A DEEPLY DEPRESSED, SEXUALLY ABUSED SUICIDAL BOY IS READING

An Open Letter to Colette Clark Torres

Your letter to Callen opened up more than you could know. Thank you. We made it through the day.

No one has ever written to Callen before. Because no one ever gave a shit before. It’s a new experience for him.

Callen is disposable and he knows it. Trash. Around these mountains, they’re called white trash. Their crime is that they’re poor.

And sometimes, they’re crazy. Callen’s parents are crazy.

He might even show the post you wrote to one of his peers. Well, I’m allowed to hope.

I wasn’t sure we would make it this far. Callen is a one on one. Even with a one on one, Callen could still kill himself. He hardly ever talks.

Your post spoke directly to him. You got him where he lives.

I had to use a telephoto lens. Callen objects to his photo being taken because he thinks he is so dirty. Not that he has dirt. But that he is dirt.

Just before they fucked him, they would tell him that he was dirt to them. My hope that he will recover is for me.

One step at a time.

It helps me to write about it because Callen gives me nightmares and severe headaches.

In this photo, Callen is reading you over and over and over again. He gets kind of lost in it. And that is fine.

At least he’s engaged, and not dead.

I settle at this point for not dead a lot.

His dog was shot and killed by his dad. Callen doesn’t know. He won’t read this. He would not know how to get to this page. Which is why I am writing it here, and not as a direct response because that would appear on the page he reads.

Over and over.

He is internalizing it.

I so dread telling him about the dog. It will set him back, and I have worked so hard with him.

So why tell him.

Because the deal we made was about telling each other the truth.

I often change the terms of the contracts I make with them. They get so angry about that. But I have to rock and roll.

In Callen’s book, not telling him will be perceived as a lie. I know this kid. And he would never forgive me. Callen is the one kid I dare not lie to. He lives on so many thin threads.

If I have Callen’s custody, and I do, then I am the one who is responsible for not lying to him even if the truth hurts. I decide if his picture can be taken and by who. I decide if his story can or cannot be told. I decide. People tell me that I hold his life in my hands. It annoys me, and it shouldn’t, but it does because tell me something I don’t fucking know. Having custody means we do this my way or the highway.

Anyone who deals with Callen can get lost in his lostness. But Callen is trying. It is so hard.

“I’m staying with the program, Tim.”

“Good. Stay with the program, Callen.”

He has to say it over and over. Just like reading you.

I have been practicing the words. In my head.

Callen, I am so sorry, but your dad shot Max. Max is dead.

I can’t do it. It is the most horrible secret I have ever kept.

And I cannot say that: your dad shot Max.

Because that is code for it wasn’t me. I am not to blame. I am only the messenger.

But I was. To blame. Because I am a part of the culture at large that allowed the abuse to continue. I just can’t accept that people did not know. How could his teachers not have known.

All the Callen’s who have been a part of my life have pushed me one way or another.

This boy pushes me harder than most. I think his story should be told. When are we going to wash ourselves clean from sex. Why can’t we be completely open about it.

Callen says: they didn’t sex me.

If Callen could understand that what was done to him wasn’t sex, it was violence, it was rape, maybe he could say: they sexed me. Oh, he’s said it. But he does not remember saying it.

Other voices have drowned this one out. Nevertheless, I will expoit it. Right now, I will use what works. Hide the razor blades.

I don’t know. All I know is that it matters.

He watched his mother have sex with a long line of men. They would put him in bed with her and his job was to fuck his mother only he found it kind of difficult.

If we can’t start talking about it, Callen will die.

We need to talk and talk and talk and talk. Just like you so wisely modeled for him.

To tell him that Max is dead feels like heaping more abuse on this child. To not tell him that Max is dead feels like heaping more abuse upon a child who is fighting for his life.

Callen will scream. He will fall to the floor. And another piece of him will melt away. Most of Callen is simply ice. If you are frozen in time, nothing can get to you.The dog his father shot was not shooting a dog. He was shooting Callen. Because. Callen. Told. The. Truth.

They are hurting me.

We are not listening to these kids. And people wonder why I get so pissed off.

It pisses me off that the disposables are disposable. They might be many things. But they are not disposable. Not without a fight.

