That's my title and this is part one of many.
It's a journey that may not be suitable for everyone, particularly if you're sensitive to topics such as drugs or suicide. If that's the case, I advise against reading further. However, it is an authentic account of the events that have influenced the person I have become today.
That fateful day when I woke up to embark on my paper route as a young boy, little did I know it would leave an indelible mark on my life, impacting the lives of countless others before my final breath. It's often believed that crimes or inhumane actions victimize only a select few, but let me assure you, that couldn't be further from the truth.
That morning, I set out to start my paper route, a means to earn some extra money for personal indulgences, without the burdens of adulthood weighing me down. I was still an untainted, innocent boy, untouched by the harsh realities of life. Thanks to my parents, I had a moped to ease the task of pedaling through the neighborhood day after day, delivering papers. Most of the other boys in the neighborhood didn't take up the paper route, especially the boys next door. Some were as young as my sister's friends, while others were older, enough to be my friends or even older still. We used to spend our time together, playing sports, kicking balls, or engaging in whatever activities we fancied. However, on this particular morning, when I went over to their place, they were all absent, except for the eldest brother in his late 20s.
Carrying my bag of newspapers, I prepared to start my moped, only to discover a flat tire. Changing it was a skill I had acquired, and I began the process to get my day started. As I reached for my spare tire, I realized that I couldn't find my pump. I knew Charlie or one of the boys next door would surely have one I could borrow, so I approached their door. It was the oldest brother who answered, a person well-liked by everyone, often seen socializing with high school and college kids, supplying them with alcohol and who knows what else. At my young age, it was mostly rumors, or so I thought. He listened to my request and instructed me to go around the back to the back door, assuring me he knew exactly where the pump was. Following his instructions, I made my way to the backyard, and although I searched thoroughly, the pump was nowhere to be found. He then invited me inside, requesting that I wait while he quickly looked for it. I had been to their place countless times before, on sunny days, weekends, any day really, but I could never have imagined what awaited me.
He couldn't find the pump, but he did find his stash of beer and marijuana, concealed amidst bags of concrete in the back of the room. He offered me marijuana, but I declined, and as for the beer, I hesitated, unsure. I mean, everyone liked this guy, and how cool would it be to have a beer with him? After all, my dad drinks beer, my mom drinks it too. Am I the only one who doesn't? In that moment, I was holding that beer, pretending to be cool like him. As I sipped my beer, he suddenly pinned me down with his body weight, rendering me immobile. With his arms free to do as he pleased, he subjected me to unspeakable acts, dismissing my existence once he was finished. No pump, no assistance, just a bewildered expression etched on my face, questioning what had just transpired.
I vividly recall the immense rage surging within me as he shut the door, my eyes falling upon a Wiener dog nearby. If only I could have reached it, I would have swiftly ended its life, crushing its head without hesitation. Perchance the dog sensed the turmoil raging within me, wisely choosing to keep its distance. And it was indeed fortunate that it stayed away, for it may have detected the seething anger festering in my mind that day. In a state of aimless daze and confusion, I wandered down the street, not even heading home. I had no destination in mind, lost in a mindless journey that I now refer to as the rabbit hole.
At the end of the street, there stood a restaurant, a place my family and I frequented. It was a refuge, where friends and I would gather to indulge in French fries and engage in hours of conversation. On that day, it became a haven for me. As I approached, I noticed two city police cars in the parking lot, their officers visible through the bay window of the Bayside restaurant. Without hesitation, I entered the establishment and made my way to their table, unburdening myself of the pain and suffering I had carried for What seemed like an eternity. Eventually, we ended up at the police station, where I provided a detailed account of the entire incident—when, where, and how it all occurred. I offered every answer they sought, but the question of "why" remained unanswered. Why me? I recollect sitting in the police station, realizing they were hesitant to inform my father before his arrest, fearing he might harm him. If I had received that phone call as a father, I would have torn through iron bars to reach him. Consequently, he was apprehended, confined to a jail cell. His brothers were aware of what transpired, and as a result, we lost our friends. My sister and I found ourselves isolated. A couple of days after the event, while on the school bus, two brothers boarded and positioned themselves at the front, scanning the bus as if searching for a lost soul, their hands shading their eyes. Suddenly, they pointed directly at me, shouting across the bus, questioning whether I enjoyed what had occurred and warning me to steer clear if I had. This was merely the onset of relentless ridicule and taunting.
