Chapter Five A Hero's Quest Hey, Everyone Nifty needs your donations to provide these wonderful stories in our own words http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
This is a tale with all the elements of a great heroic journey, or that's how I'm going to tell it to you. A hero may make big gestures that attract great admiration and exaltation. Other hero's small, simple contributions often go without acknowledgment but hold the same importance as those great deeds. Some journeys cover a vast expanse of time and space, and others may never leave the town in which they begin. At the end like everything else, you decide who the villains and the heroes are and if the quest is fulfilled.
There's nothing great or amazing about me. I never pulled a sword from a stone. I guess the most interesting thing about Alan Layne is I survive. To be dramatic and follow my theme I'd say I went into the underworld dwelling there among monsters until a hero heard my wails. Putting his life in peril, he showed his bright light pushing the monsters away and leading me back to the land of the living.
Christened James Alan Layne blossoming into The Destroyer I lay waste to life although not idyllic is survivable and with merit. It's a typical story of love, denial, revenge, and excommunication -- one containing both fire and salt to purge the landscape. Humans want their moment no matter how short-lived to prove their worth and strength. This is my story that's full of loss and loathing and finally salvation and redemption. Cue Asleep by The Smiths.
I had lost and therefore was lost. To the community I lived, I possessed no value and therefore was refuse. Cast out and shunned I was taken in by a family that was on edge like me. My mother's brother welcomed me and took me to be his own. Unfamiliar with affection he kept me warm and fed and well and was intent on me receiving an education. In his house moving from room to room I would go days without seeing or speaking to him. How he made money or enjoyed life is a mystery. He did his best. No, he did excellent for what he took in.
Everything is a choice even movements we are taught are involuntary. In some deep corner, you are choosing to breathe as you read this. You are choosing for your heart to beat and therefore your blood to pump. The physical choices.... ones like having cornflakes instead of oatmeal for breakfast are just as remarkable. Will your life take a different path if you wear the green shirt rather than the blue this morning? Fortunately, or unfortunately, the involuntary state of all humans is to survive. And so, it takes great courage to fight against the current to diverge from the code and not choose life.
Suicide or the art of self-termination can either be a quick act or one that may take an extended period. Is taking a shiny metal item in hand and slashing that much different from choosing addiction or self-isolation or avoiding care of self? Society judges. It chooses to shame. It casts itself as the victim. The ones left behind....the ones that missed the warnings. The angry survivor. Suicide in its concentrated form more pure and brave....much more than the aqueous. A more accepted choice one with few condemnations and fanfare.
Suicide was the key that unlocked the darkness and allowed me to slide in easy. I failed and was punished with an extended stay among the dead. Suicide was coded into my DNA. I was predestined to complete. Surviving was always an option. Accepting my marks....the signs of my actions both those seen and unseen identify me as part of the damned. Membership in this group does not come without the possibility of redemption. It does, however, require great sacrifice.
And so as we spin and attempt to find our place among the wild. We learn as children to accept pain and disappointment without hope. We learn that speaking something aloud makes it true if only to others. We learn to defeat before we are defeated. We pretend that love and hope is everywhere when they are rarer than diamonds. A lot of us do not make it out alive even if we still breathe. Where do I belong.....where is my place? Some will never know.
John's and my mother pregnant with male heirs touched their bellies together, and a bond was formed. One child born perfectly naturally and prize worthy. The other.... blue pulled from the mother feet first cord firmly around its neck. I entered the world in the reverse hangman position. Fortune is telling my mother to let go and not fight change. End the maternal relationship with this son. It's the only way to be happy.
I knew I was gay and I assumed John was....we never discussed it. We talked of always being together of loving and of having a home...all silly kid stuff. We were together even when we weren't. I don't know if we even knew what gay meant. We did know that what we did could not be done in public....everyone assumed we were like brothers....if only they had known.
The first time we were together touching each other was very special. Beneath the glow of blinking Christmas lights, we made our lives physical. Afterward lying on our backs staring at the ceiling John asked what type of dog I wanted after we got married. We laughed at my reply, but not at the possibility. He was ready for round two. And so it would be for almost three years -- the Wild Boys throwing caution to the wind both in public and in private.
John broke after his mother died. He turned on everything he knew including me. He cast me out when he confessed to his Uncle Nathan about our relationship. I didn't understand the extent of being thrown to the side would include. Soon I'd learn it meant humiliating me and denying everything about our past. On the day of expulsion all our dreams, hopes, and plans were cast to the wind and outsiders were allowed to decide what our relationship was. Being called a disgusting faggot by someone you loved and believed loved you was worse than being punched and kicked.