In the photo, Callen is reading your post on his new MacBook he received for Christmas. The deal we made was that you have to be alive to have a Christmas. And a tree. He had to have a tree.

Max likes trees.

Or so I’m told.

I have Callen on meds. But they are little bandaids. None of them are glue for this mountain of a crack into the earth.

The HIV has stunted his growth. It does do that.

It pisses me off that most of the gay community, not all, don’t even know that HIV can stunt your growth, being all grown up, and all, themselves, but that there is now an entire generation of stunted human growth out of the 40 million still infected, and that this would even be an issue.

More news about Africa. People are informed. People are not informed. We are kidding ourselves.

We can’t take care of our own children, and we can’t afford to fucking care about Africa. It is one. Of many. Issues.

Beyond, and not beyond, our own infected shores. I would argue that we fucking can’t afford not to care about Africa.

The way I am going to play this dog drama, I wish mine would leave the skunks alone, is that I fully intend to get him a puppy. Just what I need. But it has to be rambunctious. It has to lick his face right away. Engage him. I don’t know that Callen will need this. But I will.

I need things from him.

We walk through the woods, and I make Callen talk to trees. We hold hands.

“Tell the tree how it felt to be fucked in front of people.”

“But I was mad. Mad is bad.”

“What are you feeling right now. Tell the tree. Will you do that.”

“Yes, I am mad at Callen because he wants to cut his penis off.”

“Are you a voice. You sound like a voice.”

No response.

These are the people who fucked him, and who he failed to fuck.

Let’s talk about the difference between violence and sex. Why do you think I rub it in the reader’s face.

It is a taboo, and taboos get fucking old.

We talk to a lot of trees.

With other boys, not so much.

The MacBook was from a foundation of people who care. Otherwise, it’s the hospital again.

Callen is a little guy.

And they don’t really like Callen in medical settings here because the HIV scares the shit out of them, yes, after all these years it’s still Appalachia.

Appalachia is Africa. Americans have no fucking idea, and even if they did, this would still be Appalachia.

Every one is fully armed. With a few exceptions. Because that is how it’s always been. People come packed with weapons, and they use them.

Especially, anywhere near or around the casino.

I finally just stopped driving anywhere near it because I never felt safe doing that. So many guns. Law enforcement like the Prussian army. Cops will set them off. Because many of the men who bought them and fucked them were cops.

I should be thinking oh, those poor white trash children, but I am not thinking that, I am thinking cops can afford this. It is a mystery.

I am outside sitting on the porch. I can see Callen sitting not too far away, but far enough so he feels he can have private moments because he needs that, we are all up his ass to make him better, he has to find the balance between being monitored and being private.

But not private enough to cut his penis off.

“Do you want to see it.”

“No, I want you to talk to it.”

“In my feelings.”

“Yes, in your feelings.”

“The voices are telling me to do it. I’m scared.”

“You are afraid.”

“The voices don’t like my cock. Do you want to see it.”

“No, I’m not interested.

“Do you like monsters.”

“No, Callen, monsters scare me.”

“Ha ha, monsters aren’t real, Tim.”

“What’s real, Callen.”

“I’m going to fuck you in the mouth, Tim, and I’m going to cum in your throat because I’m dirt. I’m bad. I am a piece of shit. I can’t get hard to fuck her. Fuck me, Tim. I need you to fuck me.”

Linda Blair has nothing on Callen.

“Callen, look at me. I want to talk to Callen, please.”

“Say please again, Tim.”

“Please.”

“Who’s in charge here. Who’s in charge. I need to know.”

“Apparently, you think you are in charge — whoever you are — breaking newsflash, I’m in charge, and what I say goes. I am telling you, I am not asking you, there are limits here.”

Callen sets his jaw a lot.

“And you may not speak because I don’t care about you, did I give you the false impression I am going to spend time with you, I want Callen, and I want him now.”

“We’re sexing him, and you cannot have him.”

“I demand him. I say he is safe, and if I say it, then it’s true, and Callen better get himself back here, or I am taking that MacBook, and I’m keeping it.”

Another silence.

“Because I can. There are limits here and voices have to vanish from this planet. There is no room for them, and they are now ordered to shut the fuck up.”

