by Sarah Vowell
The vice-principal brought Dominic back from school after he was dropped off there for his golfing trip. Then he and I went to get my brother Mario from his friend’s house, where he had stayed the night. I remember that my necklace had broken somehow, and I was picking up beads from the ground when a family friend came through the door. My dad was standing there, and the woman was like, “You killed him, motherfucker!” and she pushed him and, like, assaulted my dad. My dad immediately said, “Get this bitch off my property!”
When the police came, they asked me a lot of questions. “Was he unhappy? Was he this or that?” He had a girlfriend at the time, and they asked about her. I was like, “No, there’s no indication of anything bad.” I mean, come on, it was a seventh-grade romance. What did they do—they passed notes, they held hands. There was nothing going on that I can think of in his life at that point that was so bad that he needed to end it. He had a lot of friends that he was close with, that he socialized with. He wasn’t alienated or anything like that. He wasn’t ostracized for anything. He wasn’t bullied at all. I mean, I can see me pulling the trigger before anyone else. I truly believe in my heart that it wasn’t suicide, and I will defend that until I die.
At that point, after I answered those questions, I kind of shut down. I remember saying, “He didn’t fucking kill himself. It wasn’t suicide.” Then I kind of snapped, and Chuck stepped over and told them, “You have to leave him alone.” They didn’t ask me another question after that.
My uncle Terry showed up, and he could see I needed to get out of there. He had just got back from a trip to Germany. He took me up the coast just to get away from the house and everyone, and all he did was talk about his trip to Germany. I don’t even remember what he said about it because all I did was stare out the window of his truck. I remember staring at the trees. We parked in a parking lot next to the ocean, and I just stared out the window and listened to sound. Then he drove us to Saint Mary’s Church, where he got out and said a prayer. I just sat in the back of the church.
When we got back, they took Tony out of the bedroom in a red body bag. They set him behind the ambulance, and our dog went and laid next to the body bag. I had to walk over and take him away because, when they grabbed the body bag to put him in the ambulance, he sort of attacked the paramedic. I had to walk over and grab the dog to walk him away. At that point, I knew I had to leave. That was when I grabbed my mom and was like, “We have to go. I have to go. You have to take me home now.” That’s when I finally left.
There Was No Feeling, There Was Nothing
Tony died on my classmate Matt’s birthday. So I went to the birthday party that same day. My mom and her friend Lynette thought that it might take my mind off things. Which was really kind of odd because, when I got there, it put all of them in a very weird place. My friend Spencer—I’ll never forget this—he walked into the living room where I was sitting on the couch, and he was like, “I don’t know what to say.” And I was like, “Neither do I.” I said, “How are you doing?” He was like, “I’m okay. How are you?” I said, “It’s been a rough day.” And that was how the conversation started. Then we all just started talking about normal stuff. Things started feeling normal again. We went to the video store to get a video game to play, and I remember running into a girl from school. I told her,“Tony died this morning.” She said, “Nuh uh.” I said, “No, he shot himself and died this morning.” And she said, “No, he didn’t.”
We grew up around guns. We had hunters’ safety, the whole works. We knew how guns worked: pistols, rifles, shotguns, anything in between. What had happened was that Tony had already cleaned two pistols. He had cleaned two, and he had taken a revolver, and he had all of the shells in his pocket but one. So what they believe he was doing was playing Russian roulette, and he lost. They don’t believe it was a suicide thing—that he killed himself that way intentionally—but “I’m the invincible teenager.” He was stupid in doing shit, and I could see him being like,“I can win!” And he lost. It was a hollow-point bullet. It went through his right eye and completely removed all of this . . . [motions toward back of his skull].
