Coming Out: Elliott and Bruce

Sometimes the road to happiness goes right through a minefield.

Bruce

Parking my car across the street from the address I was given, I looked at an older building.  The maintenance in this part of town was lacking, potholes in the street, grass growing in the cracks of the sidewalks, but I’d seen several police cars driving around, and this wasn’t considered an unsafe part of town.  I got out of the vehicle and locked it.  I jaywalked to get to the steps leading up to what appeared to be the main entrance.  I checked the address on the paper I had, Room 137.

Five steps led from the street to the door; it felt like five hundred.  My feet became heavier; my breathing, shallower, faster.  I wanted to cry.  You’re such a pussy, I told myself.  Man up.  Tell these people what’s bothering you.  Maybe it will go away.

I finally stood at the entrance to Room 137.  Inside, a circle of chairs with a snack table on the side.  I walked in and went straight for a chair.  I sat there staring at the floor.  I could tell this wasn’t going to work.  I’d had a major depressive episode, and my physician told me it was either therapy or hospitalization.  I knew why I was depressed; I just didn’t want to tell anyone.  I didn’t want to talk about it.  So there I sat in group therapy (because the co-pay was cheaper) in a room full of strange people, or maybe they were just strangers.  The chairs, only half of which were filled, had no one seated next to me.  At least there was that.

I took a deep breath.  What were they going to ask me, and what was I going to say?  My depression started when I was sixteen.  Shall I say it was just teenage angst?  Or should I tell the truth?  Would the truth finally set me free?  I wanted to tell my parents the truth.

People began to share stories.  I tried to listen.  People with drug problems, lots of drug problems.  Doing drugs as a teenager was a common theme; the next guy started when he was eight, from his father sharing his drugs.  Maybe this was the wrong group for me.

“Would you like to share why you’re here?” asked the leader of the group.  Did he say his name?  I wasn’t listening at first.  Do I say my name?

“My name is Bruce,” I started.  “I’m here because I suffer from severe depression.”  Two of them were staring at me.  The rest were looking at the floor or at the ceiling.  I tried to stay calm.  “It started when I was sixteen after  I tried to…”  I was unable to continue; I just wasn’t ready to share, not with a group of people I didn’t know.  I felt a wave of sadness wash over me, and tears began to well up.  I felt really uncomfortable.  I looked down at my feet; I wanted to run out of there, but that would have been childish.  Instead, I sat there and began to cry as quietly as I could.

A hand touched my shoulder, and a soft voice quietly said, “It’ll be OK.”

“Elliott,” said the leader.  “We do not touch others in the group.”

I reached over and touched his other hand.  “Thank you.”

Elliott returned to his seat.

I didn’t say anything else for the rest of the meeting, and I stayed in my seat as everyone got up and walked over the finish off the doughnuts and cookies.   The leader came over to me.  “You’ll get more comfortable with the group as you get to know them.  Most are regulars.  I need you to sign this form that you attended so I can report back to your physician.”

I signed, and then I got up and headed to the door.  I made it to the hall before another hand on my shoulder caused me to pause.

It was the man named Elliott.

“Don’t go yet,” he said.  “There’s something inside you that you need to get out.  Maybe this isn’t the right place for it, and maybe I’m not the right person for you to share it with.  But I’ll help if I can.”

“Thanks,” I nodded.  I felt that I wanted to tell him, maybe it was because he showed me a little compassion, but I didn’t want everyone else to know.  “I do want to tell someone, I think.”  The tears began to well up again.  I wiped them away.

“How about somewhere more private.  There’s a pizza place around the corner.  They have booths.  We can talk.  I’ll tell you my story, and you can get to know me and feel more comfortable, and when you’re ready, you can share.  Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, next week, next year.”

“You’re really nice.  Thank you.”  I smiled at him.

“There you go,” he said.  “You’ve got a great smile.  Maybe together we can get you to use it more often.”

The two of us walked to the pizza place; he started to order a small cheese, but I asked him what his favorite toppings were.

“Doesn’t matter; I’m on a budget,” he replied.

“It’s my treat.  List your favorites.”

He looked up at the menu.  “Well, Bruce, I don’t like green stuff on my pizza; I guess pepperoni.  Is that boring?  Everything not green sounds good, except anchovies.  I tried them once, I didn’t like them.  Why don’t you get what you like.”

