Life Gets Better, Chapter 1

Being discovered – Adrian Peralta

My father is kind of a famous Detroit mogul, so I’ll tell you he is Adrien Peralta. If you are in some way involved in the automotive business, you probably know him as the owner of Peralta Engine Controls, a major supplier of computerized engine control components for all Chrysler, Ford, and GM products. So, I have to admit my parents are wealthy enough that I pretty much had and did everything I wanted while growing up. And because I grew up in the most affluent part of Gross Point Michigan, and attended a prestigious private school, the same was true for my friends and schoolmates. Add to that the fact that I am an only child, making me sole heir to my parent’s fortune, as well as to my father’s name has caused both me and my parents to feel like my future is pretty much set.

Yes, I am Adrien Junior. I’ve always hated being called Junior, so my friends have always called me Ade. Of course, having stuff, or confidence in my future isn’t what makes life great or even worth living. Personally, what makes life worth living is the simple ability to like and respect yourself, your abilities, your accomplishments, and your integrity.

For the most part I both liked and respected myself until I entered high school. Even then I liked my physical self, and by that, I mean my general facial features, hair color, and body type. I also liked the fact that most of the kids I knew liked and respected me. What I didn’t like were the secrets I was keeping as they were making me feel as if the real me wasn’t acceptable or respectable. I always knew I was different, but I didn’t come to the realization that I was actually gay until I entered high school. And once I accepted that fact, I felt like I was the only gay guy in my entire school. That may not seem like a big deal, but when I put all of that together, I felt alone and Isolated, as if I couldn’t share my real self or true feelings with anyone, not even my parents.

It’s not that I felt my parents were particularly homophobic, yet from little things they said or did, or even joked about, I feared they would immediately think less of me if they ever learned my true identity. So, like a lot of gay kids, I simply adjusted to living a false life behind what I felt was an acceptable facade of acting normal, happy, and straight, a tactic that worked for me until I gave Rickie Di Angelo a ride home from school.

Rickie was never what I considered a close friend, yet, up until that day I at least thought we were buddies. He and I were both 18 at that time, and only two weeks away from graduating high school when I offered him a ride home from school. It was a warm summer day and we had just finished tennis practice. Because everything seemed perfect to me up until that day, I wasn’t ready for my life to suddenly come crashing down on me. Rickie and I were laughing and joking when we got to my car. We both threw our bookbags and tennis racquets in the back seat before I drove from the school’s parking lot.

All went well until we got to Rickie’s house, because that was when Rickie reached back to retrieve his bookbag and tennis racquet. Unfortunately, his bookbag had somehow fallen to the floor, causing him to have to turn completely around and lean over the back of his seat to retrieve it, an act that also allowed him to see a portion of a gay porn magazine that I had purchased the day before, and had hastily stashed under the back of my front seat until I could safely sneak it up to my room. Rickie pulled it fully out, and while just looking at it with his mouth hanging open, he said, “Wow, is this yours?”

I glance back over my shoulder to see what he was talking about, and was immediately stunned to see him holding my porn magazine whose front cover featured a photo of a young man’s butt and asshole. I wanted to say “no,” that I had never seen it before, but instead I became speechless, leaving the stunned look on my face to answer his question. Rickie then looked right in my eyes while saying, “You’re a fucking fag, aren’t you?” And before I could respond he held the magazine before me as if he was displaying a piece of evidence in court. I wanted to deny ownership, but before I could speak, he threw the magazine to the back seat and wiped his hand on his tennis shorts as if my magazine had somehow contaminated his hand. And then, as he stepped from my car he said, “I knew it. You’re a fucking faggot.” And then he added “I better not ever catch you looking at my ass in the shower room or I’ll fuck you up.” And then he slammed my passenger door and walked to his house.

This may seem overly dramatic, but I truly wanted to die right there on that spot. And I’m not exaggerating when I tell you I was in such a state of shock I felt as if I might literally lose consciousness, and so I didn’t drive away for several seconds. Instead, I just sat there hating myself for leaving that magazine so poorly concealed. And when I was finally able to drive, I couldn’t help thinking about the fact that Rickie and I had several classes together, including boy’s P.E. and so I knew he would tell everyone I knew I was gay and there was nothing I could do to stop him.

I was still feeling sick, empty, and alone by the time I got home. I spent the whole ride home trying to think of a way I could keep Rickie from blabbing my secret all over our school. But having come up with no solution, as soon as I got to my room I sat at my desk and laid my head on its hard surface while wondering why I had to be gay. I didn’t want to be gay. In fact, I never wanted to be gay. But the undeniable truth was, I liked boys to the point that thinking of boys and their sexy bodies while masturbating was the only way I could get off, so there was no way I could deny the fact that I was indeed gay.

