A Silence to Remember (manxman)

Chapter 12

Dominick

Any minute, I expected my mother to show up, to get me out of this place. At twenty-six years old, I was ashamed to admit I still relied on my parents. I'd been waiting to get out of this shithole (aka psych ward) for days. Over the years, I'd had a few encounters with a razor and got a bunch of tattoos to camouflage the scars. My arms were a vibrant mix of reds and blues, with paisley designs from my hands to my elbows. I hit it off with a tattoo artist who gave both great discounts and great head. Bandages now covered my wrists and arms. As I waited for my mother, I picked at them, eager to rip the suckers off.

I attempted to kill myself four other times in college, following a series of debilitating panic attacks. I spent half my junior year in and out of hospitals, forcing me to take a hiatus. Because of my hiatus, I graduated in six years instead of four. Stuttering proved to be a lifelong issue, which only got worse instead of better. Countless speech therapists worked with me over the years, all concluding that my speech issues were rooted in my anxiety. Relaxation techniques, such as deep breathing, never worked for me.

When I was in the first grade, I remember a substitute teacher called on me to read in front of the class. Even though I was an advanced reader for my age, my stuttering caused me to stumble over the first sentence. After five minutes I gave up and froze. Instead of moving on to another student, the teacher made fun of me, ridiculing me in front of the class, telling me I didn't belong in the first grade. 

Everyone was delusional to think I'd ever make it as a lawyer. My parents claimed that I could be an estate or tax attorney, which didn't require speaking in front of a jury. It sounded too boring to me. I majored in English and sociology, avoiding classes that involved public speaking.

Doctors told me I had a chemical imbalance in my brain that made me do certain things, like attempt suicide. I didn't have this problem until my senior year of high school when every student at Belmont High made my life a living hell.

With my dad's connections, I was accepted into Georgetown University Law School. Stupid, stupid, stupid. With my grades and mediocre LSAT scores, I didn't deserve to go there, but I had an Esposito legacy to uphold. I was too much of a coward to tell my parents I didn't want to go. Even though I could be a boring estate or tax attorney, I still had to get through law school, which required public speaking and presentations.

In February of my first year, I stopped going to classes altogether but continued to live in Washington, DC, partying my ass off. My parents didn't discover I flunked out until I came home in May. I was the first Esposito in generations who wouldn't graduate from Georgetown. Being gay was bad enough, and flunking out of law school was the worst, almost as bad as my hospitalizations.

Three days after my return home from school, I slit my wrists to the point I landed in ICU. That was seven weeks ago. I was plagued by an inner voice during those dark moments, telling me I was completely useless with no future. My depression blinded me, tricking me into thinking that I was this worthless bag of shit.

"Behave yourself this summer," my regular nurse, Cheryl, said as I waited at the nurse's station. "I don't want to see you again."

"Aww, don't you like me?" I responded.

"Yes, that's why I don't want to see you again. Not here, anyway."

My mother greeted me with a tight hug. In silence, we left the hospital. My parents didn't know what to say to me anymore. On the way home, I rolled down the car window, enjoying the beautiful June weather, realizing yet again that I didn't really want to die. I loved summer and looked forward to having fun. In the hospital, I planned out my entire summer.