Michael Ford - Suicide Notes

Cat Poop asked me how the different reactions made me feel. I told him that, obviously, the ones where my dad wasn’t upset were the best. Then he asked me which one I thought was most likely to happen.

I wish I knew. I really do. But I don’t. You’d think that after living with these people for fifteen years I’d know a little something about them. But right now I feel like I don’t know my parents at all. I guess when you get down to it, I’ve never really thought about them as people . They’ve always been my parents. Now I have to think about them as people with feelings. What a pain.

The funny thing is, I bet they feel the same way. I bet they sit around at home wondering how to talk to this kid who looks like their son but acts like someone they’ve never met in their lives. In a way, that makes me feel a little bit better. It’s like we’re all going to find out who we are. But it’s still scary. I’m still worried that there’s a tiny, tiny chance that they’ll completely flip out and disown me.

We’ll find out on Sunday.

Someone new arrived today, so apparently our nuthouse is still the hottest club in town after all. He says his name is Squirrel. I can’t imagine anyone would name a kid that, but it’s what he wants to be called. And it sort of fits him. He’s really skinny, and he darts his eyes all over the place when he’s talking, like he’s afraid that if he looks right at you, you’ll explode.

We met him in group today. As the rest of us introduced ourselves, I couldn’t help thinking about my first day. Did I look as freaked out as Squirrel did? Probably. Then again, I had Bone, Alice, and Sadie in my group. That would freak anyone out. Squirrel just has me, Juliet, and Martha. I don’t think any of us are all that scary. Well, maybe Juliet is, but only once you get to know her. Even then, she’s not so bad.

I don’t know what Squirrel’s problem is. He didn’t say. But if I had to take a guess, I’d say he’s probably got a couple of things going on. Maybe drugs. Maybe depression. Maybe both. You kind of start to catch on to this stuff when you’ve been here a while. It’s almost like every problem has a different smell. Squirrel smells like a combination of cigarette ashes and cotton candy. It’s not pretty.

I wonder if everyone knew right off that I’d tried to kill myself. I mean, I did have bandages on my wrists, so it wasn’t like it was a total mystery. They didn’t know about the gay thing, though. They couldn’t see that.

Except maybe Rankin. Maybe he knew. Why else would he have done what he did? Sure, I was the only other guy here. But would he have done that with Bone? Did he do that with Bone? I think he probably would have if he’d had the chance. It’s not like he was in love with me or anything. It was just something he did. I didn’t mean anything to him. Then again, he didn’t really mean anything to me either, so I guess that makes us even.

Funny, I’ve fooled around with a guy I didn’t care about, and the one guy I have cared about would never even think about touching me. Sometimes I wonder if Burke does ever think about me. I mean, he and Allie must have talked about what happened. I wonder if he ever imagines what it would be like if we did do anything. I mean, I’ve wondered about what it would be like with Allie even though she’s a girl. And since Burke knows I like him, wouldn’t he have to think about it? Or is the idea of it so disgusting that he can’t even imagine it?

I wonder if Allie thinks about what it would be like to have sex with me. That’s a little harder to imagine. But I know Allie. She dwells on stuff. Forever. “Letting go” is a foreign concept to her. Three years ago, Meg Crenshaw made a comment about how a sweater Allie wore made her look like a Sunday School teacher. Allie still hasn’t forgotten it.

I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do about that. Not about the sweater. About how Allie feels. Not that it’s totally up to me. Allie has a say in it, too. So does Burke, I guess. It sounds weird, but I really don’t think I care what he thinks of me anymore. Allie is more important to me than he is. But am I more important to her than Burke? I guess I wouldn’t blame her if she picked her boyfriend over me. I’d be really pissed off, though.

Anyway, back to Squirrel. I talked to him a little bit this afternoon. He’s still on the Wonder Drug, so I don’t think it’s quite sunk in yet that he’s in a psych ward. Part of me wanted to tell him. Then I remembered how cool it was to fly around in space smelling clean air, and I decided not to.

Instead, we played Monopoly. I know, it’s the most boring game in existence. But it’s good for killing time, and you don’t have to think too much about it. Juliet and Martha played, too. Juliet was the top hat, Martha was the little dog, I was the shoe, and Squirrel was the race car.

Martha won. She bought up all the red properties and set up hotels there, and that wiped the rest of us out. For someone who barely says anything, that girl is one tough landlord. When I couldn’t pay the rent on Indiana Avenue, she made me give her Marvin Gardens and the Reading Railroad. She’s like a little Donald Trump, only with better hair.

Afterward, the four of us sat there watching the snow fall outside. For some reason, I counted, and I realized that I’m getting out of here on Valentine’s Day. That’s kind of ironic, don’t you think? I mean, I ended up here because I was all heartbroken over Burke. Now I’m getting out on the most romantic day of the year.

Maybe I should make Burke a valentine. Just kidding. I’m so over him. Sure, he’s cute. And nice. And funny. Okay, so maybe I’m not totally over him. But there’s that whole being straight thing. That’s kind of a problem as far as he and I being boyfriends go.

Besides, I don’t think it was really him I wanted. It was the idea of him. I saw how happy he made Allie. Makes Allie. Present tense. At least, I assume they’re still together.

Maybe someday I’ll have a boyfriend to give a valentine to. Thinking about that kind of makes me sick, actually. I’m not exactly romantic, you know? And did you know that Valentine’s Day originally started when this emperor like a million years ago made marriage illegal because he thought it made soldiers weak? This priest—Valentine—married people in secret anyway, and he ended up having his head cut off because of it. So the first Valentine was some guy’s head. There’s some history for you.

It’s sort of perfect, when you think about it. Isn’t falling in love a lot like losing your head?

If you ever have to tell your parents you’re gay, there’s only one thing I can promise you: However you think they’ll react, they won’t.

I tried not to think about it too much, but I was awake almost all night doing exactly that. I kept running through the different scenarios that I’d rehearsed the other day with Cat Poop.

What actually happened wasn’t like anything we did, though. Well, it was and it wasn’t. It was more like a little bit of everything we did.

Things started off kind of badly because my parents were late. I don’t know why, but they were arguing about it when they got here. Something about my mother not being ready on time or my father having to stop for gas. It doesn’t matter. It’s just that they were already in a weird mood. Oh, and they brought Amanda with them, which was actually kind of good, because I wanted her to hear what I had to say, too.

So my parents were kind of bickering, not really fighting but being snappy with each other. Amanda was sitting there rolling her eyes the way she does when she’s completely embarrassed for people to know that she’s related to our mom and dad. And I was trying not to throw up.