Do you know those narrow slots in locker doors? They're perfect for slipping in notes and vile insults, hundreds of them. From one classroom to the next, trust me, it persisted for weeks. I was oblivious to the identities and origins of these people. I couldn't discern my true friends from those who harbored malice. The incessant whispers, glances, notes, pictures, and inquiries pushed me to my limit. I reached a breaking point, frantically seeking solace in the principal's office. I had to put an end to this torment, or else I would suffer harm, or worse, someone else would.
I barged into the principal's office, where, as usual, he was accompanied by young girls, one of whom was seated on his lap. I pleaded with him, insisting on an immediate conversation. His frustration grew, and he abruptly dismissed the girl from his lap, meeting my gaze with a smirk, condescendingly suggesting I calm down and have a beer. In that moment, I realized he knew, everyone knew. They all believed I was a repulsive, pathetic alcoholic queer. Nowhere was safe from my tarnished reputation. But at that moment, he was the one who was not safe.
The rage building inside me was ready to erupt, and I intended to unleash it upon him, to make him pay for the countless notes and relentless hatred. I turned to face him, and there he stands with the vice principal and two city policemen to tell me that I've been expelled from school never to return.
The days transformed into weeks, and finally, the trial arrived. Surprisingly, it passed swiftly, despite the considerable time it took to materialize. The duration of the case allowed him to deliver a pitiful apology, appearing so convincing that even the judge believed him, resulting in a mere probationary sentence.
Is that all he deserves? To be kept away from me? Astonishing.
Apparently, my worth simply holds no significance.
The so-called trial hardly resembled justice—it was an aberration, incomparable to any semblance of true legal proceedings. On that day, I came to the realization that law enforcement and figures of authority should steer clear of me. I found myself adapting, learning to validate my masculinity and define myself as a man in my own terms. The heinous act stripped me of my manhood, leaving me with unanswered questions: Did I walk, talk, or even smell like a girl? Why did he think he could subject me to this? And then, it happened.
He failed to learn his lesson and proceeded to victimize two or three other boys, as I later discovered. One of them came from a privileged background, and justice prevailed for each of them. They ensured he received a consecutive 15-year sentence for each offense, meaning he must serve 15 years before even contemplating parole for the third offense. He has been incarcerated for over 30 years. However, why did those other boys’ matter? Why did they possess a voice while I remained voiceless? Was it because I was tarnished, repulsive, or simply because I drank a beer or sought financial stability? Why did God allow such vile acts to befall me and, once again, harm more boys, yet granting them a voice denied to me?
Life continued with a series of girls, fights, and drinks as I entered the age-old stage of 16. I was already facing legal repercussions for public intoxication and engaging in countless sexual encounters, all in a bid to validate my manhood. This pattern persisted for numerous years, yet I never mistreated or demeaned women. I remained faithful and treated them with respect. However, they became a means to an end, a tool for me to feel like a man—the only approach I knew. My youth revolved around alcohol and women until one day in my mid-20s, when I was introduced to methamphetamines. It allowed me to experience sensation when I felt nothing and numbed me when emotions overwhelmed. It bestowed upon me a sense of control and power, for I possessed what others desired. Little did I know, I would soon discover the depths to which I would stoop for it. Consequently, I made the decision to enlist in the military—a path I believed would earn me recognition as a man among men.
Things were going pretty good for me in the military. The structure no one knew about my past and nobody cried or showed emotion or looked tired or anything that made them look weak or vulnerable, so I fit right in except I was so young. Basic AIT and then into jump school and onto my duty station I get up there even at the age of 18 I’m able to drink in local bars because it's in the military I was a man LOL.
Defining myself within the constraints of societal expectations led me to confront another layer of trauma that I must confront. Thursdays were my preferred days for CQ duty since once you finished, you had the next day off. The shift lasted from 7 PM until 7 AM, ensuring the security of the armory and performing basic duties at the desks. It was during one such night that a young paratrooper joined me at the table, visibly distressed and with a heavy weight upon his shoulders. With his head buried in his hands, he shared how his fellow soldiers incessantly taunted him for struggling to keep up during the morning runs. On that day, he sought solace in the wrong person. He approached someone who had relinquished the ability to shed tears, someone who concealed emotions, weaknesses, sorrow, and sadness beneath layers of seething rage and anger. After hearing him out, I sternly advised him to rise above the situation, urging him to summon courage and resilience. I assured him that I would report the matter to the first sergeant the following morning but emphasized the importance of taking responsibility.