“Shut the fuck up, Tim. Shut the fuck up.”

“Louder. I want to hear it.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I want the trees to hear it. Louder.”

“Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up.”

He falls into the what at this time of the year are piles of autumn everywhere. He is rolling in the leaves, weeping and screaming.

“Did he kill him. Did he kill him. He said he was going to shoot him dead unless I did it but I was bleeding, Tim my underpants. Did he kill him. Did he kill him.”

“Yes.”

There are inhuman sounds that humans make. Most animals prick up their ears and run. They should run. Run for the hills.

The Red Wolves will hide in the dens they make down by the river.

The horses in the barn will want to bolt.

I fully intend to put Callen on barn horse detail. He will be intimidated. But I need something for him to bond with. It is no small thing, this kind of bonding. Trig and Joel will not be unfamiliar as to how this works. And they can do some giving back.

It will keep them so busy that Trig and Joel will stay out of each other’s pants.

And I am Marie of Romania.

Callen needs a dog. Teenagers are not dogs.

Well…

This year, there is no winter. It is warm, at least in the afternoon. He is playing with his MacBook. Thank god for technology.

“What are you writing. It’s time for meds.”

“That lady.”

“What lady.”

He means you.

You are now: That Lady.

I crown you queen for a day. But I want your new washing machine.

I am here to tell you that houses could take off for a distant galaxy on the fumes alone.

My washing machine…

Never mind.

He doesn’t know how to send email so don’t expect much, but we have sessions where I show him stuff, but he has to work for it.

We talk to his dad when it’s safe and it is.

His dad is a big plastic sex dummy you blow up like a bike tire.

But not to him.

“I hate you, I hate what you did. To me. I’m your son to me. You sexed me and it hurt.”

It will always hurt. It has consequences.

I hand him a thumb tack.

“Cut his dick off.”

Now, I have to go buy another one of those idiot plastic things. This is Appalachia. Home of the sex doll industry.

Mom is next week. Mom won’t last long. Hide the matches.

I’m going to buy one of those pink things one day, and I am going to wring its white trash neck.

He knew about Max. He just knew. But he had to roll around in the dead leaves with it. This is the land of death and leaves.

In the spring, his tall grass will be shallow-rooted. It is winter now. But no snow this year. So autumn clings to the ground as if wet leaves are made to roll in.

Could I come near such a furious beauty’s father of the father of the father’s ghost, shooter of dogs and sons, what is wrong with us, my sharpened nails would set another ten commandments to his face.

No group today. Today is cow dog day. Callen does not know.

What he knows is that there are cow dogs all around. None of them are his. I raise cow dogs. You have never seen a dog herd a flock of goats until you’ve seen a cow cow cow dog work it.

Blue heelers. Australian cattle dogs. One of a kind, but then, so is Callen.

I know for a fact that whatever dog he picks will herd him. It’s what they do. The kid will be the herded, and he will nip Callen’s heels if Callen strays too far. I have seen it a thousand times.

In fact, my neighbor is going to bring the whole litter over because I want to see them.

Shut up.

And Callen will will will talk to the dog, and I will insist upon it, because I tell the truth — that is the program, “Tim, I’m following the program.”

“What is the program, Callen.”

“The program is to stay alive.”

The dogs will all need names.

Dear Callen,

I went to group. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to because I didn’t want to talk about my feelings because I didn’t want to have my feelings. I had spent a really long time, exactly 8 years (I didn’t count the days) working hard to not feel my feelings. Were they nuts to make me go to group?

I felt so bad for so very long and tried so many, many things to stop feeling bad and nothing worked and I think some hurt me. I know others hurt me. I have scars. So one day I just thought I had tried everything else so why not just talk? Talk about my feelings. Which meant I’d have to feel them, of course. I was really afraid as in terrified that my feelings would kill me. I swear. I thought if I even felt my feelings I’d explode from the inside out and leave a horrible mess. At least I wouldn’t have to clean it up but I liked my group leader and didn’t want him to have to clean it…me…up. He said he would but that I probably wouldn’t explode. And anyway, I felt so awful that if that’s what happened it would be better than how I was living all sad/angry/sorry/aching and I am not worth anything so why am I here.