The aftermath was my nose bleeding and being covered in blood. John was walking down the hall. I turned and walked the opposite way exiting the building. I walked across the fields and through the wooded area separating the school from the county road. I kept my head up, and my eyes focused straight ahead. A police car stopped asking if I needed anything. A kid walking down the road covered in blood is bound to draw attention. The cop knew me and got me to get in his car. I didn't talk much, but he decided he would run me home to change clothes and return me to school.
Odd as it was upon memory I feel like I was an observer to all the action that was about to occur. From the first punch thrown some part of me hovered over the action missing nothing. I was a witness to the destruction I was about to cause.
The cop sat in the driveway as I walked in the front door and out the back grabbing a lighter from the shelf by the backdoor. I was swung by the shed and picked up the can of gas. I walked through my yard to the trees or the neutral zone we called it. It was the space between our two backyards. I threw the gas everywhere and lit it. The treehouse built the summer of `81 burst into flames spreading fast among the fall leaves and pine trees. As it reached John's garage, the police rounded the corner of my house tackling me. I thought I was dead. I wanted to be dead.
I was still covered in blood sitting on my back patio watching firemen putting out my handiwork and keeping it from spreading to John's house. Nathan stood in the backyard talking to the police. My mom glass in hand stood over me. She said something I don't remember. Someone handed me a wet towel to clean my blood up. I stood and said I was ready to go to jail. The cop said that wasn't going to be happening and I was disappointed. My mom and I went inside. Our conversation was something like....
"Alan, what in God's name have you done?" She asked.
"Clearly, I've set a fire.....I don't...,"
"The school called said you and John fought...."
"MOM...I don't.."
"Are you and John gay.....are you gay?" She asked.
I didn't answer. I looked her in the eyes and did not turn away.
"What have you done to John?"
"Please...can I go get cleaned up....take a shower...please?" I begged.
She stood shaking the ice in her glass just looking at me. "Yes, and take your time."
My mom took pills. I don't know what they are called. I knew once she took them she zoned out. I also knew they were blue. I diverted to my parent's bathroom and found them. I emptied the bottle into my mouth watching myself in her bathroom mirror. I left the room walking down the hall to my room chewing. I didn't bother to undress. I turned the shower on and stepped inside. Standing there with my mouth open washing the unchewed bits down my throat I prayed that they would do their job. Leaving the shower running I went and collapsed on my bed. I didn't know then, but this would be my last time in this room....... in this bed.
I watched myself there wet, eyes closed, and still bloodied. I don't know how long I watched myself on the bed but there came I time where I didn't want to look anymore. I knew that it was over because I couldn't feel the hurt anymore. There was nothing just emptiness, and that felt good.
Suicide is not easy. For me to say that I was unaware of what my plans would be a lie. Every step I took after the school incident was a planned. Walking down that road towards home I mapped every single move out. I knew Admittley the police picking me up could have been an issue, but if anything had happened, it would have only delayed my plan. I was going to set and watch a fire destroy me. I was going to wipe myself out. I knew where the pills were and knew that I could get them if not that day another. I was finished, and I wanted a do-over.
Too many bad things have happened, and I no longer remember my feelings of that night. In two years everything changed. John would walk away as the normal straight boy being pursued by an aggressive trouble kid who was an abomination. I tried to die in every way. Losing something you counted on but never knew how much until it is all gone..... destroyed me.
I felt movement. I can't place it. My eyelids are closed, but there's a bright light shining in my face. I slowly begin to hear "Hey...come on...open those big eyes....come on now...... you can do it" It is when I open my eyes I know I'm not dead that I've not succeeded. The only thing I wanted and I failed and made my life so much worse. So much for my grand exit.
There wasn't anything to say. I wasn't asked any questions. Every therapist and hospital personnel that came into my room knew my story. It was like everyone got a script except the star. Throughout eight weeks, I learned how to accept the lies and not share too much of my emotions. This was good cause I don't think I could have voiced how I felt. I couldn't cry. I didn't laugh. I just didn't feel anything.
My father never came to see me never came to the family counseling sessions. My mother only stopped in twice. It was staff that informed me I wouldn't be returning to my home or school. I sat in the big chair in Doctor Tim's office being questioned about my feelings. I didn't say anything. I wasn't sure what was going to happen to me. My mind was running through a hundred scenarios.
