Friday, September 25, 2015

Still A Tiny Bit Hetero Pudge And Ronny: Chapter Thirteen

Pudge had been silent the entire ride home, as his mother drove. She had not stopped to retrieve their bibles from the sanctuary, saying that it didn't matter, they had more bibles at home. Pudge had never seen her leave her precious bible anywhere--it had belonged to his father.
Pudge had never felt so sick before in his life. His stomach literally felt as if it were tying itself into knots, and he couldn't even look at his mother as they walked into the house.
He tried to head straight for his room. "Pudge, stop!" his mother ordered, gently but firmly, "Let's talk about this," she said, guiding him by the shoulders towards the couch.
"Mom, I don't want to sin!" he nearly shouted. "I don't want to go out and fornicate with some random stranger!"
"Then don't!" Marcy exclaimed. "If you don't want to fornicate, Pudge, then you don't have to!"
Pudge seemed a bit taken aback. "I love Jesus," he said, "You know I do--and not in that way! I'm still a Christian!"
"I know, Pudge, I know," she agreed. "I know your heart, Pudge; I know you love the Lord. How long have you struggled like this?"
Pudge sat down. "Since I was twelve. I thought it was okay, though, since it wasn't that bad, until..." he trailed off.
"Until what, Pudge?" she prompted softly.
"Until Ronny came over," he choked.
She sat down next to him. "Do you like Ronny?" she asked gently.
"No!" he roared. "I don't like him, and I don't want to have sex with him!"
"I know, I know! That's not what I meant!" Marcy exclaimed. "I just meant that he's turned into a nice boy, now."
"What?! How can you say that?"
"Well, he has! I didn't mean anything else, than that he was nice. I could see why you...well, you know..."
"He's not even a believer. And he's a guy! How could you approve of this? Are you telling me to...?"
"I'm not telling you anything, Pudge. And I'm not approving or...or disapproving, of anything. I merely wanted to say that I think your feelings are perfectly understandable."
"I don't have feelings for Ronny!" he burst out.
"I know, honey, I know. I just...well, it's what I'd say to you if you were a girl."
"I'm not a girl, Mom, that's the whole problem!" he exclaimed, turning red.
"Pudge, listen to me," she said. "I don't know what this means, as far as...your life, or what's going to happen, or how this will affect your life. But I trust you, Pudge. I trust that between you, and God, you'll figure this out."
"What...what...what do you mean?" he sputtered. "What are you saying?"
Marcy grabbed his hand in both of hers, looking him in the eye. Her eyes started to fill with tears. "I know you love God, Pudge. I know you love Jesus--but not in that way. And I love you. And I don't know that there's anything more to say, than that."
Pudge slumped against the couch, a strange relief flooding over him. He felt as if his mother had just given him something that no one else ever had. She trusted him, with his own soul and his own relationship with God. No one had ever trusted him before with his own soul--as if he couldn't take care of something so precious.
"So what happens now?" he asked, dreading the answer. "Do I have to go tell Pastor Alltruth?"
"Well...I don't think Pastor Alltruth would understand," Marcy answered. "I mean, he should know that you love God, but...I think if you say the words, 'I'm gay,' he's going to assume that you already..."
Pudge winced at the words "I'm gay," yet he had to agree with her. "It's not 'already,' Mom. And it's not going to happen," he added defensively.
"Of course," Marcy said, quickly. "Still..."
"Still what?!" Pudge demanded. He was right! She didn't understand, after all! She had no faith in him!
"Well, it's just that...maybe we're wrong about certain things..." Marcy explained, studying her hands in her lap.
"Like what? You mean Christians?"
Marcy nodded, took a deep breath. "You know, Pudge, some of the things that Reverend Ray said today...I'm not entirely sure I agree with them. You see, a few months ago, I stumbled upon something, and I've been doing a lot of reading about it lately, this issue, and I've found a lot of interesting articles on the internet, and..." She hesitated. "I must confess something also, Pudge; I don't believe in the Rapture!"
"What?" Pudge stared at her blankly.
"Well, it's just that, those verses that mention it, there's only a few, and they also talk about dead bodies and vultures and stuff! I just think that it would have been more clear, if it was really that important for us to know..."
"So you--you--you disagree with Pastor Alltruth!" Pudge stammered, thoroughly shocked.
"Yes, I'm afraid so. And I hope that if I'm mistaken, I don't get...you know...left behind. But I know Pastor Alltruth wouldn't listen to me, because I'm a lay person, and...well, and because I'm a woman," she added quietly, looking to the ground as if she had said something scandalous.
"But you said that pastors and authorities were put there by God to lead us."
"Yes, but, well, I still think they might be mistaken."
"But they're put there by God! And he's had so much training!"
"Not so much, actually," she whispered. "The ACE teachers' academy is not accredited. It's not a very...a very thorough seminary, with the original Greek and stuff. I've read about it."
"But what does this have to do with...?" Pudge trailed off.
"All I'm saying is this: If we can be wrong about the Rapture, as I suspect we are, perhaps we can be wrong about other things, too. I mean, Jesus did say that two men would be in one bed, for goodness sake!" She covered her mouth shyly with her hands, and they both blushed at the thought. "Maybe this is...maybe this is the way that God wants you to be," she blurted, looking Pudge straight in the eye and squaring her shoulders defiantly.
Pudge stared at her for a long moment, utterly dumbfounded. His first instinct was to dismiss it--his mother had just uttered blasphemy, after all!
But a part of him, a small, tiny part of him, wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe that he wasn't broken, fundamentally wrong, though he feared what would happen (eternally) to him if he actually did believe it. It seemed too good to be true, that he wouldn't have to fight against himself and his own loneliness all his life, while watching all of his unbroken friends find love and happiness. He wanted a family; he wanted someone to love. And he couldn't imagine ever loving a woman the way he was supposed to--the way he thought he could love a man--warped, sinful, and unnatural though it may be.
Maybe Pastor Alltruth was mistaken, maybe he could find love and still be pleasing to God, maybe...
They were both startled abruptly out of their reveries with a sharp, loud knock at the door.

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Harrison's Father Disowns Him

 I agonized over whether to publish this, because it is rather personal, but of course I have changed his name; I publish this anonymously; he was pretty open about it himself; and, well, there seems to be a valuable lesson here, and that is: This shit still happens! 
If "Harrison" ever finds this, I hope he will forgive me.


A few days ago, a gay friend of mine, Harrison, posted this on Facebook:

"The thing about the fight for legal protections under the law that I'm not sure I've heard anyone acknowledge is that the fight is not actually about legality at its core.
The real fight is one of ideology.
But because one person can not change the mind of another, we must fight to change the things we've made.
Instead of convincing a father who sees no point in affording his child the same opportunities as any other person, regardless of what the child's genitals are, which gender they identify as, or who they end up loving or not loving, we must change the law so that people of the same mind as that father are prevented from exercising their hatred within the bounds of the law.
So instead of wasting our energy trying to convince people that we are human beings in the face of people who have already made up their mind, we put our energy into making sure there is a piece of paper somewhere that affords us the rights of one."


This wasn't the first similar post on the subject, and I have already detailed how he gave an awesome and brilliant answer to a "loving" but homophobic mutual friend. I liked his post and replied thusly: 

"I think that after a few years of marriage equality, a lot of people will see that the world hasn't ended, and they'll be affirming or at least more open to others' points of view. Not all, of course."

About a minute later, I thought of something else, and added this: 

 "The ones I'm really worried about are their children."

A few hours later, he posted this: 

  "I'll try to make it more real for you next time."
My reply to my father after I lost my composure and he told me we weren't in acting practice. Except there probably won't be a next time."


I responded:

"Oh, God. I'm sorry."

 I had tried to think of something else to say, but I couldn't, so I left it at that, figuring that it should be short and sweet, rather than saying something that tries to help him feel better, but doesn't. 
Then I got worried. A thought occurred to me, so I private-messaged him. Here is our conversation:

"Will this affect your living situation, Harrison? Do you need a place to stay?"


 "No, my mother and father have been divorced all my life. I live with my mother. Thank you, though."

 "Glad to hear it. You don't deserve this crap. You're great."

