The Closet Chronicles

8. Let Me Out!

I sat in the basement, thinking about how I should be disappointed, and upset, and have regrets about coming out. It could not have gone worse. But I was relieved. I felt like a million pounds was lifted off my shoulders. I didn't have to act anymore. I was free. However, my life was still a mess.
There was some Harry Potter level horse crap going on. I was locked in the basement, and my only human contact was my mother bringing me down my three meals a day, my father bringing me work to do, and my tutor. Breakfast was buttered toast and water, lunch was a turkey and cheese sandwich with water and supper was mixed veggies and chicken with, you guessed it, water. All my electronics were taken from me, and I wasn't allowed any contact with Jennifer or my friends. The only time I saw a screen was when my mother brought down the laptop so I could watch the heterosexuality talk.
My parents had me do some accounting and organization for my dad's extermination company. I balanced their checkbooks, and helped with scheduling. I got paid fifteen dollars and hour, and had to use that money to pay for my tutor, who I had to pay twenty dollars an hour for, for three hours a day. The only days I didn't get tutored were Saturday and Sunday. I worked from ten until twelve, had lunch, and from one until four, I was tutored. Then I worked from four until five. I ate supper, and worked from six until eight. I had to work weekends as well.
I became extremely depressed. I stayed in the basement for two weeks. I started becoming desperate for meal times and for my tutoring hours, because I got to see and talk with real people.
I continuously thought about the horrible life that I was living. I constantly wondered if hurting myself would make it any better. However, any time a dangerous thought came into my head, I would hear Jennifer's voice saying, "No girl. Keep pushing. One day, you'll get out of there." I would see Zak, softly crying at the sight of my coffin. I knew I had to keep going, and just wait it out. But I felt like a skeleton in a grave, turning to ash as the days wore on. It became harder and harder each day.
Finally, my mom unlocked the door, and yelled at me to come upstairs. It was amazing. I felt the fresh air on my face, and saw colour and light. Sitting on the table was a sandwich for me. I ate it quickly, and chugged the glass of orange juice that was set beside me. I finally felt alive again.
"We are taking you to a psychiatrist," my mom announced. "This was the first time they were available. We are going to get you some medication for your delusions, and hopefully you will be all better."
"However," my dad said. "We are going to have to lay out some ground rules. You will not speak unless spoken to. People think that you have cancer, so we are going to have to shave your head before we leave. You've lost weight, which we can use to our advantage. If anyone asks, we are going to a doctor's appointment." I gasped at the fact that I had to get my head shaved. I didn't want to believe him, but I saw the razor in his hand, and knew he wasn't kidding. I screamed and tried to run, but he gave the razor to my mom and grabbed me. He held me down as my mother put the razor to my scalp. I watched through watering eyes as my locks fell to the floor. It was like I was being dehumanized. When my mom finished, my dad let go of me and I dropped to the ground. My mother came to me with a brush and an eye shadow palette.
"As much as I hate to fuel your delusions by giving you makeup, you don't look sick." She took the darkest colour, and painted circles under my eyes, and in the hollows of my cheeks.
"Perfect," she said. "You look like a cancerous teenager that people feel bad for. Who knows, maybe we can set up a fund to pay for your schizo meds. If people think you're a cancer kid, they will pay for your treatment!" She had a crazed look on her face, as if she had just thought of the most genius plan ever.
"You know that's illega-" I started to say.
"Silence!" My father shouted. "Did we not tell you to only speak when spoken to? You do not get a voice in this argument!"
"It's not his fault, hun," my mother said softly. "He's ill." My father looked down at his feet, humbled.
"You're right. He's not in his right mind. Let's take him to the doctor." My dad helped me up off the floor, but let go of me as soon as he could, as if he was repulsed by my presence. My mom looked outside to see if there were any people before giving us the all clear. My father pushed me out the door, and we all hurried into the car.
It was a very awkward drive. It lasted about an hour. When we finally got to the psychiatrist's office, my mom looked back at me.
"Remember the rules, Jamie. If you break them, there will be severe consequences."
We walked inside, and signed in at the reception desk. The lady sitting behind the counter kept staring at me with concerned, puppy dog eyes.
"I hope you get better, sweetie," she said to me. I gave a small smile back, which seemed to both give and take away her hope for me.
After waiting for five minutes, I heard my name being called. The doctor was a tall, slender woman, with blonde hair and glasses. We walked to her office, which was beautifully decorated, might I add, and took a seat. She introduced herself as Dr. Kenny.
"Isn't she gorgeous?" my mother asked. "Aren't you attracted to her?"
"No, mom. I'm not attracted to her. I never will be attracted to her."
"What is all this about attraction?" the psychiatrist asked, pulling out a notepad.
"We believe our son has schizophrenia," my father said.
"And what makes you think that?" Dr. Kenny asked.
"He has told us that he is a homosexual, which is obviously a delusion caused by schizophrenia. My son could never be a fag."
"First things first, you will not use such language in my office. Second, I'm sorry, but homosexuality is not normally a symptom of schizophrenia. Homosexuality is a type of love. A man loving a man, a woman loving a woman. If you are looking for medication to stop homosexuality, you will be looking for a very long time."
"Well, are there any steps we can take to alleviate the symptoms of the schizophrenia?" my mother asked, not understanding the doctor.
"Being gay is not schizophrenia. I repeat, not schizophrenia. Jamie, are you gay?" I looked at my parents, and they nodded at me to answer.
"Yes," I said. "I have been my whole life."
"And that is perfectly fine."
"We are finding a qualified doctor to take care of our son!" my mother screamed. "You are not a healthcare professional! You are harming our son by not curing his delusions!" My mom grabbed me by the arm, and dragged me out of the office to the reception desk.
"You better get my son some help right now, or I will sue your asses! Do you have any other mental health professionals available?" she all but screamed at the receptionist.
"Did somebody call for a mental health professional?" We heard a deep male voice call. "Because here he is!" We turned around to see an old, short man walking up to us. "I was just about to go out for lunch, but if you need assistance, I can spare a minute!"
"Please, sir, our son is having homosexual delusions caused by schizophrenia!"
"Not by schizophrenia dear, but delusions nonetheless. There is a camp in July that can help. Camp Sunset helps set the sun on homosexual kids, and teaches them to understand, love and live the correct heterosexual life. After the camp, the sun will rise on a straight child."
"It sounds wonderful! Do you have any more information?"
"Here is a pamphlet," he said, pulling a sheet out of his coat.
"Thank you so much, Dr..."
"Ross. Harold Ross." My dad stepped forward, and shook Dr. Ross's hand.
"Thank you so much sir, for helping our child. I just have one question. If homosexuality isn't caused by schizophrenia, what is it caused by?"
"Some kids just think or act gay as a way of acting out. It will pass with the help of my perfect system. Punishing homosexual behavior, such as acting girly, rewarding heterosexual behavior, such as having a girlfriend and showing attraction and affection to females, and going to camp every summer to reinforce the proper behavior."
"We will be sure to follow your system sir," my mother said happily, excited that she had found a way to "help" me.
"If he continues to act out in this way, just make an appointment for him, and we can have some one on one conversations." He looked me in the eyes with an expression that seemed to say "Have fun being straight, faggot". It made me want to punch him in the face. But if I did that, my life would only spiral harder.
"Here's my business card" Dr. Ross said, handing a monochromatically decorated card with his name and number on it. "Call me if you have any trouble" With that, he walked off, and my parents looked at each other, their expressions showing hope for the first time in two weeks.