I've been alive for twenty-five years. It seems like a long time to me, though I know that, in reality, it's not very long at all. Still, I've been through a lot in that span of time. I'm glad to say that I've come out on top. Yet I was not unscathed, and my climb back up is still not done.
My history is not something I like to talk much about. It brings back ugly memories, and ugly emotions. Plus, I never quite know where to begin. Do I really tell people that my earliest memory is a negative one? That the first coherent memory I have is of setting up a tower of blocks in my pre-school class, my first day in fact, only to have it knocked down? It does seem childish, after all, to hold on to such a memory. It makes sense that people might roll their eyes at the idea I'd hold on to something like that. "Kids will be kids," after all. At least that's what I'm always told. In most cases that probably rings true, but the reason it sticks out in my mind is that it was the start of a pattern that continued through rest of my childhood.
I don't mean to make it seem as if my early years were all bad. They weren't. I made friends, or at least some. But they were few and far between, and they never lasted. I suppose people got tired of hanging around with a victim all the time. When I got to elementary school, the teasing that many kids go through in pre-school evolved to fully fledged bullying. I can remember the fights on the playground, assaults that would leave me bruised both mentally and physically. For one reason or another, I was the prime target. Very few of the adults did much about it, the commonly held view being that it was a simple rite of passage that kids sometimes went through. But this outlook only encouraged the behavior to continue, and by the time I reached middle school all hell broke loose.
From the moment I walked through the doors of my middle school, it was as if I had a target placed on my back. It went beyond just cruel words and the occasional fight, though I certainly had my fair share of that. One incident that comes to mind is being shoved into a locker in the middle of the hall, the door then being closed on me. I could see outside through the slits on the door as a crowd of kids gathered: not to help, but to laugh. I was finally freed by a hall monitor that had a key, but nothing was done to discourage the kids from doing anything like that again. By 7th grade I had become so miserable that I'd started eating my feelings away, beginning a vicious cycle that would ultimately result in my weight ballooning to over 260lbs by the time I was nineteen. My growing weight was pointed out to me in locker rooms, comments made about my "rolls of fat," my short height, how pale I was, as if I didn't have a mirror at home and couldn't already see it for myself, and on and on until I began to hate my own body. To this day I can't step into a locker room without extreme discomfort, and I've avoided any kind of place that would require me to so much as pass through one. I often find excuses to avoid public pools and gyms for this reason and was never able to take an interest in any kind of sport.
The worst of it came when I was thirteen when I consciously began to realize that I was gay. I have to laugh because at the time it felt like some kind of cosmic joke. I had enough problems as it was, and here was one more thing to make me stand out. I forced myself to ignore it. I had 'crushes' on other girls, desperate to keep up an illusion both within and without if only to not add one more thing for people to torment me over. But like hounds they could smell it, and they made damn sure I couldn't hide from it. The most horrifying incident happened on the bus one evening after school. I've told very few people about it. I can't remember in great detail the events that led up to it, perhaps because I just don't want to remember, but what I can recall is my head being slammed against the window over and over, the word "faggot" echoing in my ears with every blow. I can remember the choke hold, so tight that I nearly passed out until I bit his arm to get away, and instead of finding refuge with the adults I fled to I only found a reprimand. I had fought back and violence for any reason was not tolerated. I could only feel at the time that perhaps I'd have been better off if I'd let him kill me. And for the aggressor? No expulsion, no suspension, not even a detention was given. Just a slap on the wrist, a meeting with the parents, and then the incident was hushed up and swept under the rug. In hindsight, this incident could have been the breaking point.
There have been three low points in my life. The first came shortly after this incident. Years of harassment, plus a family history, led to a diagnosis of clinic depression. Doctors still didn't really know how to handle such a thing at the time because childhood depression had only just started to be taken seriously, so after a visit to the pediatrician - that's right, not a psychiatrist but a pediatrician - I was given antidepressants. Today it's well documented that giving these antidepressants to children is generally a poor idea because it can have a result opposite from the one intended, but then it was all about trial and error. The drugs sent my depression spiraling downward. Not only did I have trouble functioning day to day, but I began to have violent outbursts and suicidal thoughts. I wrote many suicide notes that year, thankfully none of which anyone ever had to see. I came up with many plans for killing myself: how I'd do it, where I'd do it, and when I'd do it. Rope or belt? After school or on a weekend?