 "Thank you."

I had not consulted with my parents, whom I live with, but I knew that it was almost certainly okay with my mom, and probably okay with my dad, especially if I told him that Harrison reminded me a lot of my little brother, Cody. I had a little bit of money saved to put him in a motel, at the very least. It was late at night, but I was not adverse to waking my mother and the two of us going to get him (because she certainly wouldn't let me go to town at one a.m. by myself). 
I racked my brain, trying to think of something to say to him. About twenty minutes later, I messaged him again: 

"Hey Harrison, you going to be at the next GSA* meeting? Because it just occurred to me that I didn't get a chance to give you your going-away/birthday present for your upcoming trip.** There's also an essay I wrote for acting class, about your performance in the last play, that I think you might want to see."

 (*Gay-Straight Alliance club at my school. It's meeting during the summer too.)
 (**He had applied to be in a show out of state. I didn't know if he had been successful, but I had already bought the present, a nice pin, which had only been a few dollars for me anyway, and I thought he deserved it anyway, for trying.)

"When is it?" he asked. 

I told him the time next week. 

"I think I can swing that, yeah."

 "Good. Because none of the great things I said about you is untrue. :) <3" 

 "Hahaha, thank you so much. You are a very supportive person."

I didn't know whether I should tell him this, but I decided to risk it:

"I've had..."complicated" relationships with some of my relatives too. It grieves me that it happened to you, too. I just hope you know you're not alone. I can come over sometime if you wish, or we can talk, or I'll just let you be alone, whichever you think is best for you."

I had agonized over that last sentence. I can't offer to come over! I thought. That is so overbearing and smothering! But...that's me. I have to be me. 

He took a while to answer, and when he did, it was much like I expected: 

"I deal best when I have time to talk to myself."

I thought, Of course he doesn't want me around, because he thinks I'm TOO supportive--that I'm smothering him!...But at least, I've said it. At least he knows.  

At least he knows.

"Me too, most of the time." I replied.

"I really need to try to sleep, though." He hinted. 

I was apprehensive about disturbing him any further, though I thought I should let him know that I wasn't going to disturb him any further. 

"Good night. Over and out."

 "You too!"

 I didn't know how he felt about that conversation, but he rarely replied to me last, much less used an exclamation point, so I figured that I might just have helped, after all. Now he knew that someone out there thought he was great, while knowing full well that he liked boys, and he had a few days to look forward to reading about how great he was. I hoped my little essay wouldn't disappoint him.

Burning with curiosity now, I looked on Harrison's Facebook page, where I had previously seen his father listed. His father was not there. 
So I looked on Harrison's brother's Facebook page. His father was there. 
So I looked on Harrison's father's Facebook page. 
Harrison was not there. He only acknowledged his other son. 
I had looked there before. I knew that Harrison had been there, before. I felt physically sick.

After trying to go to bed, I lay awake a long time, and then it hit me: In the first post, he was talking about his own father! 
And furthermore, I was talking about him, when I said that I was worried for "their" children. I had had no idea! 
I remembered, only a week before, I had been amused to find out that Harrison had exactly 365 Facebook friends--one for every day of the year. After he published an earlier post, indirectly knocking down our homophobic friend, "Ruth," it showed that he only had 364. I didn't know whom he had unfriended (or who had unfriended him), but it was not our homophobic friend, interestingly enough. 
That night, it had been down to 362. And now I knew who one of them was. It had never occurred to me to check to see if it was his own family. 

I worry sometimes about whether my little brother, Cody, whom Harrison so much reminds me of, will also have to deal with a parent's rejection, because of the way his father and stepmother act. Recently, his stepbrother had to come live with them, because, as Cody told it, his stepmother's common-law ex-husband was yelling, "I don't want to see you ever again!" and cursing his son, and calling him names, after a major fight. 
"You know we'll never be like that, right?" I asked him the next time he came over. "You know we'll never be like, 'I never want to see you again' or anything like that to you?" 
"Yeah...?" he gave me a really confused, almost disdainful look, as if I had said something as obvious and unimportant as, "You know we're breathing right now, right?" 
I was very comforted by the fact that he looked at me like I was a moron. 

My dad literally gets up at 3:30 a.m. to work out. I was still up then, still wound up, writing this piece, because I wasn't going to sleep anyway (I had actually had to turn my computer back on). 
So I went out to the kitchen, where he was feeding the dogs, and hugged him and told him I loved him. I explained the situation, and said how glad I was that he and my mother weren't like that. 
"That I'd never disown you?" he asked. 
"Or Cody." 
He didn't seem to know what to say, because he's not much for talking, and it was very awkward to say those things to him, but tonight was a night to Just Say It. And I'm glad I did.

As far Harrison goes, I was homeschooled from fifth grade on, and I often feel like I was never schooled on the rules of making and relating to friends. I feel like everyone else in the world has a guidebook for this very thing, and I don't. Most of all, I was so scared of seeming "needy" or "too clingy." 
Sometimes it's hard to tell what crosses the line between "helpful" and "smothering," but...what choice do we have? 

Which side do we want to err on? 

That is the question. 

I learned a valuable lesson that night. "Which side to err on?" is one of the most important questions in life, one of the most valuable things to keep in mind, and one we all too often miss, in our efforts to, at all costs, not look "bad."
I only hope I can retain this lesson. Maybe then I would not be so insecure about what my friends thought of me. This is something that I will strive to take to heart from now on.

A Little Hetero Pudge And Ronny: Chapter Twelve

 Reverend Ray is an amalgamation of one well-known character in Christian pop culture, and one lesser known one. I will give hints upon request, if anyone wishes to guess where Reverend Ray, Who Is Gay (one of the characters) comes from.



After all the hymns had been sung, and the children dismissed, Pudge's heart pounded as he watched Reverend Ray step up to the podium, clear his throat, and begin. "Thank you for having me here today, everyone. I'm very glad, and honored, to be sharing with you how God has changed my life, and delivered me from sin.
"It might surprise some of you to hear that I had a pretty normal childhood. My father was a little distant, but not anything unusual at the time. I was never molested. In fact, I was a normal, rough-and-rowdy boy," he smiled, as a few people chuckled.
Pudge breathed a sigh of relief, but was confused, too. It wasn't then because he had grown up without a father (though no shortage of other male role models), apparently, but apparently being a "rough-and-rowdy boy" wouldn't save him either. And did other, manlier guys also struggle with this?
"I was aware of my feelings for other boys in junior high and high school, but it was a homophobic environment in my small town, so I hid them, even from myself. I even dated a couple of girls, though nothing serious.
"After graduation, I joined the Air Force. I had already gotten my private pilot's license years ago, and so I started training to fly fighter jets. I pretty much tried to put my feelings for other guys aside during this time. In fact, while I was there, I met my future wife, Irene.
"After getting out of the service, I took a job as an airline pilot. Irene and I had two kids, Chloe and Rayford Jr, whom Irene called Raymie. After a few years, Irene got a new man in her life--Jesus!" he exclaimed, eliciting laughter.
"It was at that time that the old feelings came back. I had a new man in my life, now, too--a younger guy, named Buck."
There were a few quiet gasps and some distasteful expressions in the audience. Pudge didn't notice this, however, as he sat riveted to the sermon.
"Irene was always talking about Jesus, and at first I was skeptical, but then I decided that Jesus was for me. I became a minister, 'Reverend Ray, who is gay!' I remained married to Irene, and I did love her, in a way, though I continued seeing Buck on the side.
"Well, Irene eventually found out about Buck. She had known about my attractions, and we had actually had an okay sex life, before, but I guess this was the final straw for her. Chloe was at college by this time, but a week later, I came home to find my wife and son gone. I'm sure you can guess exactly what happened: Irene and Raymie were taken in the Rapture."
Confused murmurs echoed throughout the sanctuary. No one had noticed the Rapture had happened yet. Were they left behind? Surely Reverend Rayford must be mistaken?
Pudge cocked his head, confused as ever. Maybe Reverend Ray was making a joke? Although it wasn't very funny.
"But it's not too late!" Reverend Ray added enthusiastically. "You can still join your loved ones in heaven, eventually! I know that everyone here has lost someone, or has been shocked that millions of people could disappear in the twinkling on an eye, and I can't guarantee that you will survive the Tribulation that is about to come. But we can still be forgiven by God--He gives us another chance!"
The murmuring grew louder. Some people laughed, before realizing that the man was serious. Pastor Alltruth stood up. "Um, Reverend?" he began uncertainly. "Reverend? Rayford?"
The chaos around him was nothing to Pudge, compared to the roiling sea of emotion inside him. Reverend Ray was crazy! He had remained gay, even after becoming a Christian, and it had driven him mad! He actually thought that his wife leaving him meant that the Rapture had taken place! Pudge never wanted to cheat on a future wife, but what was to say that he wouldn't find some young Buck and give in to temptation, himself? Was this his future?
Pudge began to hyperventilate. He had to get out of there! Everyone would know how false he was! He had to leave!
"Pudge? Are you all right?" his mother was asking beside him.
Pudge tried to stammer out some excuse, but his voice was not working. He fled, taking advantage of the noise and confusion around him.
He ran out into the foyer, down a side hallway, past the children's classroom (hoping Becky, teaching Sunday school, and Happy, acting as her assistant, wouldn't see him), and into the men's room. He heard his mother call his name from the end of the hall as he disappeared into the bathroom. At least here, she couldn't follow him. Maybe he could compose himself here.
"Pudge?" she was calling, outside. "Pudge, are you okay? I'm coming in there, Pudge!"
"What? No!" he cried, tears streaming down his face, as his mother burst in. "No, Mom, you're not supposed to be in here!" he sobbed, his voice cracking.
"Pudge, what is wrong...?" Marcy began, putting her hands on his shoulders, then slowly the realization crept across her face, as her expression changed from one of concern and worry to one of shock. "Pudge...Pudge, I...I...I love you," she gasped, starting to cry now, herself. "I love you, Pudge," she repeated, pulling him into a hug.
Pudge trembled, burying his face into her shoulder. He was relieved, but dreaded the lecture.
"Mom, I know it's bad, I didn't want to be this way
"Stop!" Marcy commanded abruptly, pulling away to look in his eyes. "Stop it, Pudge, please. We can talk about this later. Come on, we're going home. We have got to get out of this church!" she declared, her eyes flashing in determination.

