Chapter Three

Frederick

 

A few days prior. Counselor’s office, Albuquerque.

 

The counselor is a bright and cheery looking young woman —it wouldn’t surprise me if she was younger than me. She looks at me excitedly, as if we’re getting ready to have a snack and story-time, not delve into the issues that brought me here. Issues I honestly don’t think exist, and hate being bothered with.

So I flipped out at a fellow SEAL, so what? I cross my arms over my chest feeling like I’m fifteen years old again and being sent to the principal’s office. Sent because I made too much noise when I moved my desk or closed my locker. My schoolmates used to think I had an anger issue because of it. I was always labeled as being “explosive” and “unpredictable,” but nobody cared to know the real reason. Nobody cared to know that it’s because I was abused by my uncle between the ages of five and nine years old, and then by my dad between the ages of ten and thirteen.

No, it was easier for them to just believe that I was a bad kid — an angry one — rather than someone who had been made into my dad and uncle’s plaything.

Or the queer kid. My peers knew all about that—that I enjoyed anal sex from time to time. Someone walked in on me in the school bathroom once when I was with my boyfriend at the time. They proceeded to blab to the rest of the school too. They wouldn’t let it rest or let it go. And the worst of them — the worst of my bullies— actually tried to violate me in the janitor’s closet. So I smashed his nose in.

My dad shipped me off to military school, then upon leaving there I enlisted myself into the Navy— once I was old enough to be emancipated that is.

But here I am again in some shrink’s office because they think I have an anger problem…some traumatic stress disorder. But I didn’t just flip out on the guy just because — he was getting too close to me. He stalked me from behind. He was dogging and harassing me. I flipped out at him because he blocked me against a door, pinning me in a corner, before trying to sexually assault me. The trauma I experienced at that moment made the man’s face distorted and unrecognizable.  I freaked out and reactively pushed him off of me. But according to other officers, I was the one that went overboard and flipped out. I think any sane person would have done the same thing as I did— to try and save themselves in any way shape or form possible, from someone who was physically attacking you. Fuck that. 

I glower at her knowing it’s not so simple this time. I’m here because they want to give me a diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder. But my therapist just smiles. She gets comfortable in her chair as if she can’t wait to hear about my pain and suffering.

“Well, Mr. Patterson,” she says crossing her petite legs and folding her hands neatly into her lap.

“Should we get started on the reason you’re here today?”

I don’t answer her. I just sigh.

“I promise you that this is a safe space, Mr. Patterson. I want you to know you can tell me anything and everything that’s on your mind or in your heart. I’m here to help you get to the bottom of why you went off on a fellow officer and SEAL.”

I shake my head, not sure whether it’s at her, the request, or the fact that I’m even being forced to sit here.

None of this matters and she doesn’t really care anyway. She’s not gay, so what could she possibly do to help me? What does she care about what I’ve gone through in my life? She has no idea what it’s like to try to come out proudly with your sexual preferences, express who you love while having people hate you for it. Having them say you’re going to hell for it. I stare at her, wishing I had asked for a different therapist. I should’ve asked for a guy, maybe someone who is the same orientation as me. Maybe then this wouldn’t feel so annoying... so damn pointless. But then my unit would never take that as a legitimate therapy session, nor true diagnosis of what had happened. They don’t consider LGBT counseling as trustworthy. Some bullshit about a conflict of interest, or some bias or other. Just more bureaucratic fucking red tape designed to discriminate. Bullshit.

“I promise, Mr. Patterson,” says my therapist again. “I’m not going to tell you what to say or that nothing you say is believable. I’m here to help you understand what’s going on in your head. In your personal space. The sooner you feel comfortable around me, the sooner I can support you in being a better, more balanced person.”

I scoff, not bothering to hide my utter disbelief or distaste in her and what she just said.

“Fine. But I’m just doing this because I don’t want to sit here and do this shit for longer than I have to, okay, Miss?” I cross my own legs, but slouch in my seat. “I am balanced, it’s the rest of society that isn’t.”

I ignore the patronizing tone that she’s giving me. She’s giving me that look that says, “of course he would say that—everyone who enters my office says that kind of thing.”

To this look, I say, “I tried to come out as gay to my unit and the rest of my fellow SEALs. I had hopes of them being chill and kind about it, but they were the exact opposite. They decided to distance themselves from me and joke about how I’m probably getting a boner for each and every one of them. They make rude comments about how filthy and wrong my sexual orientation is.”

To this, the therapist just nods. Hmmmm, writing something on her legal pad. To that I add.

“I had hoped that when ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ was repealed, it would mean more compassion towards me. More acceptance… but in reality it just gave me less. My fellow SEALs didn’t want to be posted with me on any missions or any kind of exercises after that. They said that they would be with anyone else before they would serve with me again.”

I pause, wondering if I should just stop talking now, or if I should stop talking altogether, since this woman doesn’t have any idea about my life or who I am. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to be socially ostracized and criticized for your sexuality, for something you have no control over from the time you were born.