Peter was my mom's youngest brother. He was seven years younger than her. Interaction with him had been limited after my grandparents died. I did remember seeing and playing with him one 4th of July. He lived in the Georgia mountains. I'm not sure what he did or does. On the day I was discharged Uncle Peter is who came and picked me up.
I had nothing to say and no questions. Uncle Peter talked nervously and acted like I knew what was going on. We pulled up to his house concrete and modern. He got out and told me to come on. In the living room were boxes containing all my worldly possessions. My life reduced to four boxes. Seeing this meant it was true. It felt like I was being punched over and over in the gut. Uncle Peter registered my expression.
"Ok...what about this.....you can choose to keep everything.....don't have to do anything with it now....we can put it in the garage.......or you can salvage what you want..get rid of the rest....or pitch it all...I don't care....but why don't we get up tommorrow....go into Atlanta and buy whatever you need or want..."
"Can I sit down....please?" I asked.
"Yeah....you don't have to ask...here we can go over here....is this ok?"
"Sorry.... I don't know what to do....sorry, "I say. The questions and boxes I couldn't think.
"I understand.....buddy.....I don't either....we're going to do this together....ok.... you're going to be alright....we can do this.....I need you to know that you have a home with me.... always....might be hard to believe right now considering...but it's true." He pats me on the leg.
I didn't understand until that moment that I really had been expelled from my life. I didn't exist to anyone in Rome, Georgia. This became clearer and clearer as the night progressed. I learned Uncle Peter was my legal and full guardian. My parents had no say in any part of my life. At sixteen hearing all this didn't make me sad. I was angry and full of hate. In my heart, I wanted to burn that town down and salt the earth so nothing would grow for a hundred years. I wanted everyone to hurt.
Peter continued. He showed me the rooms I could choose from. If I wanted I could move furniture. I could live upstairs or in the basement turn the den into one big bedroom. He was trying too hard. I knew I needed to show I was grateful, but I didn't have any emotions to share.
"Thank you...really.....it's a lot..... I don't know where to start.... can we take a break?" I say.
"Sorry...sorry...don't Need any decisions except what you would like to eat today.....fridge and cabinets are full...if it's not right....let me know, and I can go to the store," he says.
"Thanks..." I ease into the couch as he hands me the remote. He leaves and brings me back a coke and backs out of the room. I turned the TV on and discovered that it was Thanksgiving and the day after my birthday.
I don't know how long I slept, but I woke sitting on the couch with Uncle Peter gently tapping my shoulder.
"Come on....there are three beds.....find one for the night.....I've got some shorts and a t-shirt for you to change into...you can take a shower...come on," Peter says.
I follow behind as we go upstairs. I take the first room to the door he opens. He goes in and turns the bathroom light on and says something about towels and stuff. I lie down on the bed. Uncle Peter walks over and sits on the bed.
"Listen, we don't have to talk about the past.....don't have to explain anything to me...I don't need any answers.....you can do all that in therapy..... if you do want to talk. I'm here and will listen.....you can tell me anything....I mean that.....I can't fix it...wish I could.... buddy but I'll do anything to help and make it better..... You are here because I want you here..... you need to understand...I said it.... please believe... you have a place here...but... most of all you belong here....So, sleep.....buddy.... they'll be coffee and bacon in the morning....you do like coffee?....you can let me know if you're up for shopping in the morning."
As he stood, I said."Thank you......don't know if I like coffee."
"Alright....something new in the morning...good night bud," he left smiling.
I was not meant to play the outcast. I wouldn't have chosen the role. Since it has been thrust upon me, I've decided to do my best. Uncle Peter didn't know me. He didn't know what I was before he picked me up that Thanksgiving. I decided the happy/content Alan was gone. Long live the sullen dark, moody Alan. I sourced my clothes at thrift shops and supplemented whatever else I needed from Uncle Peter when we went shopping. He had no opinion about this new look didn't care when I shaved my head or when I let it grow long.
I had a tutor. She was nice and prepared me to get my GED. I'd decided not to return to a school for my last year. I was to concentrate on healing as the therapist called it and getting ready for college. My therapist and psychiatrist both were nice and accommodating. All I was doing was making up things to say. I created a story that fit what I believed everyone else would accept. I learned to pretend that I was getting better whatever that meant.