The Baby Bunny, Or Why I Don't Believe In Wildlife Rehabilitation

 I didn't publish this at first, because the bunny died the next day, and it was too painful. My sentiments still remain the same, though; I couldn't just put her back into the wild, because another cat could find her just as easily as her biological mother could. If I had it to do over again, I would give her goat milk twice a day, not once a day, because in this case she was choosing how much she drank, not me, so I probably wasn't in danger of overfeeding her. That still may not have saved her, though, as rabbits are fragile creatures.


"You know, it will be a year next month, since we found Marshmallow," my mother said to me this past Father's Day, referring to the kitten we found with a shattered pelvis and a normally fatal feline disease. The vet wanted us to put him down, but we refused, nursed him back to health, and today he enjoys a full and active life, with a slightly uneven gait but no limping or "knuckling" under of his foot, like he used to have.
Last month we took him to that same vet for an "accupoke" (as it was advertised) and chiropractic appointment. The vet had not seen Marshmallow in a while.
"You're going to be amazed at our Marshmallow," my mom smiled, as I took him out of his carrier.
"Holy Jesus!" the vet cried. "He's huge!"
"Yeah, he's a big baby!" I laughed.

But Marshmallow was not the end of the story; apparently, fate has decreed that we are given a free baby animal every summer now. I've won Mother Nature's lottery!
Another of our cats, a young black-and-white tom named Panda, was in the field, and my mom reported that he had been carrying something in his mouth. She was worried, because we had seen a mother turkey with two babies in the same field earlier.
So I ran down there, while she followed. At first I thought the tiny bunny was dead, because it wasn't moving at all, then realized that it was still alive. As I picked it up, I saw wet fur on its haunch, but no apparent injuries. It did not resist or try to run away at all.
"Don't pick it up!" my mother yelled, irritated that I would pick up a dead carcass. "Is it dead?"
"No, it's alive!" I said excitedly, carrying it with my shirt, like a closed, safe little hammock.  (I have often carried Marshmallow like this, when his pelvis was shattered, in order to put as little stress as possible on his broken bones. He still likes it when I carry him like that.)
We couldn't find any other rabbits around, big or small, or any kind of burrow. Later we would watch Panda to see where he went, but he only walked around the pond--and rabbits are not aquatic, to my knowledge.
It was so very tiny. I found an empty plastic tote, with no lid, and put in some timothy hay, which I fortunately already had for my guinea pigs to eat. As soon as I put it in the high-sided tote, it tried to jump out and get away, which made me feel a little relieved, for its health.
I put a bowl of water in with it, though I didn't see it drink. I covered part of the tote with a towel, to make it feel safer, and put a leaf of lettuce in there, which though it had teeth, I haven't seen it eat.
I wished I had a "snuggle sack" (like a tiny sleeping bag) to put in with it, to keep it warm, but later thought to substitute one of my beanie hats, reasoning that though the rabbit might not like the fact that the hat smelled like me, it was at least some place warm to burrow in.
"I'm your mama now. I know I'm different than you, but I still love you," I told it. "I'll still take care of you and keep you safe."
I shut the rabbit in my room, without any cats or other animals, while my mom and I did our evening chores, giving it a chance to get over its shock. Panda kept following me around, demanding attention.
"He knows you have his rabbit," Mom remarked.
"It's almost like God knew you were stingy and wouldn't let me get a bunny, and said, 'Nope--she can have a bunny if she wants one,'" I teased her.
"Yeah, that's coming from an atheist," she snorted.
I'm not sure what the point of that was. I don't see any harm in indulging in a little "what if" scenario. My practical side will keep me grounded, I think. 

I think it is a female, since I haven't found any little nuts, but it may be too early to tell for sure. I would guess her age at about two weeks, though what I've found for how to tell by their sizes is not that comprehensive with pictures or scale objects. In any case, she is small enough to still require milk.
 The internet sources said that Meyenburg goat milk was an acceptable rabbit milk substitute (I'm not sure why the brand name is special, though in my area, it seems that that is the only brand of goat milk available, unless you want to get to second base with a goat, yourself). Strangely enough, my dad had bought a quart of it for me that very day, since I like goat milk myself.
We watered it down, and had some success, though it was hard to hold her still while my mom syringed it into her mouth.
"I think you should give her some more before you go to bed," Mom suggested.
"I'm not sure how I'll do it by myself," I answered.
"Every time that syringe gets near her mouth, she wants to nurse. Just try."
So as I was feeding her for the first time by myself, a little milk dropped out of the syringe and onto my hand. To my astonishment, she started licking it off my hand!
I kept syringing more into my hand, and she kept licking it off. It tickled my hand, it warmed my heart, and it made me think that she was healthy and was already starting to trust me. Maybe human palms feel just like rabbit nipples.
Finally, she had had enough, and disappeared back into the folds of the beanie hat, in which I had picked her up and in which my mother and I tried to feed her. So I put the hat, with her in it, back in her tote, shutting her tote in my closet (after checking the closet for cats) so that the cats that like to sleep on my bed would not have to give up their room.
I am hoping that she will be more friendly and less afraid than rabbits and guinea pigs that I've adopted as adults or teenagers. When she's an adult, I plan to have her spayed, or neutered, as the case may be. I think she will be happier that way, less restless.

She's a "wild" rabbit, though not wild now, and may even grow into a hare or jackrabbit (we have those around). But I cannot imagine ever "rehabilitating" my new baby into the dangerous wild. I just can't do it, no matter how much the game wardens (I have one in my family!) may moralize. I don't think they could rightfully fine us or take it away, either, because it's not an adult rabbit.
I remember visiting a friend of my mom's who had a tortoise named Oscar. I brought Oscar rose petals from my garden, hearing that he loved them. Surprisingly, when his owner picked him up to show him to me, he drew his head and arms back, and hissed at me. I had no idea that tortoises hissed.
Oscar's mommy said that her daughter had gotten him in Nevada, where they were being given away next to the airports, so that the planes wouldn't run them over. He had been sick once, and she had taken him to a vet, who had cussed her out and preached at her about the "need" to release him into the wild, because the vet claimed that he was of an endangered species.
"But what if he gets hit by a car?" I asked.
"Exactly," Oscar's mommy replied. "She called to ask if we had released him in the wild, and I said, 'Yes, ma'am, I took care of it.' He can live with us for as long as we're alive," she added.

