Michael Ford: Suicide Notes

There was nothing else to do. I went down those stairs as quickly as I could and went straight for the door. I didn’t look at anyone, and prayed no one would stop me. And they didn’t. That’s the only good thing that happened that night. No one stopped me. I made it to the door and out of that house, and then I ran home and up to my room.

I haven’t seen Allie since then. I’ve talked to her, though. When I didn’t hear from her for three days, I knew that Burke had told her. On Christmas Eve, when I couldn’t take it any more, I called her. When she answered I said, “I just want to say Merry Christmas.”

She didn’t say anything for a while. I could hear her breathing. Then she said, “Why didn’t you tell me you’re gay?”

“I’m not,” I said. “Allie, you have to believe me.”

“I thought we were friends,” she said, and hung up. That’s the last thing she ever said to me.

So now you know the whole story about why I got all dramatic on New Year’s Eve, and why I’m here. I’m gay. I know it sounds stupid. Tons of people are gay, and you’d think it would be no big deal. But I was really hoping I wasn’t, that it was all just a big mix-up and I’d get over it. After the stuff with Rankin, and what happened—or didn’t happen—with Sadie, though, I know that I won’t get over it. It’s what I am.

I read once that a third of all gay kids try to kill themselves. They say it’s because being gay is so hard in this world. They say that we won’t stop trying to kill ourselves until more people understand us, and until we live in a world where it’s okay for a guy to love another guy. That’s probably true. But there will never be a world where it’s okay to fall in love with your best friend’s boyfriend.

So now we’ve established that not only did I try to kill myself, but that I’m gay, too. That’s like having two cherries on your dog crap sundae. Or extra nuts.

And now, of course, it’s all Cat Poop wants to talk about. Today he asked me to tell him more about what Rankin and I did together. It was completely embarrassing talking about that. Then he asked me how I felt about having sex. I told him it felt great, but that the best thing for me was thinking that Rankin wanted to do those things with me. It wasn’t the sex, really. I mean, you can kind of do that on your own, right? But having this other person want to do it with you, that’s pretty special. It means he likes you. At least, it should.

I keep wondering what Rankin was thinking when he did those things with me. Had someone done those things to him? Is he really gay? Did he like me at all? I guess I won’t ever be able to answer those questions. I asked the doc, and he said that when people hurt us, the best thing to do isn’t to ask why they did it but to remind ourselves that it wasn’t our fault.

In other words, either he doesn’t know what Rankin’s deal is or won’t tell me.

Either way, I’m not sure I believe him. Maybe it was partly my fault. It’s not like I made Rankin stop. It’s not like I didn’t like what we did. It’s not like I didn’t want to do it. At least some part of me wanted to.

To change the subject, I asked if Martha was going to be okay. Martha hasn’t said anything since that night—not even “frex”—and I worry that she’s totally regressing, which is a term I learned from Cat Poop. Basically, it means that whatever good has happened to her might have been erased by what happened with Sadie. I love how shrinks have a special word for everything that can be wrong with you.

Cat Poop said he didn’t know. But there was something in his voice that made me think he didn’t believe she would be all right. I wanted to ask him more about it, because I figured it had something to do with why she’s here in the first place. But I knew he wouldn’t tell me anything, so I just said I hoped she would be okay.

I found out later, though. I asked Frank. Like I said, Frank can be kind of a jerk. But he likes to think he knows a lot, so when I saw him later on, I started talking about how awful what happened to Sadie was. “Martha was really upset about it,” I said, knowing he would want to tell me everything he knew about it.

“Yeah, well, who can blame her?” said Frank. “She probably thought it was happening again.”

“Thought what was happening?” I said.

He laughed again. “Oh, right. They don’t let you listen to the news in here. Kid’s dad shot her mother.”

“Martha’s dad?” I said.

“Blew her open with a shotgun,” said Frank. “Then killed himself. The kid saw the whole thing. When they found her, she was sitting between them on the kitchen floor, holding that damn stuffed rabbit. She’d been there two or three days. Aunt or something went over after she kept calling and getting no answer.”

“You’re kidding,” I said.

“It was all over the papers,” said Frank. “I forgot, they only let you look at the funny papers.” He laughed. “Funny papers—get it?”

I ignored him and walked away. All I could think about was Martha sitting in that kitchen. No wonder she flipped when she saw Sadie. Poor kid. And I thought I had problems. If we’re keeping score, I think Martha just pulled way ahead of the rest of us.

I was sitting in Cat Poop’s office today and all of a sudden I asked him, “How do I know if I’m really gay or not?” It just popped out of my mouth, but once it was out there I really wanted to know.

Cat Poop leaned back in his chair and looked at me. “What’s your favorite color?”

I told him it was blue. Then he asked me why.

“Why what?” I asked back.

“Why is blue your favorite color?” he said.

It seems like a dumb question, right? I mean, why do you like anything? I told him I like blue because when I look at blue things, they usually make me feel good.

“Okay,” he said. “Now what’s your favorite song?”

I told him it was Lolly Dreambox’s “Snow Cold Sunday.” At least right now. I’m sure next week it will be something else. That’s how it is when you’re fifteen.

He asked me again why it was my favorite. I said because whenever I hear it I want to sing along. I picture myself on a stage, singing, and it makes me feel good.

“Okay,” he said. “What do your favorite color and your favorite song have in common?”

The answer is that they both make me feel good, although in different ways. That wasn’t too hard to figure out. But then he said, “How do you feel when you think about girls?”

That seemed like a trick question to me. There are a lot of different ways to answer it. So I asked him to be more specific, and he asked how I felt about girls when I thought about going out with them, like as a boyfriend.

I said I didn’t really feel any particular way about it. It didn’t make me feel good or bad. “Sort of like vanilla ice cream,” I said.

Then he asked me the same thing about guys. I got kind of embarrassed, because I’ve never talked with anyone about how guys make me feel. But finally I said that when I think about going out with a guy, it makes me feel all kinds of things. I feel excited and scared at the same time.

“Sometimes we don’t know why we like certain things,” Cat Poop said. “Or at least we can’t put into words why we like them. We just know that we do. Being gay or straight—or something in between—is often like that. We just like one thing or another because of how it makes us feel.”

That still didn’t answer my question, and I said so. I asked him how I would know for sure that I’m gay. “Maybe it’s just something I feel right now,” I said.

He said that maybe it was, which didn’t make me feel any better. “The only thing you can do is listen to your feelings,” he said. “If you’re honest about what you feel, you’ll know what’s true about yourself.”