The following is my account of March 10 and March 11, 2005 – the night that everything changed.

Oftentimes on television and in music the world coming to a stop sounds like the screeching of a car slamming on the brakes. So much so that the term “a screeching halt” is in our lexicon and used in day-to-day life. I can’t speak for everyone but I can tell you what it sounded like when my world came to an abrupt standstill. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t earth shaking. It was just fast. It was the blood pumping in my ears and the fear of the unknown racing through my heart. It was the feeling of a caged animal trying to lash out while being transported against its will.

When I got off the bus in El Jebel, Colorado at approximately 11:30 pm I had no idea that my entire life was about to change in every way imaginable. When I saw my mother’s Honda CR-V in the parking lot I just thought it an odd coincidence, not unlike running into an ex right after a break up and seeing them with another person. It’s not something one ever really enjoys but you shrug it off to the best of your ability and then obsess about it later until you can vent about it to a friend. Looking back at it I think I was the one who walked up to my mom and said “hi.” In the years since I’ve wondered if my mom even saw me get off that bus; if I could have walked past her car in the dark of night unnoticed and how differently my life may have panned out. However that isn’t what happened. I walked up and said hi. When my mom offered me a ride home, a warm shower, clean clothes and a soft bed, I didn’t say no. Truth be told what sealed the deal was when my mom mentioned my cats. I missed them. I wanted to see them so I hopped in her car. And thus the ball began to roll.

I walked into the house I had spent much of my adolescence in and it seemed strangely alien to me. I remember walking through the house and giving everything a once over. Almost like a patrol. However I also felt like I was walking through a museum of memories: “here’s the spot I broke my arm in the 8th grade while learning frontside boardslides in the backyard;” “here’s the spot my mother broke a wooden spoon over me;” “here’s the spot I seriously considered swallowing a bottle of pills;” “here’s the spot I masturbated feverishly after finding my first Hustler magazine” It was all there. Little had changed. I guess it was just me that was absent. Finally I came across the jewel of my mother’s house: my cats. Patches and Blue were the best friends I could have ever had. They were the perfect beings, selfless and caring. In all the years of teenage angst, abuse, fights, you name it, they were there. I often referred to them as my guardian angels. They seemed to have a sense about the state of the household and always knew the perfect time to come up to me. They brought a sense of calm to life. My focus on all the shitty things would fade away and in their place would be my focus on their two perfect faces.

I doted on my cats for a little while and then decided to jump in the shower. I had long hair that I had recently tried (and failed) to cut myself and in my days on end of spending my nights drinking with whoever would take me into their home or their bed, I hadn’t showered in a bit and for the first time in a while actually looked forward to rinsing off. I stayed in for quite some time, basking in the steam of the hot water. I’m not really sure how much time passed. I got out of the shower and grabbed a towel to dry off. I went into my room and threw on some pajama  bottoms and a Sex Pistols t-shirt I had ripped the sleeves off of. My cats were in my bed and I sat down next to them. My mom entered the room. There was no fight in her tonight. She just stood at the doorway and simply said “They’ve missed you.” It was an odd moment. For the first time in a while I had no snarky remark for her. No contempt, nor feeling of anger for past deeds. I just nodded my head and wondered in amazement why there was a lump in my throat. For so long I had convinced myself that emotion was weakness. I had done so much in two years to make myself into this hardened model of a human. Yet my eyes were now burning with moisture at a simple moment between a boy, his cats and his mother. Just then there was a knock at the door. I got up. It had to be around midnight. My mother didn’t say anything, she just stood to one side of the doorway. I walked past her and saw my father standing outside the sliding glass door that lead to my mother’s backyard. To truly understand how bizarre this all was, one must realize that my parents both had restraining orders against each other. They used them against each other in a sadistic game of mutually assured destruction. To take things another step further, I was still buzzing on the Oxy’s I had taken earlier. As I walked to the sheet of glass standing in the way between my father and myself a plethora of circumstances flashed through my mind. A death in the family seemed the most logical. I figured my grandmother must have died. My dad being the little mama’s boy that he was, it wouldn’t have been too weird for him to flip out if his mother died and come to my mom’s house. I unlocked the little latch and slid open the door. We stared at each other for a brief moment. He said only one thing: “There are some people you need to meet.” It was so dark out I didn’t even realize there were two massive mountains of people standing behind him. The silhouettes rushed past him and into the house. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I extended my hand in the offering of a handshake to a stranger. My parents have many shortcomings but they always raised my brother and I with a certain level of manners. I suppose my father telling me “there was someone I needed to meet” brought up a subconscious trigger to extend my hand for a handshake and a fine “nice to meet you; how do you do?” As I did, the larger of the two grabbed me by the wrist and slammed me on the countertop next to the door. My brain seemed to be working in slow motion. I realized that an intervention was about to take place. I was gathering my wits about me to combat what was about to go down but the reality of the situation was much different than what I had expected.