I think that people often buy into doctrines about animals that are good for the authorities, but not necessarily for the individual animals. During WWII, the British government urged its citizens to "destroy" its animals, in order to have more food to feed the troops and citizens. I believe that that's where a lot of the doctrine about "putting an animal out of its pain" came from. If owners aren't giving extra care, food, and medicine to an aging or ailing pet, then there's more resources for humans and other animals.
We kill our "imperfect" pets for our own convenience, and that of the authorities. (And ironically, the very eugenicist Nazis, who did this very thing to humans, were huge animal lovers, Hitler the biggest of all.)
Same goes for "wildlife rehabilitation." The goal isn't just to "rehabilitate" an injured or sick animal, but to release it back into the wild. The same "wild" that humans, with their dogs, cars, and guns, are encroaching upon more and more every year!
Some animals are naturally prey animals, too. Even if my rabbit became a happy, healthy, fully adult wild bunny, she could still be eaten by dogs, hawks, and cars.
This is an insanely cruel system, and one that is only good for those, human and beast, that wish to hunt these animals. Even carnivores like bobcats and foxes could be killed by coyotes and domestic dogs.
The safest place for an animal is under a human's care. Even for a deer, I have lactating goats (though the milk is not as rich or plentiful as store-bought goat milk, with which I could supplement it). An orphaned deer would have a ready-made mama, for goats are more related to deer than sheep, and the mama would recognize her baby once it poops and smells like her milk (I've forced a goat to nurse her babies before, every hour during the day, and it "took" after a day or so).
(I wish I had an orphaned deer, in fact; it could run with the goat herd as an adult, though I don't know where I'll find a vet to neuter or spay it.)

If I find an animal, I get to keep it--that's the rule, for the laws of nature (including that of fatal diseases) just don't apply at my house. I may not be able to help many "wild" animals, though I am very grateful for this one.
As I later told my grandfather, my cat may be a little confused about what a father actually is, but he was still so sweet to give me a Father's Day present. I guess single moms can be like dads to their kids.

Somewhat Hetero Pudge And Ronny: Chapter Eleven

 Still one hundred points each to whoever can guess where the four cameo appearances from Christian pop culture come from. Again, I will give out clues upon request. This is my Accelerated Christian Education fan fiction. For details, click on the "ACE Gay Porn" tab at the top of this site, or check out my Deviant Art page for more chapters here.


"Did you hear, I saw Victor the other day?" Ace asked they filed into the sanctuary.
"Huh?" Pudge's mind was preoccupied, and he barely heard Ace.
"He was buying a book by Stephen Hawking. That guy believes in the big bang!" Ace shook his head. "I told him that, but he made some excuse and bought it anyway. What was I going to do, bully someone in a wheelchair? I probably should have, though. That's probably why he bought it, in fact--listens to him because they're both the same. I think we need to pray for Victor. I think he's mad at God, for what happened to him. It wasn't God, though, that did that to him...Speaking of which, you seen Ronny anymore lately?"
"What? Oh, um, no, not really," Pudge shook his head, not wanting to explain everything to Ace, and he didn't have time to, anyway.
"Did you hear about this guest speaker?" Ace continued, gesturing towards the man walking with Pastor Alltruth. "He used to be homosexual. Isn't that disgusting? I'm just glad to hear that God delivered him."
"I don't know, Ace," Pudge said carefully. "Maybe he was a Christian, and tried to honor God..."
"What?!" Ace stopped, regarding him as if he was insane. "You know that there's no such thing..."
"Excuse me," said a strong, perfunctory voice. J. Michael Kindhart walked between them and strode purposefully, confidently up to the front of the church. He sat on the end of the first pew to the left, where the pastor's family normally sat, right next to Mrs. Alltruth. She seemed somewhat surprised at first, then smiled and nodded to J. Michael. He was a guest, after all.
Pudge knew that he was turning red; he shrugged and looked at the floor.
"We don't need to be excusing sin," Ace whispered. "I've got to sit down."
Ace went to sit with Christy and the kids, while Pudge found a seat next to his mother and grandparents. Pudge felt humiliated; he had not said anything about excusing sin. Now he was sinning just by being this way? He had not asked for this. Ace thinks I'm sinning just by existing, he thought bitterly. He wondered if God did too.
"Brothers and sisters," Pastor Alltruth addressed the congregation when everyone had found a seat, "we have a very special guest today," he nodded towards Reverend Ray, a big guy with blading dark hair standing to the side of the altar, "who has a very important message for us about God's power to deliver people from sin. But first, I must make a quick announcement. Cukey Lawrence will not be performing for the children's picnic this year."
There was a quiet, collective groan from the children in the pews, until their parents harshly silenced them.
"There was a...scandal," he continued delicately, "involving his manager, Robert Tomasina. I ask that you pray for both of these...men," he hesitated, as if he had thought of another word first. Reverend Ray frowned pensively.
Pudge cringed, noticing it all. He still had all of Cukey Lawrence's albums (autographed, of course), even as an adult. Even his hero was not safe. This Reverend Ray offered maybe a little hope, but he didn't know Reverend Ray, had even just met him a few minutes ago. It was different when he had grown up knowing Cukey Lawrence personally.
"We are still looking for suggestions for replacements," the pastor added.
J. Michael raised his hand, then stood up without waiting to be called on. "What about P. Salty?" he asked.
"Who is P. Salty?" Pastor Alltruth raised his eyebrows.
"He's a local Christian hip-hop artist. He loves the Lord, he's very spiritual." J. Michael's chin was tipped up, as he regarded Pastor Alltruth over his thick-rimmed black glasses. He said his words very deliberately, as if to make some kind of point.
"Hip-hop?" the elderly white pastor repeated, his mouth hanging open. "I don't think hip-hop was designed to honor God."
"Which is why he is redeeming it," J. Michael smiled. "What man intended for evil, God turns for good. It's an important part of black culture, and I'm glad to see that it's finally getting redeemed."
"I'm not sure that that would appeal to people in this church," Pastor Alltruth said slowly.
"This is the picnic for all three sister churches, correct? Perhaps each of the churches could pick someone." 
"'P. Salty' sounds like it has sexual overtones," Reverend Ray added quietly.
Pudge's eyes became wider. He wondered, with dread, if he would ever discover this for himself. Even the "P." sounded like something it shouldn't sound like--or did he just have a "Perverted" fixation?
"It's a reference to the 'salt and light' passage in the New Testament," J. Michael replied. "And his whole name is a reference to the book of Psalms."
"Ah, we will...think it over," Pastor Alltruth said uncomfortably. "Thank you for your suggestion, Michael, and thank you for joining us today as a guest."
"Actually, I will attending this church full-time soon," J. Michael announced proudly, addressing the rest of the chapel. "I am moving into this neighborhood. I want to settle down and start a family here."
Pudge noticed many looks of surprise on the faces of the all-white congregation. It made him wonder, for a minute, then he quickly dismissed the thought. God's people couldn't be racist, as they were all God's children. But there was a challenge in J. Michael's eyes which Pudge did not care for; it made J. Michael look uppity.
"I, ah, I didn't know that you were engaged, Michael." The pastor almost said it as if it were a question. "Congratulations," he said pointedly.
"I'm not, actually, but I'm sure I'll find a godly woman soon," he smiled. Several people squirmed as his eyes briefly flitted over the packed sanctuary.
"Of course. We will, um, we will discuss these matters later," Pastor Alltruth announced. "For now, I will turn the podium over to Reverend Ray. Why don't you tell us your personal testimony, Reverend?" he suggested, taking his seat beside J. Michael and whispering that he wished to talk with him after church.
"Of course," J. Michael answered with a smile that had a bitter edge to it. He had been preparing for this talk for a long time now.