“I like mushrooms, Italian sausage, onions, and… sometimes tomatoes, but let’s skip the tomatoes this time.  And anchovies are great on a pizza with all the meats, but only if they rinse them; otherwise, they’re too salty..”

It was his turn to smile.

“Thin crust or thick?” 

“Always thin,” he raised his eyebrows.  “Always.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”  I ordered a family-sized thin-crust pizza with mushrooms and half Italian sausage and half pepperoni.  For drinks, he got a diet Coke, and I got root beer.  We sat in a corner booth and looked at one another.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“I think I need to tell you my story so that you’re more comfortable telling me yours.  Of course, this isn’t a tit-for-tat deal.  You don’t have to tell me anything.  I guess I need to find a place to start.”

Elliott’s Story

I lived in the same house from the time I was born until I graduated from high school and moved here to work at a dog food plant.  I had a friendship with a guy named Christopher that started in second grade when he moved to our town.  He picked me out to be his friend on the first day, and we became best friends; at least, he was mine.  

I always thought he was my best friend because he was always doing stuff for me.  When his dad took him to a major league baseball game, I got to go along, and they paid for everything.  My mother could barely put food on the table.  I got to go to Disney with him.  My life became this dream, so when we got to middle school and he started sneaking alcohol from his parents, it seemed natural for him to share it with me.  That’s when I started drinking.  We acted grown-up; we thought we were grown up.  

That’s also the time I realized that I was attracted to guys.  I told him one night after we’d had a little too much to drink.  He said he understood and that it wouldn’t change how we were friends.  He even offered to let me practice on him, so I could learn for the time when I had a boyfriend.  

So, after telling him I was gay, he let me jerk him off.  Over the years, we started to do drugs as well, and the handjobs turned into blowjobs, and one night he rolled me over and fucked me.  I was in heaven because I had fallen in love with the guy who had given me the opportunity to be an alcoholic and a drug addict.  I figured he must be in love with me, too.  Why else would he fuck me?  

How we kept that all hidden, I’ll never know.

I’ll also never know how I graduated high school.  Anyway, just before graduation, I told him just how much I loved him, and that I wanted to fuck him to prove it.  I tried to kiss him.  It hadn’t dawned on me that we had never kissed.

He knocked me down and informed me that he wasn’t gay.  He just knew that no matter how many times he fucked me that he’d never get me knocked up.  'A hole’s a hole,' he said, 'and a guy’s hole is great because there’s never a baby.'  He also told me that he was only my friend because his mother insisted he befriend the poorest kid in his class. After all, it would give him insight and character.

I was devastated, as you can imagine.  I went home, and I looked for my mother’s gun.  I found it buried in the closet.  She had a trigger lock on it, and there wasn’t any ammo with it.  I went to the garage and found an electric cord, and I tried to hang myself.  The cord broke, and I fell and fractured my arm.  My mother found me and thought I had just fallen.  She took me to the local hospital, and I think that the doctor thought she might have done it to me.  Everything came out.  The ER doctor called a psychiatrist, and after talking to me, they sent me to a rehab place with mental care so I could get my head on straight.  I attend meetings like this to keep me away from the drugs, and I attend AA meetings, too.

So, that’s why I was there tonight.   And even though I know that we are not allowed to do more than a handshake, I felt that you needed someone to let you know that you’re not alone in all of this.  I don’t really know you, not yet anyway, but you can trust me, and you can count on me to help you in any way I can.

Bruce

I sat in disbelief.  He could have died.  The alcohol could have killed him; the drugs could have killed him; the cord could have killed him.  But God had kept him alive.  His life must have a purpose.  Here he was, sitting in front of me, about to share a pizza, and willing to help me.  Was I finally going to have a purpose, too?

“Bruce?  Are you OK?  What are you feeling?  You have a lost look on your face.”  His tone was caring, compassionate, concerned.

I looked up at him, and I felt my eyes welling up again.  “For the first time since I was sixteen, I feel good about things.  I actually feel really good.  I think I’m going to be alright.”

Elliott smiled at me, and a man brought our pizza to the table.  “Can I get you anything else?” he asked.

I looked up at him.  “No, I think I have everything I need right here.”  I smiled at him and then at Elliott.

In the next installment, Bruce comes out to Elliott and shares the source of his depression.