The most intense moment came after a big fight with my family, one that left me feeling so ashamed that I ran off to the kitchen, grabbed the first sharp object I could find, and bolted out of the house and into the woods. I figured a quick motion and it'd all be over, with no one having to clean up a mess since it'd already be outside. But I couldn't do it. Now I don't want you to get the wrong idea here. I didn't not kill myself because I had some grand epiphany and decided I wanted to live. That's not how that usually works. The truth is that in that moment of my life, with the weight of all that emotional pain on my shoulders and the feeling that I had no solid ground on which to stand, I absolutely wanted to be dead. It was fear that kept me alive. Think of the irony there for a moment: fear of death was the one thing that actually kept me alive then. Today I couldn't be more thankful for that fear, as I likely wouldn't be here now without it.
After that incident, a change in my treatment during the year of so after brought me to a more stable footing. While I was still miserable, I wasn't suicidal. But I had no motivation and no drive. We'd moved to a different school district, and I had started high school with a clean slate, but it didn't matter. While I had chosen not to kill myself, emotionally I was dead. My family had no idea what to do with me, so they took a 'tough love' stance, pushing me to try and stop my ballooning weight and improve my sinking grades. Instead of lifting me up, it knocked me down even further.
When I was seventeen, I'd been off medication for at least a couple years. This turned out to be a mistake because the stress at home sent me to my second low point. In the summer before my senior year, I had an anxiety breakdown. A severe panic attack sent me to the hospital in an ambulance. I was started on new medications and therapy immediately. I remember feeling throughout that entire summer like I was wading through a pool of jello. Day to day life was more difficult than it should have been, and little things like germs and crowds began to instigate anxiety. I've actually retained many of these phobias, though I've taken greater control of them. In any case, I survived the summer and entered my senior year feeling rejuvenated and ready to turn over a new leaf. That feeling didn't last long however, because after graduation I had my last low point.
After finishing high school, I had decided to enroll in community college. My grades had been nowhere near good enough to get into a four-year school, but I felt I needed to do something . Yet depression began to creep in again, fueled by memories of growing up, and my motivation dwindled back to nothing. I failed my first semester. I was devasted, I felt beaten, and this only further fed my despair. I stayed home and would spend day and night sitting on the computer or watching television, shoveling food into my face and hoarding it in my room like a squirrel, doing everything and anything I thought might ease my misery. Mentally I was a wreck and soon physically I was too. By nineteen I had developed high blood pressure, back problems, acid reflux, and pre-diabetic symptoms.
But at some point something clicked. I can't say what it was, because honestly I don't know, but something in the back of my mind realized that I was at a life or death impasse. I chose life. I actively sought out therapy, and through a combination of this and medications I managed to get my mental state under control. I changed my diet and exercised more, ultimately managing to lose around 100lbs. I went back to community college, actually where I developed an interest in writing, and then after graduating successfully I transferred to UAlbany. Perhaps the most important step to recovery was that I accepted who I was as an individual - gay, quirky, compulsive, all of it - and became open about myself to others. Once I embraced myself it wasn't long before began to forge true friendships, and lots of them.
None of this happened overnight. It took a few years. In fact, I'd say it's still an ongoing process. I've developed many coping mechanics, and though occasionally I have bouts of anxiety or depression I have managed to get it under control. I have made friends and formed a powerful support network to keep me leveled. It turns out that being yourself draws in exactly the kinds of people you need in your life. Every friend I've made, from mere acquaintances to the closest of friendships, from the start of my recovery to this moment, should know that they've each made a positive difference in my life, and that they continue to do so. I've found a wonderful partner, a man who I couldn't be happier to be with, a person with whom I finally feel like a whole person. I have goals, things I want to accomplish, and I am driven by them. For the first time in my life, I look forward to the future.
The events of the past were without a doubt traumatic. I'd be lying if I said they didn't leave a lasting mark. I am scarred, I am battle worn, and I am a broken man, but I've learned how to live with that. The last few years of my life have given me the glue with which I can piece myself back together. And whenever another piece slips off, as inevitably one does, I know now how to put myself back together. It's true that had I not gone through what I did, my life would have been far easier and I'd probably be further ahead right now than I am. But my traumas have made me a better person, and in a unique way a stronger person. I honestly wouldn't change that for anything. There are people out there right now struggling with the same things that I've struggled with, and if I could only tell them one thing it'd be to keep on walking. Keep walking through the darkness, even if you can't see the way forward. At the end of every tunnel is a light, and once you finally enter that light you'll find a peace that you never imagined possible. The journey, no matter how tumultuous, is always worth it.
