She asked me to talk to him. So I did.
I drove past the gate, parked in “employee only” section (my defiance still flares), signed in, wore a visitor badge, buzzed through two doors, carded through double sliding, got let in a enclosed courtyard cage and finally buzzed through the entrance: “Adolescent Unit” the sign said (nothing looked adolescent about it) and I talked to him.
Most people saw the perfect child (“The Perfect Child or T.P.C. is what THEY used to call me) such a quiet and polite boy who keeps to himself and knows just what to say. Quiet and polite people who keep to themselves are in the news lately. Quiet and polite people who keep to themselves dress up as Santa Claus and kill people on Christmas Eve. Initially, I saw a quiet and polite boy who kept to himself and knew just what to say. I didn’t see any more than I had to probably because I didn’t want to look. I try not to go there anymore. Whatever the reason, I didn’t see what was staring right back at me. I didn’t see me. I didn’t want to see any more until I had to and then all I saw was fury.
Everybody had talked to him about him. I chose a new topic. One he wasn’t familiar with. I talked to him about me. I told him I knew him shortly after we first met. He asked how. I said “I see me.”
When there was a pause, he thanked me for coming, told me how he knew he needed to change his ways and that he’d learned his lesson. I told him to shut up. I wasn’t there for bullshit. I could spread my own. I’d been doing it for years. He didn’t interrupt me after that.
I told him more of my story, my story that resembled his own. He said he didn’t know my past. I said “Not many do. Not unless I tell them. And that’s the way I like it.” I told him how I beat my mom, bit my mom and kicked my mom when I was a child. He stared at the floor and flinched with each detail as though I were reading a list of his crimes. He beats his mom. He bites his mom. He kicks his mom. His mom is 6’2” (my mother was 5’6”) and he is me.
I told him of the many homes I’d lived in. The juvenile detention centers, the children’s homes, the group homes, the aunt’s and uncle’s homes. He told me of his hospitals.
I wept as I remembered a past I rarely visit and avoid reliving. I told him of the terror, the anger, the rage, the fear, the hatred and the loneliness I felt. I stared at the floor. He stared at me.
I told him how it took 32 and 36 years to forgive and that forgiveness doesn’t remove the wounds or erase the feelings. I told him forgiveness heals, absolves and understands.
I told him I needed a hug and thanked him for seeing me.
As I left, I stared up at the fencing above my head, silver strands separating blue sky. I asked my staff escort/manager on duty how my friend was doing, remembering I always knew just how to tell them what they wanted to hear. He said he’d talked to him once in the past two days since he was admitted but from what he could tell he was doing great.
I said “That’s the problem.” He looked at me as though he were surprised “What do you mean? He’s doing great.” I said “If he were doing great, he wouldn’t be here.”
I talked to me today and I didn’t hear a word of it.