He didn’t know what happened. No, he did not know what happened. It was instant. There was no feeling, there was no nothing. That’s the only peace of mind that I get from it, that he didn’t know what happened. The click. If he even heard the click of the hammer, he was gone. He was sitting at my dad’s bed with his knees under the bed, so when my dad found him, he was partway under the bed. There were two full-door mirrors behind him, with a small section of wall between them that was painted white. I remember after the whole thing, I went in the room, and they had cut the carpet out of my dad’s bedroom and torn up everything under it, the base, wood floor, everything. They had completely repainted the wall and cleaned stuff out, so that there was no . . . everything was gone by the time I had seen it. I never saw it or anything. The only time I saw Tony prior to them burying him was we did get to view him in his casket. They reconstructed all of this . . . [motions at back of his head], and he had an eye patch on when I saw him.
The Voice
I’m not a religious person, and I wasn’t then. I’m somewhat spiritual, but I’m not religious. One thing I do remember and I won’t forget, though, is while everyone was at the house—the paramedics and police and neighbors—I went and laid down on my bed, and I remember hearing Tony’s voice very clearly telling me, “I’m sorry,” and “Everything’s going to be okay.” There was no one around because I immediately got up like, “Who fucking said that?” I looked out my bedroom door, and no one was around. It was Tony’s voice, very clearly. It was Tony’s voice telling me it would be okay.
Kid Gloves
Everyone treated me differently after that. Kid gloves. It was like, “I’m a human being. Treat me normal.” That was the one thing that drove me crazy. I was so tired. I wasn’t a child. I wasn’t an adult by any means; I was a teenager. But it was like, “Quit treating me like a baby.” I think all teenagers feel like that, but when you throw in the death of your twin brother, it’s worse. Family, friends, everyone—everyone took a step back. I felt like I had the plague.
Everyone was kind of looking over their shoulders or side-eyeing me. Like, “Poor him.” They wouldn’t say anything to me. It was like, “Say something or do something!” I felt very alienated. And everyone, kids, teachers—the teachers were the worst in regards to the baby gloves because it wasn’t just me. It was everyone around me, too. When I walked into the room, it was like, “Okay, the plague just got here, so how is everyone else going to respond now that Gabe’s in the room?” I wasn’t just worried about me. It was the stress of everybody around me. Like, “What’s going to happen today?” I had breakdowns at school. I had a couple of them. It was awful. And I had to go to the office and leave because there were a couple of really bad breakdowns that I just couldn’t get myself under control. It would come out of nowhere. I would all of a sudden get overwhelmed and couldn’t handle it.
It was like standing in a room full of people screaming my head off, and no one responded. That’s exactly how I felt. It was like, I was screaming bloody murder for anyone and everyone, but I didn’t exist. At the same time it was like everyone was on me, but no one listened. It was all about what was best for them in the situation, not what was best for me. It was about what made them comfortable, not what made me comfortable.
I’d never felt alone before. I’d always had Tony around. At the end of the day, he was in the same room with me sleeping, too, you know? I never felt alone. After he died, that was the first time. You have all these people around you, trying to support you. Friends’ families made our lunches for a month after Tony died. I remember going to school every day, and this girl handing me a lunch because her mom made me a lunch, too.
I felt like such a burden. Like, “Oh god, here comes Gabe.” Then, the bullying didn’t stop when Tony died. I mean, it didn’t get any worse, but didn’t get any better. I was still Fat Gabe,
Gay Gabe, whatever. That was just part of it. But that was almost better than the fact that most people didn’t look at me when I spoke. I just wanted them to acknowledge that I existed.
I mean, if I had had one person who sat there and just looked at me when I spoke, it would have made a world of difference. I didn’t have that. I felt so alone. I mean, pluck me and put me in the middle of nowhere, and I think I would have found a friend there before I found one in Florence.
My family had to look at me every day, and it reminded them of Tony. I know how that feels because I look in the mirror and I have to see myself. I mean, I’m thirty-four years old. I’ll be thirty-five at the end of this month, and there isn’t a day that goes by that Tony doesn’t pop into my mind. People say that cliché, but it’s true. Every time I look in the mirror, still, I see him. I wonder, Would we look the same now, or would we look different? There are all these questions.