Closeted Clues

"You want to see my brother's homosexual car?" my mom smiled at my dad as we pulled into my grandparents' driveway.
When my dad saw the red Volkswagen convertible, he cracked a huge, genuine smile. "Oh..." he shook his head, and I could tell he was belly laughing, because when he really, truly laughs, he is completely silent, like me.

We went in, and after hugging everyone, I sat on the couch, picking up a book from the coffee table and skimming through it. The book was a Christian book, all about renewing one's mind. I looked at the table of contents, wondering if it would mention homosexuality by name, though I couldn't find any mention of it specifically. It did overtly say, however, that one could change some very significant, "sinful" things about oneself.
Later, my Uncle 'Phobe came in, and started talking to my mom. He was telling her all about the "great book" that he was reading, specifically mentioning that it was about renewing one's mind. He used his dramatic, reverent voice, so I could tell that he really bought into it and invested a lot of emotion into what this book promised him.

I thought of all of the ladies he was dating lately, and how none of them seemed good enough to get past a few dates with him. One's child didn't like him, which my mom said was a very trivial reason. Another was too chubby, and he didn't even ask her out, though I met her and she was very funny and good-looking, like my mom told him (I've also met him, and he is bald).

A few weeks ago, he was eager to tell my mom about yet another date, where "we just had fun and joked around, like you and me do. That was the most fun I had on a date in a long time!"
Anyone can joke around, I thought later. Even a sister, or someone like a sister.

"He likes tall, athletic-looking women," my mom remarked once.

He has had two divorces.

And there's a reason that I call him "Uncle 'Phobe." There's also a reason that my blog is anonymous.

I have never seen someone so emotionally invested in an anti-gay stance. My mom says that in high school, he got really upset and angry at the thought that someone would think that he and his friend were gay, when they palled around together. She says he was very self-conscious about the possibility, though she doesn't know where he got the idea that that could happen.

He absolutely loves the movie Rocky Horror Picture Show, though, as he says, "The plot just disgusted me!"
(I've recently thought of a catch-all response to sentiments such as that: "If that's how you feel, what are going to do when I come out?" He might ask if I'm a cross-dresser or something, and I'll say, "I can't tell you--that would spoil the surprise!")

He has said before that he's with "Fred," his pastor friend: "If you're going to be gay, stay in the closet!" (Again, "What are you going to do when I come out?")
I know that people get very mad when they work very hard for something they feel is their duty, and it seems to them that other people are shirking their duties entirely, like the story of Mary and Martha in the New Testament.

He is not a very happy person. He becomes angry very easily. Occasionally, he gets mad at God. The rest of the time, he is super-spiritual, as if it's an act for both us and himself (I've done that act before too, though not anymore, and I can spot it a mile away). 

One time a few years ago he told my mother about going to get a prostate exam. (Yeah, he really did--in my family, nothing is too personal, as far as medical information. I remember my grandfather once complaining to my mother over lunch, "Oh, Tea Pumpkin, I just can't push nothin' out!" He talked about his fecal failure while we were all eating lunch.)
My Uncle 'Phobe said, of his prostate, "The doctor laughed and said, 'Well, 'Phobe, you're not gay!'"
My mom later informed me that in order to examine the prostate, the doctor must cup the balls in one hand and stick a finger of the other hand up the butt. Then the patient coughs.

I remember being on a panel, in the local newspaper, for teens, when I was in (homeschool) high school. One of the questions we were assigned was, "What do you think about the news of Dumbledore being gay?"
I usually went over the word limit, sometimes very much so, but this time, I didn't know what to say. I had not allowed myself to read Harry Potter books, when they came out, because though my parents would have let me, both I and my mother thought they were demonic. I was very conflicted about my Christianity, where I stood on issues like homosexuality (caught between where I "had" to stand and where I really, really wanted to stand), and wanting to be a Christian, of some kind, but knowing that I seemed to be a heathen, no matter how hard I tried not to be. And I knew my very evangelical, conservative family would all be reading whatever I wrote.
My response was this: "I don't know who Dumbledore is, but if he's gay and happy with himself, more power to him! His lifestyle doesn't affect my life, so why should I worry about it?"
That was the tiniest response I had ever written. And it was as neutral as I dared to be (I couldn't even imagine having the courage to be affirming, much less being partly gay--bisexual--myself).
I didn't know what to say when I was asked about it later at a family gathering. My mom explained, "She didn't need to seem like she was gay-bashing."
One of my other uncles gently teased me, "Hate the sin, love the sinner!" I wasn't quite sure that it was a sin, though I didn't dare say that aloud.
My Uncle 'Phobe laughed and said, "Go, baby, go!" I was deeply humiliated that he was cheering me on for something that I would never do.
He has said stuff like, "You can't get around the fact that the bible says it's an abomination--I'm just saying!" (I later learned that the bible calls shrimp an abomination four times more than it does homosexual sex. I've also learned more about the New Testament, and I think the issue is murky at best--I will talk about it more later.)

Based on myself, I know that the gay runs in my family, though it might be partly or wholly on my father's side.

And these are just a few interesting things that I could think of, off the top of my head.

"You know, he would be so much happier if he was gay," my dad said on the way home from our visit. "He'd be more of a catch, too, with how close he is with his mother."
"Maybe in our small town, though not in San Francisco," I joked.
"Well, yeah, where the men are scarce. He's not ready for the big leagues," he answered.

There's a stereotype that the most raging homophobes are vehemently fighting their own feelings for other men or women. I don't know how true that is--how can one even begin to know, when all kinds of people are often in the closet even to themselves?
I do know one thing, though: If it is true, then it would make things so much simpler, in life. And my dad is right--it would make my Uncle 'Phobe a whole lot happier.

Half Hetero Pudge And Ronny: Chapter Ten

 One hundred points to whoever can guess what part of Christian pop culture "Reverend Ray" comes from. I will give hints, upon request.