My wrists were held firmly by the large man. I dully felt the smaller of the two patting me down while the larger of the two asked me if I had any weapons on me. I didn’t say anything. I just looked at my parents in bewilderment. For the first time I saw the face of the man restraining me. He had a narrow face, a short military haircut, gaunt cheeks and a stern look in his eyes.

Suddenly I didn’t feel so numb. A little bit of my personality woke up from the initial shock of what had happened. I tested the waters to see just how fucked I was. I began to shout.

“Get the fuck off me! I have the right to speak to an attorney! What laws have I broken, huh?!”

He didn’t say anything. I shook violently against the man, trying to muscle my way out of his firm grasp against my wrists. This proved to be a mistake. There was an explosion of pain in my right knee. With my wrists still firmly planted in place I fell to the ground. “Fuck you! Fuck you, you fucking fuck!”

I struggled again. This time the second of the two got behind me. I still hadn’t seen this entity. I just knew of the existence of another. I felt two arms under my armpits raising me up. Suddenly my wrists were free but simultaneously there were two arms around my ankles. I was being carried out of my mother’s house through the sliding glass door I had just opened a few moments earlier. The cold of the Colorado March night washed over my sleeveless arms and wet hair. I wriggled as hard as I could and actually made headway. I was dropped onto the deck. I felt the snow on my bare feet and suddenly a body came crashing down onto my back. I heard a gritted voice ask in my ear: “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s your choice. Either way you’re coming with us…” Straight out of Robocop. Suddenly my arms were behind my back and a metal clicking sound met with my wrists. I had been handcuffed. Panic filled my lungs. Two hands wrapped around my arms and I was lifted onto my feet. I was aware of the cold against my bare flesh but with all the adrenaline in my veins it was merely an acknowledgement, not an actual feeling. I felt a push on my back signaling me to walk forward. We got to the stairs leading to the path out of my mom’s yard and into the driveway. I was walking slowly, wracking my brain for a plan of escape. We came around the corner into the driveway and suddenly I felt the sharp points of all the gravel against my bare feet. It didn’t hurt. Again, it was just there. I saw my mom’s car, my dad’s car, and around the corner on the street, a car I didn’t recognize. We walked towards the latter.

The large man opened the back door and put his hand on the top of my head, leading it inside. I felt like an altar boy in the office of a priest, the hand leading my head into what would surely be a very traumatizing blowjob only to be discovered in a series of scandals in the years to come. While I entered the car I lowered my wrists under my feet as I stepped in so my arms were in my lap. The man didn’t seem to notice. Slowly I reached up and without him noticing I tried to silently pull on the door handle. Locked, of course. He sat next to me, slightly leaning into me, making sure I was aware of his presence and didn’t get any ideas. The window next to him opened. I saw my parents’ faces. They gave me the run around. The usual cliched bullshit you hear in a time like this. I was told this was for my own good, that I was going to a place to get better, that in time I would thank them for this.

For the record, I’m 27 years old and it will be a cold day in hell before I thank them for what was to come.

I was in such a panic I don’t actually remember exactly what was said. I think I tried to remind my mother about how much of an abusive asshole my dad was and try to reason with her as to how she could let such an asshat con her into having any place in her decision making. As for my dad I think I asked him if he liked getting raped in jail as he was such a homophobe/bigot that was sure to rile him up. Suddenly the car came to life and the window rolled up. The car backed up. I took one last look at my mother’s house. I could see my father’s silhouette outlined against the house. He was crying. I could see my mother’s silhouette too. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders. I vomited a little in my mouth.  I wouldn’t see either of them for the next year.

As the car left the trailer park I grew up in I resigned a little to my fate. The large man still didn’t realize my hands weren’t behind my back and I knew this was an advantage. That said, I wasn’t about to jump out of a moving vehicle. So I decided I would see if I could get them to lower their guard around me. “Who are you guys?” I asked for the first time in a civil tone. “We’re transporters. Your parents have decided to send you to a boarding school. The school hired us to make sure you get here in one piece.” “What are your names?” “They don’t matter. You’ll probably never see us again.” For the first time I noticed that the smaller of the two transporters was a woman. She was just a little bit shorter than I was. She too had a military crew cut and had a very firm jawline. At the risk of sounding like an asshole, but because I want to get the description into your head, I’ll go ahead and say it: she was your stereotypical looking “bulldyke.” (please pardon the slur.) “Where am I going?” “To a school.” “Where is it?” “Utah.”