As if to confirm my now rapidly dwindling confidence in her, the therapist just says.

“You know Mr. Patterson, we can’t do much about other people. We can’t make them be smarter or more compassionate than they already have it in them to be.”

“Wow.” I clear my throat. “Read that on the back of a self-help book, did you?”

I ignore how much she’s shocked by this, by my lack of kindness or compassion toward her.

“And anyway, it doesn’t make me feel any better, what you’ve just said. Other people in my unit came out and they were praised and supported for doing so. They were loved by their fellow teammates.” I scowl at this, remembering that exact moment. The moment that Brad Trent came out to the rest of the base while everyone cheered him on.  Congratulated  and supported  him, praised him for his courage. It’s the complete opposite from what I experienced, and it isn’t fair. And I say so. I also admit that I’m jealous.

Once again though, my therapist has nothing of much use to tell me and now I’m completely fed up with it. I came here to get some things off my chest, not be lectured for how I’m feeling or dealing with something.

So I say, “You said I could say what I needed to say, so I said it. I said I felt jealous, and I have every right to feel jealous. I’ve been through way more shit than Brad or probably anyone else who might be batting for our team and not be open enough to tell anyone.”

I lean forward, crossing my legs.

“It’s bullshit. Especially since Brad got to marry his husband. A fellow SEAL as well, and nobody gave him a wide berth. Even our captain, Captain Gibson attended the wedding. He was able to be there and support his fellow gay men. So why can’t anyone be supportive of me and my situation?” I bite one of my cheeks on the inside. “My theory is they hate me. They hate me being a gay man, but they’ll just as well go love and celebrate everyone else. That’s what I think.”

My therapist sighs as if my life experience is one big conspiracy theory. Do I sound like that? I think to myself.

“Is your friend Brad still in the Navy?”  I shake my head. “What does his partner do? His husband?”

I shrug. I don’t really make it my business to know everyone else’s.

“Have you ever thought that it might be different for your friend Brad because he’s no longer serving in the Navy? Because he retired and then got married?”

She pauses, looking at me as if I have a very tiny, ill-advised grasp on reality.

“Maybe that’s the reason people behave differently toward him than you for the same sexual orientation?”

“Or maybe,” I say, “maybe, people are just horrible, and they just want to be homophobic assholes because they can.”

My therapist puts a hand up to her forehead, and I know she’s losing patience with me. It’s because I’m not being gentle with her but combative, and that’s not how one is supposed to act when going in for therapy. But I don’t give two shits. I didn’t want to be here anyway. I still don’t.

“It could also be that because Brad came out before you that more of your teammates respect him, and acknowledge that it was a different time for him than for you. Maybe there was a lot less acceptance when he was coming out to the world. Much less than there is for you. So maybe they went out of their way to make him feel that much more embraced?”

“You therapist types only exist to invalidate everything people like me say to you, don’t you?”

Now, my therapist looks visibly shocked.

“No, absolutely not Mr. Patterson! That’s absolutely not what I’m trying to do.”

“And anyway,” I snap, feeling my mind beginning to fall to a vision. “It doesn’t matter what you say, what you think or how you try to spin this, you cannot ignore the fact that they’re being homophobic, and deserve to be called out on it.”

As I speak, the memory takes on detail, yet cloaked in shadow. It’s a vague memory where I’m being pressed up against the wall, or part of the door, unable to get out. I’m in my quarters on base, and there’s an officer standing in my doorway, then he begins pressing me up against the wall. He begins demanding that I give in to his advances, or else. I don’t allow myself to fall headfirst into this, not yet, but he begins to grope at me, placing his cold, cruel hands onto my shoulders.

“You wouldn’t say half of the things you’re telling me if you even knew half of what had happened to me over the last couple of years. You would stop trying to defend everyone else and make excuses for their cruel and stupid behavior — and maybe do your fucking job and be on my side.”

As I should’ve expected, this revelation of mine gets her attention. She jumps right on it. “What exactly happened to you two years ago, Mr. Patterson? Can you elaborate so I have a better understanding?”

My stomach twists, lurches, and again I find my mind reflect on a past memory... it’s the same one I started to relive a few moments ago. The one in my room and being overwhelmed by the shadow of an older, tall and somewhat bulky man. An Officer actually. Wait, he’s not an Officer. He’s a Captain… sturdy and strong.  I can feel he has some extra fat and weight on him. His eyes and face are cold and unfeeling. I first recall his eyes being blue and his hair gray, almost white in places. But before I can be sure, the hair darkens into a brown color as do the eyes. The face changes and isn’t as stern, but still demanding and hungry.

“I was sexually assaulted and harassed,” I say, not wanting to speak the actual words. Once I do, I’ll have to see it in more detail and witness what actually happened to me 

First, I see and feel the brown hair/eyed captain push me against my door and forcing it to lock. Now down on my knees, he’s forcing me to suck his cock which eventually leads to him inside me, penetrating my ass. He doesn’t go all the way in, but it’s enough to make me feel pain and a burning sensation—tearing into my brain.