I was also more afraid that if I talked about my feelings that I’d cry in front of everyone and maybe start screaming and go crazy. Or they’d see I was crazy or weird. I had held my feelings inside for so long, for 8 years so who knew what they had been doing all stuffed together mixing up and not getting out. And what if someone laughed?

So I just said who cares as if I didn’t but I did but I had done everything else so decided I’d believe that talking about my feelings would make me feel better. So I did. It was the hardest thing I ever did. That first time. And many more times. And even some times today, although now I talk about little else.

I did cry. But not the first time because I didn’t tell about all my feelings. I talked about just one little feeling that wasn’t a big feeling. No one laughed. Everyone got really quiet, too. I thought, at first, they were surprised and they probably were but they asked me stuff about my little feeling and I started to believe they cared. One told me that she was glad I talked. She liked my voice. We didn’t even know each other when we made our group!

My stories are too long, I know. But I can write that I talked. I wrote the nights before group so I would have something to say ready in my mind. And I talked. And I cried. And I yelled. I hit some pillows with a plastic bag a couple of times. I pretended they were people who hurt me. I talked so much I began to think maybe I talked too much but I did feel better. I mean, I didn’t do all those things in one group but over time. I even started to look forward to going. And usually the worst groups when I’d cry until I had a hard time breathing and had to stop talking, ended up being the best. I felt like I had taken a shower, hit and steamy, after a long hike on a rainy and cold day. I felt clean and warm.

I stayed in group for 4 years. I was older than you when I started. I wish I could have started younger now but that’s OK. It all worked out. I felt so good from feeling and talking and learning things to do to feel good things, to do good things that when I feel sad or angry or bad or happy I talk about my feelings. I swear I love them now. I do. Even the bad ones. Sometimes when I feel a certain feeling in my gut I know I am not talking or writing about my feelings. I still avoid them, sometimes. I think all people do so I’m human. But that feeling in my gut, and it isn’t a good one, reminds me that I need to stop and feel my feelings. And so I do. And I swear I feel better.

I went to group a long time ago. Longer ago than you are old, I bet. I started in 1980. And lots of things have happened to me since then and to others that I love, good and bad but I never have hurt myself again or wanted to, or wanted to die or felt ashamed or not good enough. I am 60. Old, right? But inside, in my heart and head, I feel younger than I did when I wasn’t feeling. I felt older than anything then.

I will turn 61 this month. I was thinking of what I want for my birthday and I smiled because damn, I am almost 61 and I didn’t think I’d make it to 26. And I did. And I didn’t think I’d ever be happy but I am and have been for a long, long time. And most of all, I realized I have all I want because somewhere after talking about my feelings I forgave myself for being born. And realized I am glad I was. I even love myself. Before I started group my leader asked me what I felt about myself and I said that I felt like a roach someone had stepped on. That was true, too. I hate roaches. I’m no Roach and I love myself. That feels good to write. So I have all that I ever wanted. And I do be because I talked about those awful feelings.

Thank you for reading my too long story. Thank you more for writing such hard things about yourself. You have courage to do that. Do you know that? I know. If you can’t think if anything good about yourself, think of that. Courage. That’s pretty cool. And I’m not just saying that. Because of my story. Some days back then it took courage just to get out of bed. Hey, we gotta start somewhere. Your story is a courageous one.

I hope you will feel all your feelings, you can start with the easy ones and talk about them and feel happy and love yourself. Not overnight. Your dog loves you and you have a friend. Do you know that’s more than I had when I was hiding? I was a mess, I tell you. But I haven’t been a mess for a very long time. And I’m glad. I want you to feel glad, too, about yourself. I know that’s your choice. Still, I hope for it. For you and all your group.

I hope I didn’t make it sound easy to feel and not explode, to talk about feelings. It wasn’t and it isn’t but I tried everything else so it was worth it even when it was hardest and hurt because it is the only thing that worked. And it worked very well.

I hope you get your dog back. My dog is sleeping beside me. She snores. And kicks me when she dreams she is running. At least I pretend that’s what she dreams. I can understand why you love your dog. And I can understand why your dog loves you.

Good luck.

Colette Clark Torres