 Pudge and his mother arrived a few minutes early, to allow them more time for socializing. As he pulled into the parking lot, his mother put her hand on his shoulder. "Are you all right, dear? You've been awfully quiet today, and lately, come to think of it."
"I just...I just have a headache," he said.
"Again? I think you might be coming down with something," she speculated, putting the back of her hand against his forehead. "No temperature, though. Are you going to be all right to go into the service?"
"Yeah, sure," he replied. "I'm fine, Mom, really," he said, grabbing his bible and getting out before she could ask any more questions.
He noticed a two strange cars in the parking lot, a sliver Kia which looked only a few years old, and a small red Volkswagen convertible, maybe from the early nineties. He wondered somewhat about them, before walking past the two cars that had passed him on the side of the road last week, apparently not seeing him. Pudge briefly thought of last week's sermon, about the Good Samaritan, then dismissed it. No, he was just bitter because he had finally discovered the extent of his sin, he thought.
Everything was the same, and yet strangely different, as he walked into the church. He greeted his friends, his pastor, and his elders, hugging his grandparents. He even said hello to J. Michael Kindhart, someone he had known from school picnics and conventions, and who had attended one of Highland's sister-schools, Harmony, with all of the other black children. That would explain one of the strange cars in the parking lot (the Kia, he thought, for some reason), though Pudge was faintly surprised that it had been so nice. Apparently J. Michael had decided to be a guest here today.
Yet something was very different, very wrong. He was very different, and, well, he felt that something was very wrong with him.
You are a fake, he thought to himself, as he smiled and shook hands with Pastor Alltruth. You're not a real Christian. There's no denying it now. Real Christians are transformed by Christ's power, and you...?
Stop it! he protested in his mind, shutting out that accusing voice as best he could. Pudge felt like everyone was staring at him, though they weren't, and that everyone could see right through him. He carried his bible high up against his heart, trying to hide the scarlet letter "G," the pink triangle, that he felt like he had indelibly stained on his shirt.
The voice was right about one thing--there was no denying it now.
He had struggled with this issue the past few days, wondering if he could change, really change, and wondering what this all meant.
Did God want him to marry a woman to whom he was not attracted, and try to sublimate or change himself that way? He had certainly never found a girl for whom he had struggled with lust.
Was he supposed to remain single all his life? That seemed like an awfully lonely life. Would he have to remain lonely forever?
Would God change him somehow? He had not changed him so far, no matter how long Pudge had struggled.
Maybe God would change him if he confessed this to Pastor Alltruth and some of the men from his church? But then again, given the nature of the struggle, maybe he should confess it to the women instead? No, that was silly; that would never work. But the men might think that he lusted after them, when he didn't. And all of the older men, and even most of those his own age, were married--to women. How could they possibly understand?
Maybe if he went to some sort of group or retreat? But that would involve making it known, to other Christians, that he had this problem, and he knew that they would look at him differently after that. He didn't think that they would fully believe that he loved Jesus (but not in that way!), and they might question his sincerity or his commitment to purity and holiness. He couldn't stand the thought of that.
I love you, Jesus, You know I do! he thought. And not in that way, NEVER in that way! I love you because You saved me--You did save me, right? Please do save me now, if I'm not saved.
That question was the most disturbing one of all. Maybe he wasn't really saved, because he hadn't confessed his sin to anyone. Was he going to hell, because of his shame?
And even if he wasn't, what else could he do to get saved, and to help himself? He had done far more praying and searching the scriptures in the past few days than he had in a long time, and that was saying something. He wanted desperately to know God's will for him, to get close to God and to please Him, though he wasn't trying to earn his salvation through works.
Whom could he tell--to whom was it safe to tell, he wondered? He was afraid that everyone he knew would misunderstand. They would think that he was fornicating already, that he was a sodomite already.
Already--that word had shocked him, as if he thought it was inevitable. His heart started racing, and his breathing became quicker and shallower, as he envisioned his mother and grandparents crying by his bedside, as he lay hooked up to a bunch of tubes and ventilators, dying of AIDS.
Call it what it is--GRID! the voice had growled, as he literally shrank from it. Just one slip-up, in a lifelong struggle, and he was doomed. He couldn't put his mother through that! And he couldn't carry condoms, which everyone knew weren't as effective as the liberals wanted people to believe, either, because that would be making allowance for sin in his life, keeping the sin as an "option." So what little protection, "protection" afforded, wasn't available to him. And God could keep him from being overly tempted, perhaps, but not from his own bad choices.
He didn't trust himself anymore, not since Ronny had almost grabbed him there. He knew the way his body had responded; it had been almost automatic--what if someone did that to him on purpose, someday? Would he say no?
And even if he did say no, was an erection considered consent? Would he be sinning, even if he didn't want to? Everyone knew that only girls got raped, and even then, they were always partially responsible for arousing men (or always suspected of being responsible)--did he have to worry about how tight his pants were, now? How short his swim trunks were?
What if he decided to start working out and get in good shape at the gym--could he take his shirt off, if he got hot? Would just the fact that he was in good shape be enough of a temptation? Was that a stumbling block, and possibly a signal that he was available? How much of his body should he cover, or should he simply stay home (even if the gym had better machines or weights than he had)?
Men were visual creatures, after all, as Pastor Alltruth said. All of this worry, was this what girls went through while getting dressed every day--how to look nice, but not arousing? He couldn't imagine dealing with the questions of makeup, jewelry, skirts or pants, how long the skirts should be, what color hose should be, whether to shave his legs, short sleeves or long, high heels or flats, how to be comfortable but modest in the hot weather, swimwear, gym clothes...
"...Pudge? Pudge? Are you all right?"
Pastor Alltruth was speaking to him now, interrupting his thoughts.
"Huh? Sorry, Pastor, what were you saying?" he asked.
"Pudge, this is our guest speaker today, Reverend Ray. He's going to talk to us about how God delivered him from the homosexual lifestyle."

Tuesday, September 22, 2015

"What Are You Going To Do When I Come Out?"

I posted recently about the problem I had with an evangelical friend, because she reminded me of my evangelical family--namely, my extremely judgmental, probably closeted, Uncle 'Phobe.
I wasn't sure what the exact solution was, though I knew that what I wanted was to be more open to my family about who I was. I want to able to talk about being bisexual, just as my bully of an uncle gets to talk about being straight.
I wear rainbow flag and bisexual flag pins, though lately that does not seem like enough. I doubt that anyone in my family even would recognize the bisexual flag, anyway. Most of them probably wouldn't know that there was one.
My rainbow pins may be the exact reason why he always manages to work in one snide comment about LGBT people per family visit. No one has commented on them, though I've worn them for a while. He was the exact reason I got them, in fact--because he said that gay people should "stay in the closet," and was laughing about it.
But he doesn't have to be in the closet, presuming that he is straight (he always seems very eager to provide evidence of being straight, after all...).
It was hard to think of something to say, that was actually easy to say around him. He was abusive and bullying to my cousins and me when we were children and he was older than my mom, and since then I have always feared him physically, though some times are worse than others.
I finally thought of something that might work: joking about it. Since he often jokes about his homophobia or anti-gay sentiments, maybe I should joke about being the opposite way.
The next family gathering is a long way off, and I don't know for sure what the mood will call for, but I finally found some way that I feel much more comfortable about bringing up the subject: When he makes his inevitable homophobic comments, I will crack a smile, and ask, "What are you going to do when I come out?"
If it shocks him, and makes him ask in surprise if I am a lesbian (because I don't expect he will immediately think of bisexuality), I might say, "I can't tell you that; I'm not out yet!"
If he tells me that I better not come out, I can say, "Don't worry, Uncle 'Phobe; I will NEVER tell you that I'm bisexual!"
If he wants to condemn me, I will simply say, "I have done my research, and come to a different conclusion as a Christian than you have. I don't condemn you, so you don't condemn me."
(Though I am not technically a Christian anymore, because of my doubts that God even exists, I don't feel like I'm lying there, because I know that a good god would never condemn people for the way that she made them.)
Yes, I think a lot about what he might say, based on the things that he has said, before. It's hard not to try to anticipate everything, when a small part of you is still physically afraid of someone (so much so that you bought pepper spray just to make yourself feel better about being around him).
I can't anticipate everything, no, but this is a start. By joking, I reclaim my power, in a way. I have the power, and he doesn't have the power over me. By making a joke of it, his condemnation doesn't matter.
And I don't know if my family will side with him against me (though it will probably be behind my back), or if they will buy into common stereotypes such as that LGBT people are promiscuous. But there's not much this twenty-four-year-old virgin can do about that, is there?
And trying to explain too much could bore them or make them suspicious of the very things that I'm trying to disprove. No one likes someone who so obviously has something to prove, as Uncle 'Phobe has unwittingly proven to me so many times.
So I think if I have to, I'll just explain it as, "I think both guys and girls are great--even romantically!" with a big confident smile. Why should Uncle 'Phobe's misconceptions bring me down, after all? He doesn't even know my life.
I would love to get to the point where I can simply say, "Yeah, class is going good, my animals are so funny, no cute guys or girls in my life right now, and I'm in this new play!" (because I hope to eventually get a part in a local play--if it's actually a good one, that is).
I don't know for sure if this will work, or if I will even use this new coming-out technique (though I think I will), but coming up with the idea made me feel a whole lot better. And I wanted to share it here, before I forgot to, in case someone else could use it, too.

Mostly Hetero Pudge And Ronny: Chapter Nine

Trigger Warning: Parental anger, threatened violence, fatphobia, homophobia, and homophobic slurs in the first section, homophobic slurs in the second section. Skip the first section to have a "lighter," though not as well-developed, version of the story.