I wasn't over being mad. I had few outlets for my anger. I took glass bottles and things out to the woods and broke them. The first time I made myself bleed I picked up a piece of glass and sliced my hand. Watching the blood slowly begin to fill my palm made me feel nothing. I tried fire. It didn't result in the reaction I was looking for. I thought of punching myself in the face but knew it would be hard to explain. I took an extension cord and attempted to beat myself without much luck. I was running out of ideas.
A 16-17-year-old male has certain needs. I'd never shied away from pleasure before. Starting at about 12 I began masturbating, and like most boys I was adventurous. Since being here at Uncle Peter's, it had not become a part of my normal routine. I seldom had sexual thoughts. There were times when I would wake from a wet dream involving John and me. Those incidents almost always ended with me crying. The therapist never asked about these kinds of thoughts. If he had, I wouldn't have had the courage to say I felt dead and I was not interested in touching myself. I wanted only to hurt not have any other feelings.
In one of the four boxes, my previous life had been reduced to I found a drafting pencil. I was fascinated by the color.... a nice teal blue. It was heavy and when the top was pushed the nib opened like bird talons. I had no lead for it. I'm not sure how it got into my things. I kept it. It lay on my bedside table for weeks. I'd sometimes hold it twirling it through my fingers. One night after a dream I sat on the side of the bed with the room lit low by the bathroom nightlight. I'm taping the pencil against my head hard trying to get thoughts out. I don't know how it happened or what made me do it, but in a swift single move I grasped the pencil and plunged it hard into my thigh tearing a hole in my shorts. I quickly removed my hand, and for a moment the pencil stood straight up.
The pain was the kind that when it first hits, it forces you to fill your lungs to the max. Then a burning begins to spread out from the center of the pain. This is when you slowly release the air overflowing your lungs. The next thing is a prickly feeling that hits every nerve in your body. It's better than any orgasm I had ever had. I found my punishment the thing that could help take the pain and anger and hurt away.
I know I felt during this time. I knew that I hurt in a way that I could not be put into words. I knew I pretended to be interested and funny when I wasn't. I did this for the very people that were supposed to help me. I did not know what to tell my therapist, so I made things up. I'm not sure if I remember when it started or even if I knew what was happening. I created a life where I was getting better and resolving my issues. Actually, I didn't know what my issues were...not really.
Uncle Peter and I never fought never really argued. He'd ask me to do something, and I would do it. He was easy to get along with. In truth, we didn't see each other very much. He worked in his office all the time, and I have left the rest of the house. He's kind and gentle and asks for nothing.....but I'm not sure if I felt love.
Children may put a beloved toy away not realizing that the last time can come without fanfare. The last time was just like all the others. Playing until satisfied we put each other away to return to the pretend world. Toys to be left on the shelf and just not forgotten but denied and ultimately broken.
A lot of the time I do my best to hate most things.... I understand this is out of not wanting to be let down. Since birth people have let me down and I learned just not to expect anything which morphed into not caring and hating. This does not protect me from getting hurt...it's easy for me to pretend that it does but....I've not figured out how to inwardly not care.
Alan as outcast was not the role I was born to play. When a happy kid dies a lot of things get destroyed. My happiness and safety were taken, and I wanted everyone else to feel how much I hurt. Or, I wanted to die. I tried. Puking in the ambulance and having an EMT smack me over and over attempting to get me not to fall asleep and two nurses in the ER that had seen me on another trip led me to try another approach that would involve living. Having nurses commiserate with me...tell me no man is worth all this...to cut my hair or buy some shoes instead....The young EMT guy coming to me sharing that there were lots of us out in the world.... a family waiting for me and to trust him I don't want to miss any of it....did more than any doctor or family talk.
Why kill myself? At the time I thought I was doing the right thing. I was going to end my life, and maybe by casting me as the bad guy, everyone else would live and thrive. Of course, I was wrong.....in life as in death, I was to remain the evil one....the disgusting destroyer of it all. Now I had to learn to live with attempting suicide and surviving as the cause.
And so.....the boy becomes a man no more sure of the world around him and with few expectations. His time in the dark is over, and now he must survive.... become a hero to save himself....to build a life.....to prove that broken and cast aside things can be made whole again and find a place. These are my secret desires.
We can all help prevent suicide. The Lifeline provides 24/7, free and confidential support for people in distress, prevention and crisis resources for you or your loved ones, and best practices for professionals. 1-800-273-8255 https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/