I could never say anything because then I would lose everything and everyone would reject me because I am dirty, guilty, repulsive– and I wanted it to stop.
I sat on my bar stool and took a sleeping pill.
I told the pharmacist that I was having trouble sleeping.
I took another pill.
I had also told other pharmacists.
I took another pill.
I had received pills from all of them without any problems. I took another.
I put them all in a bag
I took another.
And then everything went black.
_____
I woke up with something in my throat. Some kind of snake. I thought I was going to suffocate. I couldn't get it out. Panic, pain, coughing fits. “Calm down Mr. Schrijvers, we will take it right out of your throat!” A pair of hands on my shoulders, my head. To pet. Touches.
"It'll be fine!"
Everything went black again – I fell back asleep.
The first thing I saw when I woke up was my mother and father. They stood next to my bed. I had a terrible headache – mum held my head and kissed every piece of skin she could grab – they were so happy to see me awake. And they told me their side of the story.
Apparently I was found behind the Joker's disco bar - to this day I still don't know how exactly I ended up there. Around closing time, Boy and Mark, the DJ, found me. They assumed that I had simply fallen down drunk. They took me home and rang the doorbell. They told their drunk theory to Mom, but she knew me better: she knew I didn't drink alcohol. She smelled my mouth and noticed that I did not smell of alcohol at all. An ambulance was called and I was taken to intensive care.
Several intense seizures. That is the verdict my parents were told by the doctors. A very serious situation, which would require continuous medication from now on.
The seizures weren't a lie – this really happened – but it was only half the truth. The head doctor came to me when I was alone for a moment.
“That didn't make much difference, young man.”
He knew I had taken pills.
“Why?” he asked. And the dam broke.
I cried like a child. Everything came loose – and the doctor let me cry. I told him how bad I was feeling lately.
"How did that happen?"
“I like boys and not girls.”
The doctor showed understanding. I never thought that. He showed understanding.
“You are of age.It is not our duty to tell your parents. There will come a time when you will have to do it yourself.”
I had another seizure. The release, the crying, the panic, the allowing of it all – my body expressed it in the only way it saw possible.
I was then so gentle and well supported by the hospital staff. Nobody judged. They told me that I would never be able to work on the regular labor market again.
They gave me medication to control my health. This was my first introduction to the rest of my life. “Disability”. I was 23.
The valley was deep. The rope on which I began to climb was the fact that the doctor had not condemned me. Taking the pills had been an attempt to escape my own truth – to make my secret, and with it myself, disappear. The doctor and the nurses had not judged. They didn't think I was sickly.
Could I do that myself? Could I do it, so as not to judge myself?
I decided to suffer the consequences of showing who I really was. I'd rather suffer the consequences than try to live in a way that denied the real me. I came out of the closet. Step by step, from friends to family, I told my circle who I really was.
15.
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