“I was forced to perform oral sex and then I was partially raped.”

“How can someone be partially raped?” she comments.

I can see the captain almost going all the way in to me, before being interrupted by my friend — my roommate — trying to get in the door. He unwittingly saved me that day.

“He didn’t finish. He didn’t get more than part of himself inside of me before my roommate came back. He was trying to get in the room and that stopped him. That attack anyway. He came back after that, another day. This time he didn’t try to force himself on me, but I still had to give him oral. He made me lick him clean. Eat his cum.” I stopped talking aware of how much my voice is shaking.

“Who is he?” This question from my therapist is the one I’ve been dreading to answer. The one I’m not sure I want to or even can answer. It could mean unending trouble, prompting even more uncomfortable and agonizing memories.

Against my better judgment though, I answer what I’ve come to know. As much as my brain doesn’t want to believe it, I do know the man with the brown hair and the brown eyes.

It’s Captain Gibson. The very same captain who came to the wedding, and cried over the union of Brad and Lance. Who came out as gay and was brought into the “club” with open arms.               “Captain Gibson,” I say, wondering how I’m even speaking and marveling at my ability to even utter comprehensible language.

“It was Captain Gibson,” I say, hating how I’ve broken down and speak this name in conjunction to the worst memories I have of my service in the Navy so far.

“He was the one who sexually assaulted me. Who forced himself on me.”

I fall silent, crossing my arms. I no longer feel like I have anything to be tough about. Just a whole bunch of regrets, especially in the next moment, the one she says to me next.

“I have to report this to your superiors, Mr. Patterson.” I look up with a sudden feeling of both horror and shock.

“No,” I say, “no, absolutely not. Please you can’t say anything about this to anybody… you promised that this was a safe space. You can’t just go around telling everybody what I told you.”

I pause, feeling my mind race along with my heart.

“Don’t you have confidentiality agreements? Isn’t that what the hell I signed before I even started the damn appointment with you?”

There’s a sudden dead calm that overtakes the room. My therapist doesn’t seem troubled in the least by her break from policy... the same one I went out of my way to sign before engaging in this farce.

“You did,” answers my therapist, “but accusations of rape, sexual assault or abuse are not covered under the confidentiality agreements you signed.”

I swear under my breath. “Fuck.”

“As a counselor — especially a counselor associated with the service and service members — I’m under duty and oath to disclose this to your superiors so that you can receive help and justice for the crimes committed against you.”

“You don’t understand, lady,” I say, feeling desperate now. I stand up, hoping that I can make her abandon the idea.

“You don’t understand what’s going to happen to me if these sorts of allegations come out. If this sees the light of day I could be discharged, or worse. I could be further abused and attacked… further alienated from my team and my fellow serviceman.”

I swallow thickly, feeling like Captain Gibson is behind me. At the door and ready to pounce on me. Yet now, a part of me can’t believe it’s him. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to believe it’s him that could have done something like this.

“This can’t come out of this office. Out of this room.”

None of my words have an effect, though. My therapist stands up after finishing some notes on her legal pad.

“I’m sorry Mr. Patterson, but I can’t remain silent about this. If I did, I’d be going against everything I stand for, everything I took an oath to uphold in my profession as a therapist.”

She conveys to me a benign, sympathetic look.

“If you fear retaliation, don’t. I will explain to your superiors when I make them aware of the accusations — what you’ve revealed to me here — that you fear for your safety and well-being. I’ll also stress to them your fear of reprisal, and that they should be careful to put you somewhere safe. In protective custody of a kind if necessary.”

I have nothing but curses for her…and for myself for being so dumb as to say anything to her. Let alone anything of this nature.

“Save your assurances for someone who cares. You assured me I would be safe in sharing things with you, and now I have to deal with the threat of being outed as a snitch and a victim to the rest of my unit. Thanks to you.”

“Telling the truth is not a crime,” she says.

“Opening up like you have will set you free and allow you to be more of yourself. A happier and healthier you, Mr. Patterson. I promise.”

“Yeah?” I imagine putting up my fists but reminding myself that more violence isn’t the answer to this dilemma. I’m not the type to intentionally harm anyone but it’s become a defense mechanism. I’ve learned to fight back, caused from my years of abuse. Instead, I stomp to the door not caring that my foot slams into a garbage bin on the other side of the door.

“And you also promised I can tell you anything, and that it would be safe for me in doing so.”

I don’t bother saying any more to her after that. I just storm out of her office and out this whole godforsaken building. While leaving, a thought rips around in my skull: Fuck me. Fuck this. I should never have come to counseling in the first place. I should’ve refused and known better than to do any of this.

In my incomplete thought process I start on a plan to go to a bar. Somewhere to get fucked out of my head… to forget it in any way possible. It’s the only solution that will allow me to get this situation back to the way it was... before I said anything. Keeping it all to myself. As it should be.