It was overwhelming, so I tried to kill myself. I thought, If I’m this alone, why even be here? It was so overwhelming, and it drove me nuts. One night I was home alone at my mom’s house, and I swallowed a bottle of Tylenol and chugged a bottle of rum out of the liquor cabinet. I woke up in a big pile of puke. That was a few months after Tony died. The pills seemed like the easy way out. But it wasn’t so easy. I felt like shit for like three days afterward.
We Didn’t Know What to Say
I’ve met a lot of other twins throughout the years. When I was in college, there were like five sets of identical twins living in the dorms. It’s difficult, especially when they don’t know me from my childhood, and they don’t know that I’m a twin. They’re like, “Oh, you were a twin.” And I say, “Yeah, I’m still a twin. He’s just not alive.” I’m absolutely a twin. That’s who I am. He’s my other half.
I met another twin recently, a guy, and he asked, “What is that like? I couldn’t imagine that.” I said, “Don’t.” There are certain pains and certain horrible experiences in life that you don’t have to go through, and you should never have to imagine. Because you can’t. It’s not just the loss of that person; it’s the aftermath. It was almost like I died with Tony. Then my death happened every day after that for a long time. It’s everything after. It’s how people treat you.
Looking back now that I’m older I just want to ask everyone, “Why did you do that? Why did you stop talking to me? What was wrong with me that you couldn’t talk to me after Tony died?”
We didn’t know what to say.
Neither the fuck did I! I was thirteen. You were the adult in the situation! Like, what the fuck!? I mean, I had a lot of rage. I had a lot of anger. Awful rage and anger.
Looking back at it now, I get it. It’s a hard situation. But still—why was I punished after he died? What did I do wrong to be treated that way? It still bothers me to this day. Even when I’ve spoken to people about it, all they can say is, “I didn’t know what to say.” It’s a bullshit excuse. Spencer, at the age of twelve or thirteen, said the same thing, but then the conversation started after that. So, really? You were the adult, and you couldn’t do anything? Zip? I mean “fuck you” is better than being ignored. What did I do that you couldn’t say, “How do you feel?” or “How are you doing?” Like, why couldn’t you ask me that? You asked everyone else that. When Tony died I magically gained the ability to never be asked, “What’s up?”
Sometimes I wish my family and friends would have said, “I can’t talk to you anymore because Tony died.” I would have had closure there. “You’re dead to us, too, because Tony died.” Yeah, that would’ve hurt, but I would have had closure. I would have known why. Being ignored, I was left wondering if I was only ever included because Tony was there, too. You know, did people just want to hang out with him? Those were my thoughts as a teenager. Maybe it was because I’m the youngest by two minutes—I’m just the little brother—I felt expendable.
I can talk to anyone now. I don’t care. I freak a lot of people out, that’s fine. How many people want to put themselves into situations that make them uncomfortable? Or make them feel something fearful or feel something that they don’t like? Not many. Not many, if any at all. Journalists, maybe. And gay people! Gay people will talk to you.
There Was No Pain
I lost a lot of family and friends when I came out. It’s okay. I care about you the way you care about me. Probably in my late twenties, I realized that there were certain things in life that were out of my control—things that I absolutely couldn’t do anything about. Why should I stress over those things? If something happens and I can’t get over it in three seconds, there’s a problem. I need to address that problem and fix it because I don’t like feeling that way. I don’t want stress in my life. I don’t need stress in my life. My home is my sanctuary. I want to be comfortable and relaxed. So things don’t bother me. I don’t let things bother me anymore.
That took me a lot of years to figure that out. I’ve been through a lot of therapy. I’ve had my lows. I was a cutter. I was a drinker. It affected me really bad when I first started college. It was really hard seeing all these sets of twins. That was when my second suicide attempt happened, in college. I was at a very low point. I don’t remember doing it. I don’t remember how it happened. But when I came to, I had cut my arm twenty-six times with a serrated blade.