 "You don't write love notes to another boy!" Ronny's father bellowed, nearly spitting in disgust. He was shaking Ronny roughly by the arm. Ronny cringed, trying not to cry between the pain and his terror of his parents' disapproval. Though his mother often lost her temper and screamed at him, this was the first time in all of his twelve years that his father was upset enough to care about anything he did.
"Stop crying, you little faggot!" Dad shouted, as Ronny tried in vain to wipe the tears from his face and the snot from his nose.
"You look like a little girl!" Dad added.
"Ronny, this is inappropriate," Mom explained, angrily thrusting his journal, which he had apparently not hid well enough, in his face. "You are two boys, and you don't need to be talking this way to each other."
"But Pudge is my friend," he sniffled, "He's just a friend."
Pudge had been spending more time with him since Ace had left for Bible Camp. Pudge had confided that his mother had kept him home not because of money, as she told those who asked (even though Ace's family had secretly offered to pay for it), but because he didn't want to be away from home for two weeks.
"Your little fat friend doesn't like you," Dad cut in, "he's just trying to get you to go to Sunday school, so the teacher can give him a pat on the head and a candy bar."
"But..." Ronny trailed off, wondering if it was true. Was Pudge's niceness all an act? Ronny was glad now that he hadn't signed his name. Pudge would probably think it was that girl, Susie, that Ronny saw him talking to sometimes.
"You're not to see that little fat kid again, do you hear me?" his father demanded.
Ronny sniffled again and nodded.
"And if I ever catch you writing faggy notes in your little girly diary again, I'll beat your ass. You hear me?"
"Yes," Ronny choked.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good boy. Now mop it up. You're crying like a fairy."
His mother then made him rip out the offending pages and throw them away. His hands were shaking, but he managed it.
He learned that day that the worst thing a man could be was something called a "fag," and that if you said you loved another boy, you were a fag.



"I'm not a fag!" he found himself screaming, thirteen years later. He had just gotten home to his small rented house about an hour before, and like his father, he had a beer in his hand. And like his mother, he was yelling. And again, it was about Pudge.
"I'm not a fag!" he screeched again, hurling his beer bottle across the living room. "I'm not! I'm not! I'm--oh, fuck!" Ronny slammed his hand into the wall, then was painfully reminded that it was still injured. He screamed in pain, then let loose a long string of curses and gay slurs, livid still at that car hood that had not been properly secured that day, and had slammed into him.
Finally he sank into a heap on the floor, holding his hand tenderly and weeping softly. He hadn't meant the note like that, he thought. Or at least, he didn't think he had. How could anyone tell, at twelve years old?
He had done everything right in his life. He had kept his chin up at urinals and looked at nothing but his own locker. He had given nothing more than handshakes or, on special occasions, shoulder-pats. He had called other boys queers for being weaker or more effeminate than him. He had ridden a motorcycle.
And he had liked girls. He had dated girls. Well...one girl. Until his foolishness had killed her. He had not gotten up the courage to ride a motorcycle--or a girl--ever since.
"Not a fag," he whispered softly. "I dated Susie..."
He had liked Susie Selfwill. She let him do things that most girls in their conservative town didn't, and she was good company. She wore pants, which he liked, because he could take her on rides. She also had a nice ass, and didn't hide it under a long, loose skirt.
She had everything, really. Ronny had been so relieved when he had realized that he liked her, and girls in general.
But if he liked girls...why was he always faintly worried? Why had these worries returned, since Pudge came back into his life?
And most of all, why had he almost grabbed Pudge's dick?!
He had seen the way Pudge had jumped--Pudge probably hated him now. As he certainly would have, had he found out that Ronny had written the note.
Ronny almost got up to get another beer, but he was very drunk already, and couldn't quite manage it. So he lay down on the floor and closed his eyes.
"Not a fag," he whispered, the words a little slurred. "Not a fag..."

Sunday, September 20, 2015

Friends ALWAYS Ask Friends If They're Going To Kill Themselves

 Trigger Warning: I talk about suicide attempts, and talk of suicide. No one dies.

When I had only had my Twitter account for a month or two, I was up late one night, and just about to go to bed, when I decided to check just one more time.
What I saw was kind of confusing to me. A lady whom I followed had uploaded a rather dark poem about how death was beautiful. That was a little weird. Two minutes later, another one, about fading into oblivion in a warm bathtub. She had commented, "Yummy pills!"
"Are you okay?" I asked, "Do you need someone to talk to?"
Then I saw that someone else had said, "Please don't do this! We can talk about it!"
I couldn't believe what I was reading. Was she really...? Was this really what that was about?
I wondered what I could say. If someone was at this point already, was there even anything I could do?
"We need you to live," I said to her, doing a little research with the words "suicide hotline."
"Here is a number you can call, if you want to talk to anyone other than us: 1-800-273-8255."
She then tweeted a picture of her hand, holding a handful of pills. "Goodbye and see you on the other side of nowhere."
Someone else said, "You better be alive when I get up tomorrow, cunt!"
How could he go to bed? I wondered. Sure, he may have work tomorrow, but still...
I knew that I wasn't going to bed. I couldn't, anyway. 
Now I knew this was serious. I had read before that all major social media sites have places where you can report disturbing and self-harmful stuff, so I did, though going through the steps seemed so slow and confusing.
"Please do something quickly!" I commented, repeating what she had said, "I am afraid for her safety!"
Someone else tweeted the police department in her city. "PD please respond." I was not sure if they had the resources to track her down, but I hoped so.
After I reported her, the disturbing tweets mysteriously vanished. Is this how they deal with this problem?! I wondered. Just pretend it never happened, while people's lives are on the line?!
There was nothing more I could do. I asked my followers if anyone knew anything of her, but got no response. I don't know how long I sat there, wondering, Did she do it yet? Did she do it yet? and unable to stop picturing the horrible scene taking place right at that very moment. It was almost 3 a.m. now.
"Hey, everyone," she finally came back on after a while. "I am fine now. Thank you for your concern. Can someone please tell me who called the police to my house? I want to thank them personally. I don't really want to die, it's just the depression that tells me to do it. I appreciate your concern, but I may take a few days off Twitter and find other support."
I didn't know whether my reporting her to Twitter (if I was the only one) or someone else tweeting the police, was what got them to her house. I just told her that we all loved her and wanted her to be well. She favorited my tweet.

I stayed up until around four or five in the morning, just winding down from that. It had been a very harrowing ordeal, one of the worst in my life.
The next day somebody else private-messaged me and said that I had possibly saved a life, and "good on you." I told her that that made me feel good, and she told me that I had earned it.
I don't know if what I did made the difference, but I didn't really feel like I had a choice. I wasn't going to sleep that night, anyway, with what was happening. I felt like I would always have the Suicide Hotline number burned into my brain.

Almost a year later, I saw on Facebook where a friend of mine had written about an ex-boyfriend. "He always used to say that if I did this or that, or if I did many things, that I was dead to him, and I actually wanted that. I think that there is an inexplicable freedom in death."
Hmmm....death. An "inexplicable freedom in death." Surely he meant only being dead to his boyfriend? Figurative death?
He was a very well-adjusted person, I thought. I didn't think he was likely to be depressed and suicidal because of being gay, or another reason that I didn't know of.
I private messaged him. "You meant figurative death, right? This may sound crazy, but I've seen some pretty disturbing stuff." 
"Figurative," he replied tersely. I thanked him and told him that I wouldn't bother him again.
I'm pretty sure I irritated him. He got over it, apparently, though, because we're still friends. And if I hadn't irritated him, I would have wondered about him, and felt guilty, for a long time afterwards--even if nothing had happened.
Another friend, a few months later, shared someone else's poem about "dying inside" and having invisible pain. I private-messaged her, and said that I thought I knew what that was like, and that if she needed to talk or vent to anyone, she could message me, and that I would get back to her even if I wasn't on Facebook at the time.
I had better luck with her; she thanked me and said that it was so nice to have someone on her side. I wondered why she didn't just take it for granted that I was on her side, though we didn't know each that well, I suppose. I had thought that she would be irritated, too.
I have come to accept the fact that I MUST be myself, and that sometimes being myself involves irritating the shit out of people. When someone posts disturbing stuff, I am all over that shit. I've learned that, yes, it IS real, and what you see is often not simply a disturbing, punky attempt to be edgy.
And I would rather be overly paranoid, get people mad at me, and go through a few "fake" episodes that people do just to get attention, than have to live with myself, and wonder if I should have or could have done something.

The moral of the story is this: Yes, you ARE seeing what you think you are seeing. And even if you're not, be the person whom everyone gets mad at, but only because they care too much. 

Here is a number if you or someone else needs someone to listen to them: 1-800-273-TALK (8255).

Don't let your loved ones, and the world, lose another person--there is way too much loss already.

