an outting

Lunch at Macaroni Grill with my folks and then going into work. This would be the safest birthday yet. There was no chance that my twenty-second birthday could be screwed up. It was just going to be a normal day. I had just gotten out of one of my therapy sessions that morning—high ho, high ho, its off to straight I go—then headed over to the restaurant to meet my parents. Carbs, olive oil, and cheese, can’t go wrong. This was going to be the most laid back birthday ever. We would have a little get-together with presents over the weekend when my brother would be out of school.
We sat down at the table. Dad and I immediately picked up the crayons and begin to draw on the paper table cloth with a flourish. Soon blue, purple, and green swirls combined to create a modern Art Nuevo masterpiece to enhance our dinning experience. Mom had long ago gotten accustomed to having entire conversations with the tops of our heads anytime we would eat at a place with any possible outlet for our repressed artistic expressions.
As always, mom was pleasant and warm, easily carrying the weight of the conversation as dad’s hands put professional artists to shame. We got through the salads and appetizers in familial harmony. Soon the main entrées arrived and hid the differentiating yet blended stylings of father and son. The meal was progressing fine. There was always an undercurrent of unease and walking on eggshells, but that was normal. I was used to that. Ever since I began college four years before, I had started to argue with my father, about everything. I was always on the lookout to jump down my dad’s throat about something, always waiting for him to even come close to saying anything I considered out of line. Saying as little as possible seemed to keep the peace the best.
Half way through the main course, Mom put her fork down. Shit, I knew the easy going birthday was too much to expect. Mom, always pleasant and warm, and always direct and strong. I knew something was coming but I had no idea what.
She took a breath and looked up at me. “We need to talk about something. We don’t want you to be upset or think that we were trying to snoop into your private life, but we want to be honest and be upfront about everything.”
No, no, no. We can not do this. This can not happen. It can’t. I have protected it too perfectly for too long. You can not do this!
“When you and your brother went out to the movie the other night and your dad and I stayed at your apartment to help finish packing up your things, we came across something that we need to tell you about.” She paused and took another breath. I had just graduated from the Christian university at the beginning of May and took my job at the residential treatment center a few days later. In keeping with the transition in my life, I also decided to move from my apartment that I had occupied during my college years. Time to start my adult life. My parents are nothing if not constantly helpful and self-sacrificing—so they helped me with yet another move. “Anyway, we were packing up the things in your bathroom and a piece of paper was on top of stack of magazines and we happen to read it.”
Paper. Paper? I don’t own porn. I am very careful about what I write. There can not be anything that bad. Ok, you can handle this.
“It was one of your notes from therapy. It said something about a safety plan.”
Oh, hell no! Please let me die!
I had just finished the first of my five years in therapy to face my same-sex attraction and embrace my natural straightness. A safety plan was something my therapist and I created to give me options and healthy choices to choose from when I was faced with a temptation to act upon one of my same-sex desires.
Mom took another breath. “We know that you are struggling with homosexuality.”
Dead air. No talking. No chewing. Nothing. Where are those crayons?
“We are very worried and disappointed. We had started to worry that was the secret you were keeping. We hoped we were wrong.” Her voice did not shake, but tears filled her eyes. She did not sound angry or disgusted, just matter of fact. “We love you and we will support you. We know how amazingly strong you are and we have all the faith that you will be able to overcome this. God will see you through.”
My world span. I was not sure if I could continue to breath. My entire life just crumbled. Every ounce of my being had focused on keeping this affliction hidden. And now, here it was. Pulled out from under the table. The beautiful birthday wrapping paper shredded, the box ripped apart, and my hideous, dark shame laid naked upon our table, souring our meals and dulling the colors of our sketches.
Dad’s fork shakily pushed his pasta around his plate. He looked nearly as miserable as I felt. The rest of the talk sounded as if it were being transmitted over a static filled radio as white noise filled my ears. The meal finished, the bill was paid. Mom hugged and kissed me and told me she loved me. We went to our cars. I put my truck into drive and headed to work. My emotions overtook me as I left the parking lot. I had no idea what to do. What would this mean now that people know? Now that my family knows? How do I put it back in the box and repair the sparkling tatters of gift wrap? Shouldn’t I feel some relief that I don’t have to hide it anymore? Shouldn’t my load feel lighter now? Right. I should. This is a good thing. Can’t even do this right. I don’t feel relief, I don’t feel lighter, I feel completely lost.
I get through most of my shift at work. I have only been there a couple weeks and am not yet very good at the job. Meryl and Marissa were still trying to evaluate if I was going to be able to be an asset to their team. Still, they provided a birthday cake so we could all celebrate with our kids.
A little after the party, as we were getting the kids ready for bed, Aster, one of our more unstable kids, began to have one of his tirades. He started to throw things around the dorm and scream, curse, and threaten at the top of his lungs. We were able to get the rest of the kids into their rooms as we began to restrain Aster. We got him to the floor, on his belly. Meryl had his left arm, Marissa his right. I was on his legs, doing my best to hold him still. He screamed and began to bash his head into the floor. He laughed, his voice filled with hysteria. Aster was in complete control of what he was doing and was enjoying the scene he was creating. His body thrashed and jerked. We were sweating from our efforts to keep him safe. He gnashed his teeth at the girl’s hands as they held his arms down, trying to bite them in-between his onslaught of “Die, Bitch, Whore, Cunt. . .” He started to gag trying to make himself vomit. He quickly bored of this and began ripping out the carpet with his teeth. This was my first restraint to be involved in, and it was the worst that I had witnessed yet. Aster and I had a good relationship. As I was new, I had not set many limits on Aster, and I was not a hated woman, so he liked me. Suddenly, his body stilled, and his voice became quiet. He craned his neck around so that he could see me. He made eye contact. “I am sorry to do this on your birthday; I did not want to ruin it. This is not about you.” He turned his head back around. He told the girls his preferred method of killing them and then screamed. His body thrashed. His face bashed itself into the floor. I held his legs down as tight as I could. I began to sob.