“What about my things? My clothes?” “They’ll send them to you.” “What about my friends? Don’t I get to at least say goodbye?” “No.” “My backpack! It has my computer in it! My homework! I have to turn it in!” “It will be dealt with for you.”

None of what they said ever came to fruition. My things were never sent for. My homework was never turned in. All the work I did that semester was wasted. The only thing that had any truth in any of what they said was that I wasn’t able to say goodbye to my friends. In the years that would pass I often wondered what my friends would think after I disappeared. What would be said about me; what rumors would fill the halls. Years later I would learn that the whole thing was kept very hush hush. The teachers didn’t go into details, my parents would yell at my friends when they tried to get answers, and my best friends would combat my parents over the next few years for information but they kept very tight lips. I might have been a figment of their imagination. It was like something out of 1984. Big Brother had been watching and I disappeared. I would miss them terribly.

After driving for some time we came to a motel. The car came to a stop and the two transporters looked at each other. They then looked at me. Finally one spoke. “We’ll be flying out of Rifle. We’re picking up the pilots. We’re going to make a stop at a convenience store before we take off. If you behave from here to the store I’ll buy you something inside. Deal?” I nodded my head.

The pilots came out of their motel room. I have to hide a smirk. They look like skinny versions of Ron Jeremy. Between the tacky mustaches, the shitty pilot uniforms, and the sleazy motel room, I wonder to myself if they just got done filming a low budget porn scene. It’s a tight squeeze but they fit in with the three of us. As we take off I decide that when we get to the store I’ll make my break for it. Suddenly we seem to be making our way to the 7/11 almost too fast. My heart beats faster as the familiar convenience marquee comes into sight. I take in every sight. The fluorescent lights filling the aisles, the brickwork outside, the bums sitting on the corner, the smell of gasoline filling the air and the sound of the car as it is put in park. The large man opens the door and turns to me. As he’s about to ask me what I want from inside, he sees my hands, while still cuffed, in my lap. His eyes widened. There’s a brief moment in which we stare at each other and he knows exactly what’s about to happen. My time for hesitation comes to an end. It’s now or never. Somewhere in my mind a gun goes off. I bolt. I’m not as large as he is but I’m not a small person either. I don’t hit him but I use my arms to cover my head and push against him as I make my run for it. I don’t know where I’m running to, I’m just running as fast as I can. I know I have no shoes on and it’s probably 2AM in the morning. In March. In Colorado. I know I have a sleeveless shirt on, pajama bottoms and no underwear of any sort. I know my body must be cold. However these thoughts are simply notches in my overall assessment of my situation. I also think of where I am. They said we’re in Rifle. I have friends who don’t live too far away. If I can just hide out somewhere for a while I’ll make my way to another store or stop someone with a cell phone. I’ll call someone to come pick me up. I’ll get out of this. I’ll keep running.

I feel the cold air in my lungs. It burns. I know I’m breathing fast. I’m in a state of panic. I feel every stone, pebble and chunk of snow against my bare feet. I know it’ll hurt later but at this moment it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is getting as far away as humanly fucking possible.

BOOM! I’m knocked to the ground. A few blocks away from the 7/11 a cop was on patrol. He heard some shouting and saw me running down the middle of the street, in pajama bottoms, no shoes, a sleeveless shirt and handcuffs. He sees the transporter in pursuit. He waits until I’m coming around to where he’s positioned. I guess he was yelling at me to stop or hold on or something. I was so focused on getting away that I must have had some sort of tunnel vision. Either way I never even saw the cop until he jumped out in front of me and I ran into him.

I looked up and just started yelling. “Help! Help! I don’t know this man! He’s trying to kidnap me!!!” The transporter finally catches up. He’s short on breath but he’s able to talk to the cop quickly. He immediately tells the cop what he’s doing, that he’s taking me to a boarding school, that I’m a minor and that my parents have signed me into his and the school’s custody. He pulls some paper out of his wallet and the cop seems to simply nod at everything he’s hearing in agreement. The cop gets me to my feet and holds me while the transporter uncuffs me. Then the cop cuffs me again, wrists back behind my back and he asks the transporter if he needs a hand getting me back to the 7/11. The transporter has a look of embarrassment on his face. It’s a form of subdued rage. A child got the better of him. He doesn’t want to look weak. He’s probably an ex-marine and I’m sure this goes against some sort of code he had ingrained in his walnut brain. He shakes off the cop’s offer and firmly starts to walk me towards the 7/11.