Almost Totally Hetero Pudge And Ronny: Chapter Eight

Marcy opened the door a crack. "Ronny?"
"Hi, Mrs. McMercy," Ronny smiled, "I brought your plate back," he explained, holding it up. The pink flowered pattern was now visible, and it looked freshly washed.
"Oh, Ronny, thank you," she replied, taking it. "You really didn't have to."
"I figure you would you would want it back, it's a nice plate."
"Why don't you come in, Ronny? Dinner's almost ready," she explained, leading the way into the living room.
"You don't have to do that, Mrs. McMercy, I should be going anyway."
"Oh, nonsense! We'd love to have you. Pudge should be home any minute. "I'll be right back."
Marcy set the plate on the kitchen counter, checked the shrimp Alfredo, and returned, taking a chair across from the old couch where Ronny sat.
"He still working at the grocery store?" Ronny asked.
"He's pretty content there, he says. He doesn't know exactly what he wants to do long-term, but I keep telling him that he's got plenty of time."
"Yeah, I've been pretty lucky, with my job," he said. "I'm pretty popular, now, too, thanks to your brownies," he smiled.
"Glad I could help."
"You're still working at the bank, then?" he asked.
"Yes, I'm still working there. I'm a manager now," she added, after a moment's  hesitation. She had not mentioned it to her church, and avoided the members as much as possible when at work, because she did not know how they would feel about her supervising men.
"That's great, Mrs. McMercy," Ronny smiled. "Good for you. About time they promoted you, right?"
"Um...yes. Yes, it is about time." She had been passed over a few times over the years, while men with about the same, or even less, experience, had been promoted. She was only a manager now because the previous (male) manager had made a mess of things, and she was one of the only ones who knew how to clean up. She was not a domesticate servant, and yet still found herself cleaning up after a man.
She had thought the more liberal and worldly people would not have the same problems as believers. She had been a little timid about mentioning her accomplishments, abilities, and ambitions too, but she had a feeling that that was not the only reason she had not been promoted. If she had been a man, would her (mostly male) bosses have seen her potential sooner? She would probably never know.
Her thoughts were interrupted as Ronny started speaking again.

Pudge's breath caught as he turned the corner and saw the truck. Ronny was here? Was the really his truck? What would Ronny be doing here? He had not visited much with Ronny since they were kids, and the last time he remembered Ronny being at his house was when they were about twelve and all of Pudge's friends were away at Bible camp.
Ronny (he thought) had parked on the street beside his house. Pudge pulled up behind the old black Ford (from the seventies, he guessed), certain that it was Ronny's truck.
Pudge's heart raced as he exited his car, wondering if Ronny would be...difficult, again, if his newfound pleasantness was all just an act, maybe for work. But would even Ronny go out of his way to harass someone's mom?
Unless his mother had called Ronny about his grandpa's truck? He passed it in the driveway, a rusty pink 1964 Chevrolet. It had been unable to start for a few months now. He ran his hand along the side of it, sighing, before strengthening his resolve and smoothing down his uniform shirt in honor of having company.
Ronny was sitting on the couch, talking to his mother, when Pudge came in.
"Ronny! I thought that was your truck out there!" Pudge exclaimed.
"Yeah, it's not Santa Claus," Ronny snorted, though his smile was warm and friendly.
Pudge didn't know what to think, or what to say. Ronny didn't seem to be laughing at him, but still...
"Well, I mean, um..." Ronny started awkwardly.
"It's okay, Ronny," his mother interrupted, with a gracious smile. "We know what you meant."
"Yeah...so, Pudge, you mom says that truck out there isn't running. I'd be happy to take a look at it sometime."
"Really? Oh, um, how much would that cost?" Pudge asked, wondering briefly if Ace was right about Ronny's business motives.
Ronny shrugged. "Just keep feeding me and take me for a ride in it when it's all fixed. It looks like a fun truck to drive."
"Wow, that's...that's really nice of you, Ronny," Pudge stammered, a little taken aback by Ronny's generosity.
"Dinner should be ready, boys," Marcy announced, leading the way into the kitchen.
"Your mom invited me to stay," Ronny explained to Pudge.
"Cool. Good. I'm glad you're staying," Pudge said hastily, still nervous. Ace's words still echoed in his mind, and for some reason he still expected any moment that Ronny would drop the facade and curl his lip up in disgust at something: Their house, their old furniture, his mother's dress, the crucifix hanging on their wall (which was Catholic, and very much frowned upon, but it was his father's). Pudge noticed that Ronny discretely avoided looking at it.
Pudge grabbed three plates and some silverware, and Ronny helped him set the table, as his mother set the pot of pasta on the table.
"Pudge, why don't you..." Marcy began absently as she served the food, then trailed off. "Well, we don't have to pray tonight..."
"It's, um, it's all right," Ronny said awkwardly. "I'm, uh, I'm fine with it."
Ronny folded his hands in his lap at first, as Pudge and his mother joined hands. Pudge reached for Ronny's hand, before he realized what he was doing.
A few seconds of awkwardness ensued, as Ronny reached for Pudge's hand, just as Pudge took it back, then the reverse, until Ronny finally grasped Pudge's hand decisively.
Though Pudge had held hands while praying with many people before, of both sexes, this felt strange to him. Like a heart attack, he thought, thinking of the way his heart raced and his left arm tingled, for Ronny sat at his left.
Pudge closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Lord, thank you for the food we're about to enjoy," he began, stealing squinting, sidelong glances at Ronny. Ronny was closing his eyes, mostly, though he sometimes looked down at the table or his lap, appearing to be lost in thought.
Ronny's hand in his appeared to be sweating, and shaking slightly. 
"Thank you for Ronny being able to join us..."
Suddenly Ronny's elbow came down hard on the edge of Pudge's plate, causing a pile of pasta and shrimp to flip over into Pudge's lap.
"Ah!" Pudge's eyes flew open even more as he pulled his hands away from Ronny and his mother, the plate clattering to the floor as he tried to jump up, but apparently prevented by the table.
"Oh!" Marcy gasped, "Pudge!"
"Oh, fuck!" flew out of Ronny's before he could stop himself. Instinctively he reached for the pile of pasta and shrimp on Pudge's lap. 
Pudge gasped and brought his knees up suddenly, hitting them painfully and violently on the underside of the table.
Ronny jerked his hand away as though burned. "Oh God, I'm so sorry, Pudge!" he apologized, seeming to be genuinely upset. I didn't mean to do that, I don't know what happened.
"I...um...it's..." Pudge flustered, slumping over the table.He was ashen, and looked about ready to burst a blood vessel.
"Pudge?" Marcy asked.
"I have to change!" he said with surprising vehemence, slinking away quickly.
He returned a few awkward minutes later, tucking his shirt into a new pair of pants, seeming to still compose himself.
He was still sweating, and still breathing rapidly, as he sat down and they resumed eating, silently.
"I didn't mean to, Pudge, I'm so sorry..." Ronny began.
"It's okay," Pudge said quickly. "I know it was an accident, Ronny. It's not your fault."
Ronny left soon after dinner, handing them his phone number. Pudge reached out and took it.
"I can come by Sunday--if it's okay with both of you," he added quickly, seeming to suddenly realize that they would be at church.
"Maybe in the afternoon," Marcy answered, eager to see Pudge's truck fixed. Pudge nodded, quietly.
"Thanks for dinner, Mrs. McMercy. It was delicious," Ronny smiled, holding up a hand in a little wave.
"I'll...I'll walk you out," Pudge spoke up, finally, following him. Pudge seemed to want to say something, but didn't--or couldn't.
"Um...bye, Ronny," he said as Ronny got back in his truck.
"I'll see you this weekend, Pudge," Ronny answered, before driving off.
"Ronny didn't mean to, honey," Marcy said as Pudge returned. "He told me he hurt his hand at work today."
"I know, Mom," Pudge replied. "I don't feel so good; I think I'm going to go lay down."
Pudge went into his room and closed the door, sitting sadly on his bed. He sighed, tears spilling from his eyes as he thought of what had happened that night, when Ronny had touched his lap. He had not given in to temptation in many difficult months. Tonight he had, and his thoughts confirmed his worst fears.
"I have to change," he whispered. "Please, Lord...I have to change."