"He Didn't Beat Me Up"

My storytelling piece from this month for Tellin' Tales Theatre's "Hands Up! Body" show.

I think I have lots of good reasons to feel ugly. I’m autistic; I have Bipolar disorder, ADHD, OCD, depression, and anxiety, thank you very much; and growing up, my weight fluctuated constantly because of meds. By eighth grade I had mysteriously developed “man boobs”–when I was thin; and my disabilities severely affected my coordination, so anything athletic–including properly gripping a baseball bat–seemed impossible. And it wasn’t until I got braces at fifteen that I started smiling naturally.

And all these sources of insecurity and more could make for one confused gay man.

When I got to college, on a small liberal arts campus with a pretty much nonexistent gay male community, I felt alone, especially abstaining from drugs and alcohol, because of meds, while in the middle of rural Indiana. But at the same time, I worked my ass off to make friends and to treat people differently than I was treated growing up, and I got involved on campus. It almost felt like my physical issues didn’t matter–except that I wasn’t getting laid the far majority of the time.

And yet, in the fall of 2010, during my last semester on campus, I was terrified to tell this really cute, athletic straight student named Patrick that I liked him. Many guessed that Patrick was gay, and he would joke about it, going up to guys and making fake moaning noises, which I actually thought was hilarious. Even if I could never do that without getting my ass kicked, I thought he was adorable.

I didn’t ever want to relive experiences I had in high school of being bullied after I told guys–including the most popular guy in our school–that I liked them. I was trembling, but I remember cautiously leaving a note under Patrick's dorm room door saying that I thought that he was beautiful and that when I saw him, I felt ugly. Something inside me told me that he wouldn’t be upset. When I saw him shortly afterwards, I thanked him for not beating me up. He just laughed.

He and I got to have one extended conversation before I left campus, about how terrified I was to go back home and relive years and years of memories of bullying and abuse. And when I returned to campus a few months later for graduation, I couldn’t get rid of feeling ugly and worthless.

On May 5, 2011, I was planning to mix pills and alcohol because I saw no hope left. As I’d never touched alcohol with my meds, I didn’t know how to open the bottle, so instead, I ran into traffic, somehow surviving physically unscathed. I can’t believe I’m still here some days.

Two nights later, I saw Patrick sitting on the front steps of a college house, drinking and partying, hanging out with friends. He stopped and said he wanted to talk to me. I was probably standoffish, trying to act like nothing was wrong, but whether or not he knew about what I had done, I’ll never forget what happened next.

We walked down that sidewalk for a little while, and he put his arm around me and told me how loved I was and how I had deserved a standing ovation I had received a year earlier from my class. I couldn’t believe I was hearing these words, especially from a straight guy who knew I liked him, and I’ll never forget me saying in tears, “You don’t think I’m ugly?” and him saying right back, “No, you’re beautiful! And I love you, lots and lots.”

When we were done talking, I kissed him on the shoulder of his shirt. I don’t think he knew what he had done, but I realized years later that he saved my life that night.

It took three years before I finally started admitting to myself and to others on social media about my suicide attempt and my walk with Patrick and what he had done for me, and that admission was one of the better things to come out of a severe manic episode during that time.

In years since, I’ve done a lot of work on self-acceptance. I’ve worked very hard in different forms of recovery to go against my patterns of self-pity. That may be where I was for many years, but I don’t have to be there today. And whatever I feel, I know that I am never alone.

And in September of 2023, I deleted my remaining dating app not because of a relationship, but because I wasn’t finding any authentic connection on one of those “swiping machines.” I’ve dealt with ableism, fatphobia, and antisemitism in dating, but I refuse to beat myself up for others’ bigotry.

In recent years, there’s been a very curious phenomenon on such apps, stemming from the TV show Schitt’s Creek, where I notice a lot of guys putting on their profiles, “Looking for my Patrick,” or “Looking for the Patrick to my David,” referring to the gay couple on the show. Needless to say, I’ve been there, albeit in an entirely different way: my friend Patrick saved my life, and for years I was looking for a way to relive that moment with someone else.

But today, I’m not “looking for my Patrick.” I may still fall for the wrong people on a fairly regular basis, but crushes don’t monopolize my thoughts like they once did–or I don’t let them–and I work to have compassion for myself.

In 2020, I returned to the college where most of this story happened to give a TEDx talk about autism and creativity, and I concluded by saying, “I wouldn’t change my autism if I could.” Yes, it took a long-ass time to get there, but now I don’t think I would change my very imperfect, nonlinear timeline of healing, or whatever you want to call it, either. 

These days, when I think about Patrick, I think about one of my favorite story songs of all time and say, I hope I’m at least half the friend that he didn’t have to be.

And I think of another song that says, “Ain’t it kinda funny, at the dark end of the road, that someone lights the way with just a single ray of hope.”

Because for one night in 2011, I didn’t care what I looked like, because the last person I ever expected called me beautiful. Metaphorically–and I’m not good with metaphors with my autism–I was on top of the world, all of a sudden.

And today I’m working very imperfectly on self-care. But no matter what, I know that my autistic, gay body is beautiful. I fucking made it this far, and I’m not going back.