More SCRIPTs– Were they supposed to be doing something?
I really didn’t want to go home.
It became obvious to me very quickly that as nice as my friend was, the roommates didn’t want me there, and they were singling me out and targeting me. It was obvious and gross and my choir friend would apologize like a coward as soon as they were out of earshot. They were like Cinderella’s step-sisters.
They were also about to get evicted, because they blew our rent money, AND THEIR JOBS, to go to Kentucky. Kentucky?!?
But why shouldn’t they?
They each had parents that would look at how badly they screwed this up and still love them. They had parents who might lecture them, but would help them fix it. Their parents would cosign on the next apartment. Their parents would pay off the debt so it didn’t hit their credit. Their parents would help them get their stuff out.
It really hurt that the person who had offered me this salvation, and had yanked it after I pulled the trigger on the plan, lived right next door. I got an occasional “sorry” with shrugged shoulders in the hallway.
At least she was sorry.
Guess that made it all good. Sure, she offered help, and I was naive enough to accept it, but she wasn’t responsible for me. She didn’t owe me anything. Neither did sexy maintenance guy. Neither did my friends. Neither did my family.
Nobody owed me anything, and I didn’t deserve anything.
New Housing Situation
I had gotten close to another coworker at Cloth World. She had been a fun young single mom, who was newly remarried to a man she met in a church singles club. She was a spunky redhead, and her daughter was really cool, and about the same age as my sisters. She read fantasy, and made jewelry, and did nerd stuff.
She’s the one who had taken me grocery shopping in the last post. Let’s name her Brocade.
She allowed me to move into her (and her husband’s) basement. I have no memory of seeing her husband the entire time I lived with her. Cloth World had a store about 2 blocks away, and they were thrilled to have me. That place was a real mess, so they needed me.
It was really kind of remarkable. Before I even got to that store my reputation had run ahead of me, and I walked in really knowing what I was doing. It was like making it into the grown ups club. Before very long they were trying to figure out how to get around some age requirements to make me an operations manager. We didn’t make it that far, but it was a huge boost to my self esteem.
There were some rules, but I would have done ANYTHING to not go back home.
I had to work and pay rent. I had to help with chores. I had to smoke outside. I had to respect that this was a family home with a school aged child. Finally, I had to go to church with them.
Piece of cake!
It was awesome. We watched so much Martha Stuart, and we did all kinds of craft projects together. She taught me how to use a beading loom, and I got to listen to the books she was already reading to her daughter. I later named my child after one of the characters from those books.
We cooked together, and I went to craft fairs where Brocade and her mother would sell their jewelry. Her parents were pretty wonderful too. Her dad didn’t talk much, but her mom was warm and welcoming.
We went to the Renaissance Festival together in garb we had crafted ourselves, and stayed in character for the entire day. I was so sunburnt. We kept going into the little shops to look at the goodies within just to say “we could make that.”
I was having so much fun with my freedom, there wasn’t much dating, or going out, other than to work. I was so happy in the sidecar of this little family.
Church
Brocade’s family worshipped at a nondenominational megachurch. They had a huge screen that would display all of the words to the worship songs for the week, and scriptures so you didn’t have to shuffle through the book to read along. There was a dedicated church band and some really nice pastors. As a matter of fact, everybody there was really really nice, all of the time.
Of course they were all interested in my sad back story, and the survivor story that followed. I was still performing the “my dad committed suicide,” script, and in religious circles, they can’t help but want to heal and accept you “for your own good.”
Belonging felt good. Knowing the right scripts felt good. Being in the presence of other people practicing joy felt amazing. Combining my vocal energy with a community of people singing their hearts out without insecurity was incredible.
People weren’t yelling at each other. People weren’t saying cruel things to each other.
I wanted it really bad.
I wanted to belong. I wanted affection and attention. I wanted to perform SCRIPTs that led to others respecting me.
I wanted to wash away the filth of me. My dirt ran so deep. It didn’t even have to make sense. Nothing had made sense before that, so why start now. At least this nonsense had a place for me. At least these people wanted me. All I had to do was say the right things, and show up at the right times.
And stop being gay.
I talked to a youth pastor about it, and lucky for me, he told me that if I just prayed hard enough, Jesus would lift that sin from me. He said that if I would just allow Jesus to heal me, all would be forgiven and he would remove temptation from me.
He would remove the desire to be touched and wanted.
He would remove the desire to have and cause pleasure.
He would remove the desire to engage in unbiblical acts.
I just had to give myself to him. I just had to mean it completely.
I wanted a do-over with every fiber of my being. I wanted new scripts. I wanted to heal, and be made whole. I wanted forgiveness. I wanted to feel like I was enough in spite of my flaws. I wanted to think that maybe I wasn’t damned to hell. I wanted to think that maybe I could pay a lesser price for how messed up I was.
That’s a lot to dangle in front of a kid like me.
Maybe Grandma would stop thinking I was a slut. Maybe this would turn a new leaf over with Mom. Maybe Grandpa would talk to me again. Maybe God could make somebody want me. I wanted to be worthy so badly.
They said that this was precisely the situation that calls for a baptism. How lucky for me that there was this big cosmic do-over card.
We invited my family to the baptism.
I think Mom felt pressured to come. She was pretty mad about it. Brocade spent the night trying to chat with her pleasantly, and my mom mostly grunted in return.
The baptismal pool was behind the enormous screen, which retracted. They said a bunch of things I don’t remember, but they were probably from the book of John. They said to make sure I really meant it.
I meant it with every fiber of my being.
The pastor dunked me backward into the water, held me there, then brought me back up.
I felt like I should have felt changed. I felt like everyone expected me to be changed.
I was still gay, and I still didn’t feel worthy, but everyone else was quite pleased. I performed the SCRIPTs for some time after that, knowing it was hollow, and that everyone is just playing along with the SCRIPTs everyone else expects of them. I realized they don’t know they’re doing it.
That didn’t last long.
Inviting Mom to my baptism resparked my mom’s desire for control.
Before long she called Brocade, and demanded I come back home. Brocade said I had been welcome to stay there, but only with my mother’s blessing, so I packed up my things and moved back home.
I was not allowed in my old room. I had to stay upstairs where mom could keep an eye on me. The girls moved down to our old rooms and I got their room upstairs that was overflowing with toys, and the dressers were full of their things. I sat my things on one bed, and slept in the other.
The Cloth World I was working at was too far away from my house. I had tried to keep up with working using the bus system, but when it takes 90 minutes to get to work and 150 minutes to get home, it really starts to take it’s toll.
I re-enrolled in school. I didn’t know what else to do.
Survivor Literacy 
What do you think?