Wild Nights, Hot And Crazy Days

Part 7.1: A Brand New Low

***CONTENT WARNING*** THIS CHAPTER DEPICTS A SUICIDE ATTEMPT. THIS ATTEMPT WAS NOT SUCCESSFUL (I'm here typing this, after all) AND THERE WERE NO INJURIES BUT IF YOU ARE BOTHERED BY READING ABOUT SUCH THINGS PLEASE SKIP THIS CHAPTER.

With Bruce now out of my life I was starting to sink into a deep depression again. Not because I had lost Bruce – I was much better off without him. My depression was coming from being alone again, and it was compounded by my being injured and not able to work at the trade that I loved. I was receiving disability benefits through my work's health plan, but other than going to physiotherapy and doctor's appointments I was always home and alone. This went on for months, right through the summer, and we were now getting into autumn.

To top it all off, I was very rapidly running out of money. Those disability payments added up to 45% of my pre-accident income, and bills were starting to pile up. I was only barely able to keep the rent paid, and if it wouldn't have been for the fact that I had a successful deer season I would have starved to death. All other bills were simply ignored, which of course resulted in constant harassing phone calls from collectors.

It was getting to be too much. I decided that I had to do something, and that something was to take a job. Not as a mechanic – I was still not physically capable of doing that work – but something still related to the automotive trade. I accepted a job as a service advisor at a Pontiac dealership, ironically in the valley, near where Bruce lived. The job was still only about 70% of what I'd have been making as a mechanic, and it was a good hour and a half commute each way, but I was desperate.

One good thing about working in the valley was that I got to hear all about the consequences Bruce had faced. His name was all over the valley, and the stories about him were most unflattering. Surprisingly, his wife stayed with him, but I would imagine his leash had been shortened significantly.

Unfortunately that was the ONLY good thing about working in the valley. I absolutely hated that job. I love cars, and I love working on cars. What I was discovering was that I did not like working with the owners of those cars. Out in the shop it had been simple: Car broken, I fix car. Out at the desk it was a completely different story: Trying to sell expensive goods and services to a general public who largely feels that they should be entitled to those things for free.

The things that people would demand should be covered under warranty! Expecting general maintenance to be free was one thing, but people would come in with severely damaged or neglected vehicles and expect the manufacturer to pick up the bill. One guy even hit a deer and was scandalized when told it was not a warranty issue. Dealing with these people for 9 hours a day was mentally exhausting.

Then there was the commute. Three hours a day, every weekday, I was sitting alone in my car – 1.5 hours going there and 1.5 hours coming back. And that was if there were no traffic problems like bad weather or an accident. The cost of gas was killing me as well – later on I would work it out that after paying for gas I was actually making less money than I was by staying home on disability.

This, of course, resulted in me falling ever farther behind on my bills. The collectors were ruthless, and were calling me several dozen times a day. On top of that I was now falling behind on rent as well.

All of those things, combined with my feeling betrayed and ever so alone, were driving me further and further into a depression. I was in way over my head and could not see any way out of it. I could not even ask anyone for help, because I had kept my relationship, and thus my breakup with Bruce, a secret. I could not come out of the closet now – I knew now more than ever that Carman's advice about not coming out while depressed was very sound indeed.

Then, one day while driving home from work, after hanging up on a particularly nasty bill collector, I saw a solution. I saw my way out. It was right there in front of me. Literally.

Traffic was relatively light, but coming the other way was a tractor trailer pulling logs. I briefly thought about how easy it would be to end it all right here. It would be over in an instant, probably be painless, and the world would be rid of the problem that was me for good. One fewer faggot in the world would surely make it a better place.

I punched the accelerator to the floor, and that Cougar picked up speed. The song Say You Love Me by Fleetwood Mac was playing on the radio, so I cranked up the volume. The tractor trailer was getting closer and closer. Finally, with about two hundred yards to go, I pointed the nose of the car at that truck, locked my arms, closed my eyes, and kept the accelerator planted.

I drove at wide open throttle with my eyes closed for what seemed like an eternity, though it was only a few seconds. While I was waiting for the crunch that would end everything I started having visions of my friends and family and the good things that have happened in my life, and I started having second thoughts.

I realized that I was not yet ready to die.

A loud horn startled me. I opened my eyes to see that I was only about 50 feet from the truck and that distance was rapidly closing. I yanked the steering wheel to the right and veered out of the path of the semi. Unfortunately when I yanked the wheel the rear of the car spun around, and the semi truck connected with the left rear quarter panel just behind the driver's door. This impact sent me flying over to the guardrail, which I hit and then bounced off of. I went back out across the road and hit the drive wheels of the truck, then bounced back into the guardrail, then back into the trailer's wheels, then back against the guard rail where the Cougar finally came to rest.

With the car finally stopped and the dust settled, I made a quick assessment of myself. My forehead was bruised from striking the windshield header panel, but other than that I was unhurt. I slumped against the steering wheel and just started crying.

After a few moments my crying was interrupted by a very angry truck driver, who, with great difficulty, had yanked the mangled driver's door open.

He stood there, panting and glaring at me, and shouted, "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!?"

I did not answer. I could not answer, because that was the last thing I remember from the crash. After he shouted at me, I looked at him, and everything went black. For the second time in my life I could not deal with the current situation (the prior time being when David had died in the fire). I passed out.

Officially, that was put down as the cause of the crash. The police and ambulance drivers figured that I must have passed out from stress while driving, and I did not argue with them. I knew the truth, and the truth was that it was an attempted suicide that I chickened out of at the last moment. I did not tell them or anyone else about that, though. I was, and am still, ashamed, and this writing is the first time I have ever told anyone. 24 years have passed since then and it still stings.

I managed to escape with no injuries. The bruise was minor and I was otherwise unharmed. My beloved Cougar, on the other hand, was a total loss. Every body panel except, strangely enough, the hood, was destroyed. All glass was broken. Two of the aluminum wheels had shattered. There was no saving it. And I did not want to. I had intended on talking my own life, and losing the Cougar was my punishment for my attempt.

***SERIOUS NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR***
If you or anyone you know is feeling overwhelmed or depressed, help is out there. I did not know it at the time because I kept myself away from everybody, but there is always help - even if it is a stranger. There is no end of resources available, from local crisis/suicide lines and online help websites to support groups, and yes, even friends and family. You are not alone. You don't have to suffer alone, like I did. I did so by choice, and that choice was made out of ignorance.

To use a popular quote: It gets better.

It really does.