I just turned the whole back of my arm into hamburger. I remember looking down, and my whole shirt being covered in blood, and I’m like,“Oh my god, I stabbed myself.” I go rushing into the bathroom to find out where the hole is at, what did I do. Remember, I had the knife in my hand. I was wearing a white T-shirt, and it was just hanging heavy with blood. That’s when I realized my arm was covered in blood, and I grabbed a washcloth and I wiped it. It was just like, holy shit. I had taken the Gerber—it was one of those serrated knives, a Gerber tool—and just sat there.
I had cut myself and burned myself and did those things after Tony had died. I have different scars on me from different incidents, on my hands and legs, wounds that I inflicted on myself. But I hadn’t done it in years. I was drinking heavily, and I was living out on my own. My roommates were gone, and I was watching a movie about Matthew Shepard.* At the end of it his mother went out to where they tied him up to that fence. When she walked up to that, it put me into a crying rage. It made me think of Tony, and it made me think about how I hadn’t come out yet. All these different things and all these different feelings, and I just started . . . that’s what triggered my crying. That movie. I watched that movie and I remember sitting on my couch. But it put me way in deeper than that. I blacked out. I think when I get put into that situation of total panic and fear and pain and everything, my mind shuts down. My brain doesn’t want to do it anymore. It has dealt with so much for so long that it hits capacity and it just stops. I don’t remember grabbing the knife. I don’t remember opening it. I don’t remember any of that. To this day I don’t remember doing anything. Except I remember I had just sliced the shit out of my arm and it never hurt. That was the weird thing. There was no pain. It was bad, like the scars. There’s still certain lines that you can see, different cuts that are still there. A lot of them went away. Some of them I covered up with a tattoo. It was like I went after these veins right here: [points to the inside back of his left forearm].
That one was the worst. I was going to therapy at the time, and I told my therapist that I had cut myself, and he said, “What do you mean?” I pulled up my sleeve and showed him, and he’s like, “You know that we can put you away for that.” I said, “What do you mean?” He said, “You’re inflicting pain on yourself. You have to see your doctor about antidepressants right now.” I showed my doctor what I did, and that’s when the whole world kind of came crashing in on me because, basically, I lost my ability to make my own decisions. It was, Now that you’ve inflicted pain upon yourself, we could hospitalize you for three days and put you under surveillance and blah blah blah blah. You would lose the ability to make the decisions for medications and anything; those d
ecisions would be made by your parents, even as an adult.
I fought taking antidepressants. I was like, “I don’t need drugs.” I had friends who took different antidepressants, and you could see the change in them. I didn’t want that. But my doctor made a really good point. He was like, “You’re worried about changing, but what are you in control of right now? This medication is to give you the tools to get things back under control. Then once things are easier, you can start getting off of them. But you’re not in control now, so what’s the difference?” That made sense. That’s when I first started taking antidepressants. I took them for a few years, and then I weaned myself off of them. I haven’t taken them since.
The antidepressants made things easier to deal with. After Tony died, I worried about everything. If I wasn’t around my mother, I was calling her every hour—“How are you doing? What’s going on?” I worried. After Tony died, every nightmare I had, every dream I had, I lost someone close to me. Someone I cared about died. I was so scared that someone else I cared about was going to die. I was always super stressed about that, and I was taking a lot of antacids and stuff. I worried about anything and everything.
Oh, it was awful. If a friend said, “Hey I’m going to call you in a little bit,” I’d be like “How long is a little bit?” If they said half an hour, and then they didn’t call within that half-hour mark, I was devastated. I’d think they hated me, or I’d be freaked out. I’d think, Oh my god, their house blew up. I mean, everything. Oh my god, they slipped in the shower and strangled themselves with the curtain. Everything horrible you can think of, that’s what I always thought had happened.
I didn’t have my childhood ripped away. I had my teenage years ripped away. I got to have a childhood. But as a teenager, you’re trying to figure out who you are, and that was all torn away.