The Calls That Never Came
TW: Suicide, death
When I was in college, I volunteered as a counselor at a crisis hotline. They’d connected me with the services I needed when I finally went through PTSD for relationship violence and sexual assault years earlier. Once I was on track, I decided to help there in a “pay it forward” spirit.
Training was extensive, and covered the counseling needs of a wide variety of people and problems. Over the years I worked there, I dealt with snarls of emotional uncertainty and dilemmas big and small. I was there as people realized they had a drinking problem, or an unhealthy relationship, or depression. I helped kids with their homework. I connected people to housing and mental health resources.
But, more times than I can count, I talked someone down from suicide. I let them know I cared and was there to listen as long as they needed someone to be with them, even if only over an open phone line. I helped people make safety plans to divert the plans they’d already made to jump or shoot or swallow.
I talked to many people who were in the process of coming out as gay. The university had earned a reputation as a gay-friendly place, despite regular visits from Fred Phelps and his band of miserable men. But it was the early ’90s. Being gay still meant AIDS, and AIDS still meant death. Antiretroviral drugs weren’t even available until 1996.
These conversations went a certain way. They talked about some experiences that had them questioning. They wound around to saying, “I think I might be gay.” And then, “I can’t be gay.” And then, “My family is going to kill me.” And then, “I should kill myself.” I’m so glad I was there for those calls, at that hopeless time, to tell queer folks that they were loved and deserved love.
But I can hardly remember a single call from a person questioning their gender identity. A few people wrenched out phrases like, “I just don’t feel comfortable in my body.” But that didn’t necessarily mean they were trans. There are all kinds of body dysmorphia, some that lead to eating disorders or self-mutilation. The only trans person I ever really counselled was a friend online, before I even had a computer of my own. I sat in a cold campus computer lab until my butt was numb from the molded plastic chairs, and typed messages of understanding and love and resistance against her constant suicidal feelings.
It’s so different now, with a full range of gender identity and sexuality that expresses more fully who people are. HIV isn’t a death sentence, and queer people can have dreams of not just a full life, but marriage and a family and a welcoming community. It’s still not safe for everyone, and coming out is still a courageous leap of faith — many leaps, over and over.
When the current administration announced it’s rolling back the protections for queer and trans youth, I saw a path just starting to bloom shiver with uncertainty again, after hopeful improvements. And I know the calls are going to pick up again at counseling centers all over the country. There’s so much more love and understanding to shield the vulnerable youth from waves of sanctioned hate. I hope it’s enough.
But I’m still haunted by those trans people who committed suicide because while gay was a nightmare, trans was unthinkable. I’m haunted by the calls that never came.