My mother came up to my room about an hour later to invite me down for dinner. I was in my bed and under its covers by that point, and was trying to remember how I got there as she began to ask all of the expected mother questions, like, “Why are you in bed? Are you feeling okay? Is everything okay at school? Should I call a doctor?”

I wanted to tell her I needed for us to move to a faraway town, or perhaps even better to a faraway country. But instead, I told her I just needed to be left alone. It took an annoyingly long time, but she finally left me alone and went back down stairs. That was when I remembered I had a mountain climbing rope out in our garage. So, without much more thought I decided the only answer to my problem was for me to simply be gone from the face of this earth.

Like most 18-year-olds, I knew nothing about the science of death by hanging. So, you won’t be surprised to learn that everything I did was wrong. The noose I made didn’t slip properly. And the backyard tree limb I secured my rope to was high enough to choke me, but not high enough that my fall would break my neck. I remember dangling and desperately pulling at the tightened noose around my neck. I also remember hearing my mother screaming while grabbing my legs in an effort to take my weight from the rope that was choking me. And I remember falling to the ground when my father finally cut the rope. What I don’t remember, was the ambulance ride to the hospital, nor anything that happened in the hospital’s emergency room.

The emergency room doctors must have given me something to make me sleep, because the next thing I remember was waking up in a dark single bed hospital room. There was a young man wearing blue scrubs sitting in the only chair in the room. I looked at him, and when he looked back to me, he said, “Well good morning Sun Shine.”

I didn’t speak, I don’t know why. Finally, he stood and came to my bedside while saying, “You’re okay now, Adrian. You’re in the psychiatric ward of Wayne County Hospital, and everything is going to be okay. Can I get you something, perhaps breakfast? Or can I help you get up so I can walk you to the bathroom?”

Instead of answering I put my hand to my neck. It was sore and chafed, and my throat hurt when I swallowed, causing a flood of memories to come racing back to me. Not being ready to face those thoughts, I asked, “How long do I have to stay in this place?”

“I don’t know.” He said, “That will all be up to your doctor, and you haven’t even met him yet.”

I sat up and realized I was naked except for an open-in-the-back hospital gown, the kind that lets everyone see your naked ass the instant you get out of bed. So I asked, “So when can I talk to him?”

“Well, he’s here now, but I’m sure he’s with other patients. But I can let him know that you’re ready to talk, if you’d like?”

“Yea, I want to talk to him. I want to get out of this place as soon as possible. And I do need to use the restroom.”

“Great, let me help you get up.”

“No, I can go by myself.”

“I’m sorry, Adrian, but I can’t let you do that. I’m afraid I can’t let you out of my sight until your doctor tells me I can.”

I started to move to the side of my bed and quickly realized I had a belt around my waist that was somehow connected to my bed. I wanted to cry, but instead I asked, “So I guess you’re going to watch me pee?”

“Just for a little while.” he said, “I have to go in with you, but I promise not to peek if that will make you feel better.” Then he leaned over me and began to work at disconnecting the belt that was around my waist from my bed. And once I was up, he walked me to the bathroom, and for some reason talked about sailing while I peed. When we got back to my bed, he reconnected my waist belt to my bed and then pushed my call button. Soon a nurse came in, and he told her I was ready to talk to my doctor. The nurse seemed very cold as she asked if that was true. And when I confirmed that fact, she left saying she would have a breakfast sent in for me without saying whether or not she would inform my doctor that I was ready to talk.

Once she was gone, the young man in the blue scrubs, who I then thought was an orderly or some other low-level hospital worker, told me not to mind that nurse because she was that way with all of her patients.

My breakfast arrived only a few minutes later. I drank the milk and ate a little applesauce, but didn’t touch any of the rest of what was on my tray as it hurt my throat to swallow. Then a few minutes later a doctor entered my room. He was a nice enough man, probably in his mid-30s. But instead of telling me when I could go home, he informed me that my parents had arranged to have me transferred to a private hospital that specifically treated young gay men. My only question after that was to ask, “What makes you think I’m gay?”

The doctor smiled, and said “Well that’s what you told the doctors in emergency last night. In fact, that’s why you told them you tried to hang yourself.”

I immediately felt ashamed, small, and out of control. All I wanted to do was go home, and yet I was headed to a private hospital that specifically treated homosexuals. I had heard of such places, and all I heard was how nightmarish their techniques were, and that they thought gay inclinations could be prayed away. Because I didn‘t believe in God, and therefore not in prayer, his statement sent a shiver down my spine and brought me back to thoughts of how I could end my problems by ending my life.