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My parents didn’t want me to mourn anymore. That much I’d understood. It was without a doubt the worst parenting advice they have ever given me. There was no way they could heal my heart, and I had no idea how to do it for myself. Therefore, in order to make them happy, I simply faked it. Every day I smiled to my parents, cracked jokes, chatted about the meaningless things unburdened people chatter about. I would flash my mother a winning grin when I walked in the door after school and cheerfully give her a review of my day. She’d reply with a big smile and tell me what was for dinner, and then I’d head upstairs to do homework. And I’d cry my eyes out for at least an hour, for after hiding my emotions all freaking day I needed a good bawl.
It was getting harder and harder to find things to be happy about. My family was useless, for they only wanted a perfect, perky me. I had no self-esteem—I was still a queer, after all; that certainly hadn’t changed. And I had no friends. My only friend in the world was suffering a fate worse than death. Christ, how could I continue like this? If Roger didn’t recover soon, I wasn’t sure what I would do. I needed my best friend, my beloved, and I needed him back home with me. How long would he be gone? After all, he was still alive. Surely some doctor would be able to treat him. Roger wasn’t the first person to ever attempt suicide; strangely enough, it was fairly common, especially among teenagers (I took to reading about mental illness, and I’d found several good articles.) Perhaps he’d be back in a matter of weeks? It would be hard to see him again—I’d cry my eyes out, no doubt about that!—but it would be worth it. Oh, God, just to see him again! I knew exactly what I’d do when I saw him again, and I ran it through my mind over and over. I would wrap my arms around his shoulders and hug him tighter than I ever had before. I would say: I love you, I love you, I don’t care what you’ve done or what’s wrong with you, I still love you more than anyone else and I won’t ever leave you. And he would cry, too, and he would apologize the way he always does, but in the end it would be okay. I would be there for him as much as he needed me, and I would help him return to normal. It would go back to the way we were before, only better, because now he wouldn’t need to hide anything from me. And we would never be separated again. Lying on my back on my bed every night, I would close my eyes and envision this. I would try to feel the pressure of his arms against my waist, try to recall the smell of his hair against my face, try to hear the fading echoes of his voice in my ears. And I’d think: Oh, God, Roger, you don’t even understand how much I love you. Despite how much time I’d spent obsessing over him for the past few years, I wasn’t even sure I had realized how much I loved him until now—now that I’d lost him. But now I knew, now I felt this loss every waking moment of my day. Now I realized just how much he really meant to me. Freaking hell, I’d never known it was possible to care about another person this much. I would never lie to him again, I decided. After he came home, after I was sure he was stable again, I would tell him how I really felt about him. I would tell him I was gay. I knew in my heart he would not abandon me for it. It’s okay, he would tell me. It doesn’t matter to me. I love you anyway. If I could tell him, I’d be better off. Maybe he would know how to help me. If he supported me, maybe I could learn to accept myself. Maybe I could even work up the courage to tell my parents. God, yes… These were the only thoughts that made me happy.
For two months, I survived without him. I clung desperately to the hope of his return. I had never been so lonely or miserable in my life, but reports from Mrs. O’Donnell were somewhat positive. The doctors said he was becoming increasingly less violent and more normal. (I wondered if he realized where he was—if he remembered what had happened—if he missed me.) They said he might be able to come home soon. It was too much to believe—it kept me alive, regardless—oh, God, my Roger was coming home. If I could hold out for a few more weeks, a few more days, my beloved would be back home where he belonged—back with me! Oh, God, what would I say? No, I’d already decided that—but could I go through with it? Would I really have the guts to tell him what I’d rehearsed—Oh, who the hell cared, so long as he was back! Days went by—how the hours dragged during school! Christmas passed, New Years passed, I switched calendars. Any day now. I missed you so much, Roger! Don’t you EVER leave me again, okay? I won’t, Arik, I promise, I promise! I’m so glad you’re back home. I am too. Any day now.
Sometime before Valentine’s Day, we found out that Roger had tried to kill himself again, by strangling himself or hanging himself—something like that. He wasn’t coming home.
I gave up. |