7 July, 1997

When it — the various "it's" that occurred successively throughout my childhood and adolescence — was happening, I was a weak and frightened child. I had no-one on whom I could depend, no-one to trust. When I spoke, people either refused to believe me, or refused to listen. No-one cared. My reality, being the subjective imbroglio that it is, was one of abject horror and misery. I foresaw no end; could remember no beginning. My life simply was, and there was no sense in fighting it.

A happy life was something I read about in faerie tales, or saw on television. It was something other people said they had, but I doubted them. I was sure that they, too, had convinced themselves they were living on "The Cosby Show" just as I had. I believed everyone existed on the same plane of Hell that I did...once the lights went down, the curtain closed, and the audience went home. Though I was too young to know the word, I thought everyone was an escapist of the same calibre that I was. And for the same reasons.

_{(This is life; this is how you live it.)}

I remember staying overnight at my girlfriend's house. This particular time I'm thinking of, I would have been 11, and Shannon not quite 13. We'd left a note for her parents telling them we were going down the road to the pool, and that we'd be in about 6, for dinner. The walk back to Shannon's took longer than we'd expected, after having romped about in the water and wearing ourselves quite thin and ravenous. We arrived at Shannon's half an hour late. But Shannon's dad didn't yell at her. He didn't slap her or tell her to "get the belt." Instead, he spoke sternly to both of us, reminding us of the importance in keeping one's word, and not worrying parents. Later, in Shannon's room, I told her how sorry I was, and that I hoped he wasn't too mad after I went home next day, and the real punishment began. Shannon looked at me strangely, and insisted that what her dad had said was the extent of it; there would be no other punishment.

I didn't believe her. I was sure that her family was acting, just as mine did when a guest stayed over. I reasoned that you weren't supposed to show other people your family's particular brand of hell. You weren't supposed to break face in public. And these thoughts strengthened my desire to be Bill Cosby's only white child.

_{(TV Families never break face.)}

Most of all, though, and partially because I knew deep down inside that Bill wouldn't have me, I wanted to get away. I wanted to go so far away, that no-one knew where I was, or that I existed at all. I wanted to be alone so I wouldn't have to abide the pretense and the perdition it camouflaged.

It isn't entirely accurate to say that The School left me a shutdown catatonic wreck all on its own. Certainly, they had a considerable amount of influence which served to speed my journey into that unreachable place in my head. By the time I arrived, though, I had already begun the process of ignoring the world. Were that I hadn't gone to The School, things might have been different. Then, again, they might not have. I'll never know. Yet, I think it only fair to remind myself, and you, that The School was not the sole catalyst.

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"
 
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time."
 
—Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit

Just as the elevator ride into the shaft of Lost Hope took many years and many stimuli, so will my struggle to ascend from its depths. It does not happen all at once, like being wound up. Though I may be very shabby and loose in the joints by the time I reach the top, I will find myself there one day. As I climb, I will reinvent that which keeps me sane, whole, and pure. I will surround myself with the beautiful things no-one thought to give me. I will hum my secret song, and laugh because I've finally remembered the words. I will become the person I should have been.

And, oh, the things I shall write about...