I follow the kind-looking man through a series of short hallways until he turns into a small office. The room, like the building, is bland with a government-issue metal desk, a scattering of books and papers, a few diplomas on the wall, and a chair in front of the desk. He closes the door behind us, pulls out the chair for me to sit on, and takes his place behind the desk.
“Here, have a seat.” I do as he asks. He looks over his clipboard then puts his elbows on the desk, leaning forward. “Okay, young man. Why don’t you tell me why you are here.”
It must be getting close to 5:00 a.m. I’ve been here for several hours, but there are no clocks in the room, so I can’t be sure what time it is. I’ve explained my situation to the kind man. I promised myself I would hold nothing back, no matter how embarrassing it is. How can they help me if I lie to them? Or myself? So, I gave myself over freely. I told him about 11:22 p.m., the alien in my stomach, the sleepless nights, the anxiety, the hives, and the shaking. He thinks the panic attacks were triggered by the stress of moving and acclimating to a new town and school.
I also told him about coming out, meeting PJ, Mom’s sudden passing, and even Dad wanting me to come live with him. I’m not sure why I mentioned those last things because they don’t seem to have anything to do with my problems. After all, 11:22 and the alien started months ago before any of that happened. But I found once he got me talking, I just couldn’t stop. Mags calls it diarrhea of the mouth, and that’s exactly what I have.
When I finally pause, after talking nonstop for what seems like hours, he asks me if I would like a glass of water and goes to fetch me one. As I sit there and wait for him to return, I worry about school and what PJ and I are going to do. PJ promised his father we would be there and on time. But I’m still here at the crisis center and we have been up the whole night without sleep.
The kind man comes back and places a cup of water in front of me. He retakes his place behind the desk. “Okay, before I make my recommendations, I have a series of questions to ask you. Please answer them as honestly as you can. The answers are strictly confidential, and they will remain between us unless, of course, I feel you are in danger or in danger of hurting yourself or others. Okay?”
I nod in agreement, and he fires off questions to me. Most have nothing to do with my personal situation, but I answer him as best as I can. He asks me about taking drugs, suicide, and self-harm. I understand why he needs to ask these questions, but it’s awkward. I know I’m not suicidal, but he doesn’t, and my rational mind knows he needs to cross all the t’s and dot all the i’s.
I’ve been answering each question with a definitive no. So, when he asks the next one, I also answer no. The question, however, stops me in my tracks and a cold sweat comes over me.
“Wait. That’s not true. Actually, the answer is yes.”
“Have you ever been sexually abused?” he asks again.
“Yes.”
“Do you know the name of your abuser?”
“Yes, it’s my, my…uncle. Brian is his name. Brian Perlman. He is married to my mom’s sister, Sarah.”
“Can you tell me about it? Can you describe the abuse for me? Was this a one-time thing?”
My breathing becomes labored, and my voice shakes. I take a sip of water followed by a few deep breaths—like PJ’s dad taught me—and I tell the story that has been with me for so long now. The story I push out of my mind. The true reason why I didn’t want to come out. There’s no holding back now. I open my mouth and flood the office with the weight I’ve been carrying around on my shoulders all these years. The thing I am most ashamed about in the whole wide world.
“No, it wasn’t a one-time thing. It happened multiple times over several months.”
I pick up my water and take a few more sips before I continue. My voice still shakes, but it gets stronger the more I talk.
“Like I already told you, my father was absent most of my childhood. My mom thought I needed a male role model and encouraged Uncle Brian to spend time with me. The first thing he did was take me to a Bruce Springsteen concert. I loved the concert, and I enjoyed spending time with Brian too. He made me feel grown up. He gave me sips of his beer and that made me feel special.
“The thing I didn’t like about that night was the pot he smoked. I always hated the smell of cigarette smoke, but I especially hated that smell. He smoked a joint that night at the concert and always lit one up before…”
I pick up my cup, but the water is all gone.
“How old were you when you started spending time with your uncle?”
“I guess I was around eleven years old. After that concert, I spent a lot of time with both Uncle Brian and Aunt Sarah. Once, they took me on vacation with them to Ocean City. Brian was great. He rode all the rides on the boardwalk with me. He took me to the haunted house and played Skee-Ball with me. Then all three of us got ice cream cones and Thrasher’s French fries and walked the boardwalk on a hot summer night. It was a nice time. But, after that, it wasn’t long before things became uncomfortable. Things became wrong.
“I started spending the occasional weekend at their house. I slept on a pull-out couch in their basement, and after Aunt Sarah fell asleep, Brian would visit me. At first, we just watched TV while he sat next to me. After a few sleepovers, he asked me if I wanted to play a game, one he said he had played with his best friend.
“The game involved doing things to prepare me to be with a girl. He laid on top of me and pressed himself against me. He said, This is what you do when you’re with a girl. But his body was so much bigger than mine and the weight of him hurt. It was hard to breathe. He didn’t care. He told me to think of a girl I liked from school. But I couldn’t. And I didn’t understand yet what being attracted to other boys was. Truthfully, it was hard to think at all because the experience was so uncomfortable. I didn’t like him pressing on me. One time, I think Aunt Sarah may have started to come downstairs when it was happening, but she never said anything.”
I put my head in my hands and sob.
“You’re safe here, Simon,” the therapist says. “Take all the time you need.”
“I wonder if Brian knew I was gay before I did,” I continue. “I was a shy, soft-spoken kid. I was sensitive. I think he knew what I was, and he knew how to get what he wanted from me. Oh my God, I’m so ashamed talking about this.”
“You’re being very brave, Simon.”
“It doesn’t feel like it. Here’s the worst part. It escalated again…” And I tell the therapist the deepest, darkest things that ever happened to me.
Ihowl with a terrible ferocity. I can’t contain the guilt any longer.