As we walk back into the parking lot of the store I go for a Hail Mary. I see some bums loitering in the lot and call out for help. “Help! This guy’s trying to kidnap me! He’s going to rape me! He keeps trying to stick his hands in my pants and asks if it feels good! Help!” This does more to make the bums laugh than anything else. However apparently this was the wrong thing to say. The large man’s face is now a dark shade of red. As he opens the door he throws me inside. I hit my head on the top of the door. I’m pretty sure he noticed and I’m pretty sure it was a small piece of validation. He jumps in the car behind me and shoves me out of his way. He throws me into some sort of a restraining hold. He’s cutting off the oxygen and I realize I’m choking. It happens so fast I don’t have time to try to tap out. The next thing I know we’re at the airport.

I lumber out of the car and onto the plane. I’m so out of it I don’t even have time to register that I’m about to fly. Flying has always made me feel uneasy. I’m not scared of flying. I just don’t really like it. Something about being in a little tube 35,000 feet in the air, higher than Mount Everest, with little to save you should something happen, just doesn’t sit well with me. I’ve always kissed my hand and placed it on the outside of a place whenever I fly. As my arms were behind my back I couldn’t do my little ritual so instead I fully kissed the plane itself as I got on.

It was a small jet. Maybe five seats inside. The pilots got on and into the cabin. There was actually a single flight attendant onboard. At what now must have been 3AM. I remember thinking this must have all been a dream. I’m asleep somewhere and the Oxy’s I took are giving me night terrors.

The flight attendant looked at me and I saw a sign of hesitation on her face. She turned to the large man and asked him if I’m alright. I must have been one hell of a sight. My hair was probably dry by now but I’m sure it was a tangled mess. I had a scrape on my face but I wouldn’t realize that for another day. I still had no shoes on and I’m sure the handcuffs and sleeveless shirt wasn’t exactly assuring. I probably also looked dazed. I sat down. And by sat I mean I collapsed into a seat. For the first time that night my feet were registering the pain and cold I had put them through. I could feel my body beginning to shiver, but only in a careless way. I could have died in that moment and the apathy would have carried me through. I was finally beginning to surrender to what was happening. The attendant and the large man spoke for a moment and the door to the jet closed. The large man walked up to me and said something to me. I don’t remember his words. I just remember that I know that the attendant told him we weren’t going to fly until I was uncuffed and they agreed that I was probably subdued now as we were taking off. That if I tried anything funny he would put me out again. I don’t know how I know what he said to me. I don’t remember him saying it. I just remember my hands finally being out of those damn cuffs and crossing my arms over my chest. I remember the female transporter telling me to put on my seatbelt and I remember giving her a look that made her leave me alone. I’m not sure what I expressed in my eyes but it must have been a mouthful.

The last thing I remember from that flight was holding back tears as the jet took off. I wanted to cry. I knew it was over. However I wasn’t about to give these assholes the satisfaction. I took all the feelings that were bubbling up and brought them inward. I became a rock. I simply existed in my seat. There was no way they were going to know I felt a thing. As far as they were concerned my feet felt fine, my body wasn’t cold and I may as well have been excited for what was coming.

The only time I moved that whole flight was when I looked at the door to the jet and considered what it would be like to lift the bar, thrust the door open, throw my body out of the jet and into the sky. I wondered what it would be like to plummet to the ground, with the wind wrapping around my head, screaming in my ears, the sky rushing all around me and if I would have any sort of peace before my body broke against the rushing ground. I think the transporters knew what I was thinking because suddenly there was a hand wrapped firmly around my arm for the rest of the flight. I smirked slightly. “Good” I thought to myself. I wanted them to feel uneasy. After all, I was going through hell.

In the years to come I would find myself in situations in which I actually wanted to cry. Try as I might though, I remained stoic. Something changed in me that night. Some sort of a mental block against crying. Against emotion. It was a wall that would take great effort to finally come down. It was me against the world. I’d be damned if I was going to go down without a fight. Damned if I was going to show an ounce of weakness. Damned if I was going to let them win. That’s not to say that I haven’t cried in the years since, but the tears really had to be earned. These days, if they come, it’s one hell of a sign of how I’m probably feeling.

There’s a poem I memorized during the 21 months, 6 days and 14 hours I would stay in Utah.

It goes as follows:

The vilest deeds like poison weeds bloom well in prison air

It’s only what is good in man that wastes and withers there

Pale anguish keeps a heavy gate and warden is despair

I know not whether laws be right or whether laws be wrong

For all we know, who lie in jail, is that the wall is strong

In we do well to hide our hell for in it things are done

That no son of god nor son of man should ever look upon.

To this day I have these lines memorized. To this day I still have dreams in which I relive this night. Looking back on it, March 11th wasn’t the worst day in the world. However, it’s a day I live over and over in my head. It’s a day I’ll never forget. Traumatizing? Of course. Abusive? Arguably. However, I can tell you this: I was definitely a different person when I finally got out in December of 2006 than I was when I went in on March 11th of 2005. A day that will live in my mind in infamy.