The following morning marked the conclusion of my rounds, a clear indication that it was time to retreat to my room and seize a few hours of sleep before immersing myself in a weekend of celebration. Having fulfilled my duties, I ascended to the third floor of our barracks, the designated location for the first sergeant's office. The night had been uneventful, aside from encountering a despondent young man overwhelmed by vulnerability and tears. As I climbed the stairs to the second floor, a sudden realization struck me: his room was directly across the hallway. Glancing inside, a surge of recognition coursed through me, but it was an instant too late. In that fleeting moment, he tragically pressed the M16 rifle beneath his chin, bringing an abrupt end to his life, right before my eyes. I stood there, disoriented, unable to comprehend the incomprehensible. The jarring sound continued to reverberate in my ears, my head spinning, my body frozen in shock, while the walls became adorned with splatters of blood and brains. The indelible scent of gunpowder and metallic blood permeated the air, haunting my senses even now.
I was left utterly bewildered, burdened by an enduring guilt that remains ingrained within me. No one can persuade me otherwise—I bear responsibility for what transpired. I could have displayed compassion, demonstrated genuine concern, and shown that I cared. Instead, I chose to remain stoic and unyielding, emphasizing the need for him to adopt the same unyielding fortitude and face life head-on like a man. But not me. I was unable to reveal even a trace of vulnerability or empathy. What if I had done just a little more? What if someone had extended a shred of compassion when I was grappling with my own personal hell during high school, inundated by a deluge of notes and pictures? Countless "what ifs" linger, with no one able to convince me that I could not have altered the young man's trajectory—a choice he made, influenced by a choice I made. This haunting realization has plagued me to this day, reinforcing the notion that suicide may seem like a viable solution, an easy way out to escape the relentless torment.
This young soldier stationed in Alaska, with no family around, faced the burden of attending a funeral. A funeral that I feel responsible for, as if I could have prevented it. I was unaware of the proceedings, simply present. Unfamiliar with funeral customs, I sat alone in the church pew amidst strangers. Then came the roll call, soldiers' names being called out one by one. When they reached his name, a chilling reaction ran through me. I was at a loss, questioning the purpose. Was this a cruel cosmic joke? They announced his absence and played taps.
These two events represent the most significant ordeals I've endured. As I mentioned, the incident that morning affected countless lives. It intertwined with my promiscuous lifestyle of parties, sex, and substance abuse—a futile attempt to prove my manhood. I couldn't display sadness, loneliness, or fatigue. I had to provide, be the epitome of masculinity, even if it was all in my head. Yet, it wasn't sufficient. I craved validation, positive feedback that contradicted the negative opinions about me. After a brief period of drug use in my twenties, I managed to remain clean for a while, with occasional relapses. Then, for twenty years, I stayed drug-free until the tumultuous year of 2019 arrived.
2019 was a year of personal struggles—a year where I couldn't bring myself to seek help, shed tears, or admit to pain. It didn't align with my perception of manliness. My ex-wife was right when she advised me to see a therapist and prepare for what lay ahead. You see, my father, the only man I truly trusted, the only one who could touch me, put his arm around me, and say he loved me without any ulterior motives, was diagnosed with cancer. The doctors gave him a life expectancy of six months to a year. I couldn't fathom the idea of my father dying. Who would I turn to for guidance? How could this be happening? But it did, and eleven months later, I lost my father. My lack of seeking help only fueled my anger. It compounded with the anger I harbored from the earlier traumatic event and the self-directed anger for allowing that young man to take his own life. Now, I was furious with God for taking away the man who had taught me the true essence of manhood.
Within six months of losing my father, my depression, anger, and drug use pushed away my family. I drove away my wife and children, lost my job, my home, my car, and ultimately lost myself. I descended into drug addiction and made poor choices in relationships. I wasn't ready to be with anyone; I didn't want to cause them pain because I felt so empty inside. Yet, even when someone gave me a chance, I squandered it. Recently, during the fourth anniversary of my father's death, I realized that I was going nowhere. I had become a homeless, drug-addicted individual who destroyed relationships. I couldn't fathom feeling any lower than I did at that moment. What kind of man drives away his wife and children? What kind of man scares them to the point of locking their doors at night? For years, I mistakenly believed that proving my manhood was about material possessions—a car, a house—until I hit rock bottom. But it wasn't just rock bottom; I bounced on that bottom multiple times.
It was in that precise moment of realization that the full magnitude of the harm I had inflicted upon my kinfolk and my most recent romantic partner truly dawned upon me. She, who had placed her unwavering trust in my abilities even during my darkest hours of self-doubt, became the beacon of hope that illuminated my path of despair, despite my wilful ignorance towards the guidance offered by my relatives and former spouse. Unquestionably, it required the presence of a singular individual to evoke such enlightenment within me.
