  Every time I hear a story like yours, it feels like someone’s pressing down on a deep bruise. It’s uncomfortable. A feeling I want to avoid at every turn, but it’s okay to hurt. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to feel. And most importantly, it’s okay to rage against what happened to you. It was wrong and you didn’t deserve it.

  I don’t have all the answers.

  But here’s how I know I’m going to be okay: I’m writing this.

  Here’s how I know you’re going to be okay: You’re reading this.

  And just like that, we’re connected. Sometimes that’s all it takes to remember you’re not alone in this world.

  I believe in you.

  Love,

  He was different in many ways.

  —Little Elliot, Big City, Mike Curato

  Dear Heartbreak,

  Being gay is hard. I love it, though. It’s the most essential part of me. But with that comes the constant pressure of someone finding out. I’m out of the closet, I have been for a year and a half, but I’m still crushed into a space where I can’t be myself. There are people in my classes who judge, joke, and laugh at being gay. It is my biggest fear for them to find out. It breaks my heart to have to hide, and for all the others who have to hide. Every day I craft a shell, pushing down who I am to avoid the threat of ridicule. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I don’t dare take a chance. I see these hetero boys overcompensating for their masculinity and bragging about their dicks and prowess in sports and romance, and I feel disgusted that these boys hold such (unwitting) power over me. But that is the way of society and social structure.

  Maybe you can’t help me. I don’t know what kind of answer I’m looking for, but what I do know is that this is something that affects me every day. I sound selfish, but that can’t be helped. I guess I’m just looking for the comfort that someone who is not hypermasculine or steeped in the homophobic subtext of our society is hearing this, and that others are in the same situation.

  Thank you for reading.

  Signed,

  Boy Who Is Trapped

  STAY YOU

  Dear Boy Who (Thinks He) Is Trapped,

  I agree, being gay is hard. And I also love being gay, despite whatever suffering I’ve endured because of it. Just to put you at ease, I want to share my credentials with you. I’ve been out of the closet for sixteen years. I am definitely not hyper-masculine. I enjoy watching a good period piece, I love going to brunch, and I happen to look stunning in heels.

  I digress.

  When I was in school I was not out. Buuut, it wasn’t a stretch of the imagination for people to figure out that I was gay. I was clueless about sports and my voice was (and still is) effeminately high-pitched. On top of that, I knew nothing about pop culture, I was really clumsy, and I didn’t know how to dress myself. My hairstyle was … well, I can’t really use the word “style” to describe it, so we’ll call it a “hair-pile.” I was an easy target, low-hanging fruit (no pun intended), and I was picked on a lot. People said some pretty cruel things, and sometimes I was physically threatened, though I was never beaten up.

  Let’s start with a little practical advice:

  Make a safety plan. Who do you trust? Where do you feel safe? If you don’t have answers to these questions, don’t panic. Look around. For me, the art room and library were my safe havens. I trusted my art teacher and knew I could talk to her about anything. While it’s a smart idea to notice who to steer clear of, take note of who you don’t usually pay attention to. There are other people lying low too, who are also just trying to get by without being made fun of. I made some unlikely friendships with some other “weirdos.” I still talk to one of them (and I actually consulted him while writing you this letter). He was into heavy metal and dressed all in black. I was into Fiona Apple and wore a lot of plaid. He smoked cigarettes and cussed like a sailor. I was a goody-two-shoes and went to church every week. He was straight. I was … not necessarily saying that I was also straight. But we both liked art, and we were both preyed upon by jocks, and so that was enough for us to start talking. And though we were so different, we understood each other, and we were there for each other.

  I also did a lot of stuff outside of school that made life bearable. I had a pen pal (and still do!). She and I told each other everything. Every time I put a letter in the mailbox, my worries felt a little lighter, and every time I received a letter, my heart felt a little fuller. I took art lessons at a local studio, and eventually started working there a few hours a week. I spent a lot of time at my local comic shop. I also joined a Boy Scout troop in a different school district, and met other guys who weren’t exactly part of the “in-crowd.” Getting outdoors on hikes once a month to breathe the fresh air was a lifesaver.

  I mention this because while being gay is an essential part of who you are, it’s not the essential part of who you are. We are three-dimensional beings. I excel and fail at many other things besides being gay. I’m a writer and an artist. I love watching movies. I love the outdoors and the smell of campfires. I have a sweet tooth. I enjoy reading biogra
phies about queens (the other kind of queens). I am an awful bowler, and I am amazing at karaoke. I am a son, and a brother, and an uncle, and a friend, and a husband, and a puppy parent.

  Try not to worry what people will think about a part of you. Show them all of you. Show them how good you are at being you. The people who don’t feel threatened by your honesty are the people you want to hang with.

  Now, you might be thinking, “That’s easy for you to say, you’re not in high school anymore.” And you’d be right. I don’t think there’s anything scarier than being hated and feeling trapped, and you couldn’t pay me a gajillion dollars to do it all over again. Here’s the thing. Those people I used to be scared of, the people I grew to hate, I actually pity them now. I know it seems hard or unfair to ask you to have compassion for the people who are mistreating you, but being a teenager sucks for everyone. Think about how low someone’s self-esteem must be if they need to belittle others to feel good about themselves. It’s a distraction to call attention away from whatever it is that they feel insecure about. Most people are in the closet about something; it’s just not always that they’re queer. Some of us don’t fit in the closet. Some of us are a little too fabulous, so the door doesn’t quite shut, and people can glimpse in and see us dancing by ourselves under a disco ball. And they will point and laugh, and we will cry. But because I went through that and survived, I am strong AF. I can emotionally bench press any one of those jocks who used to call me a faggot. Meanwhile, I bet one of those overcompensating boys you mentioned is actually gay too. And he is terrified. And you will adapt to living your life in the light much faster (as I did), while he will be fumbling in the dark for a long time, just trying to find the closet door.