The Cost of Becoming: A Memoir (In Progress)
Disclaimer:
This collection of stories is a work of creative nonfiction. While based on real events, conversations, and experiences, some names, identifying details, and timelines have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental in the context of this narrative. The stories represent the author’s recollections and perspectives; memory is inherently subjective, and others may remember events differently.
Trigger Warnings:
Multiple trigger warnings in effect for themes of distress, abuse, death, sexual trauma and suicide.
“The Cost of Becoming“
Introduction – I Didn’t Ask to Exist
Fear has shaped my life in ways I never signed up for. It has locked me in rooms, frozen me in place, and whispered worst-case scenarios in my ear like an overprotective sibling who thinks every inconvenience is a death sentence.
It convinced me, over and over, that survival meant shrinking. That safety was found in avoidance, escape, and saying no to things I desperately wanted to say yes to. Or saying yes to things I wish would go the fuck away.
(Thanks, brain. Super helpful.)
I avoided elevators. Because obviously, despite millions of successful rides every day, mine would be the one to defy physics, trigger a Final Destination-style catastrophe, and briefly make the evening news before being forgotten by everyone. Everyone except me.
I dreaded the sound of a door clicking shut behind me. I built a life carefully designed to keep fear far, far away.
But here’s the thing about fear: it doesn’t stay away.
The more you avoid it, the bigger it gets. The more you ignore it, the louder it screams. The more you run, the faster it chases you.
Who I Am and How I Got Here
Born two minutes before midnight on November 9th. The year was 1986. I was born in Long Beach, California.
I suppose this explained why I was destined to be a night owl. I was raised in Southern California, mostly Los Angeles, in a middle-class family where the expectations were clear:
Be a good, straight, Christian boy.
I laugh at the irony of this now.
I didn’t always have words for who I was.
Growing up, I realized I wasn’t like the other boys. I wasn’t drawn to sports or girls. I was drawn to…well…other boys for one, and a flair for the dramatic.
For awhile. I thought I was pansexual or bisexual. It took me 38 years to admit I’m just gay. To be fair, I’ve never been one to squeeze myself into a label or a box just to make other people comfortable. I’m just me at the end of the day.
As for fitting in? Yeah, that never really happened.
I was always a little too much. Too loud. Too weird. Too ADHD. People weren’t shy about pointing that out, and for a long time, I cared. I cared way too much.
I shaped myself around their expectations—trying to blend in, trying to be palatable.
Then?
I grew up.
I stopped trying to fit into spaces that weren’t meant for me.
In high school, I found my people: the outcasts, the weirdos, the theater kids.
If you’ve ever belted out One Song Glory (Rent) or harmonized to Skid Row (Little Shop of Horrors) with a group of friends who felt more like family, then you know exactly what I mean.
That was my world.
I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
What you’ll find in this book is a collection of life experiences along the way.
Too Much, Yet Not Enough
I can’t remember my exact age. But at some point, I learned how fear could walk into a room before a person ever did.
I don’t remember what I had done wrong this time. Maybe I breathed inappropriately. Or was being “too me”. Something that he didn’t like.
“THWACK”. I still hear the ringing in my ears to this day. Keeping my mind in a prison I didn’t create.
Truth was, I was always in trouble for one reason or another.
I wish I could tell you he was an alcoholic. He wasn’t. He was just the person who only partially raised me.
I’m glad my sisters were okay. I got the brunt of it. But I know they carry their own demons watching their brother get hit. I don’t even remember if I made a sound during these moments. I hope I didn’t. Just the thought of them hearing this is too much to bear.
Protection from Evil
Let’s start with telling you about my stint in a mental hospital. That’s always a good way to start these things off.
I was in Foster Care for reasons I’ll keep to myself for now. This happened twice. The first time. We had to stay in a Hospital overnight because there was no place to put my sisters and I. Eventually, we were able to return home for about two years.
The second time. We were placed in the home of this woman who thought the best way to an obedient child was by beating into me. Into my sisters.
I remember it like it was yesterday. I saw the Foster Mom, let’s call her Beatrice. She grabbed my sister and she was about to hit her. Rage filled me. “Don’t touch my fucking sister!” I shouted. Next thing I knew there was a pair of scissors I had pointed at her.
At this point in my life, I was used to violence. But do what you want to me. Leave my sisters and friends out of it. I’d gotten pretty good at taking a punch at this point. I’d rather it be done to me. I can handle it. I was used to it. Don’t bring other people into this pain.
At that point, I was driven to El Dorado Behavioural Health System. The “loony bin” for troubled teenagers. I can’t tell you much about my stay as they kept me on drugs most of the time. Drugs that kept me docile. Kept me compliant.
One thing I can tell you. I remember walking in on my roommate hanging from the ceiling. I don’t remember much but I do remember this was was first encounter with death. I felt bad because I wanted to feel something about it. But I didn’t.
I also remember when they admitted me. I had thrown up what I was eating. I was suddenly nervous about my new home. Can’t fucking fathom why. I wasn’t even worried about myself. I was worried for my sisters being with this woman. Now that I wasn’t there to protect them. Who would be? Not like the system cares about children like us.
The system failed us. Not once, but twice.
Tainted Loved
I grew up with an obvious distorted view of what love looked like. For a while, I seemed to be walking in the footsteps of those that came before me.
The very few unfortunate people who I knew during this time didn’t see the best side of me. Sometimes I didn’t see the best side of them. I wished like hell it wasn’t that way. But at the end of the day, if my actions caused even one person pain. That’s on me, no one else and I could never apologize enough.
I was a very angry person for a while. A very angry kid and teenager. Sometimes I still am angry. I’ve just gotten better at controlling it.
Luckily, this was a short detour. I realized I couldn’t be this person. I couldn’t willingly cause pain to others who just simply wanted love.
This was probably the true start of me feeling empathy. Not just in a physical way but a spiritual way too. Feeling the pain of someone through just the energy they give off. Wishing I could take it away and shield it from them so they wouldn’t know the cost of becoming.
Sometimes, the feeling I had inside didn’t even feel like it belonged to me. But more like I had taken on the burden of someone else and made it my own. And if it made it a little lighter for them. It was worth it.
Sleep
I have always had a complicated relationship with my good pal “Sleep”. Many nights I lay awake just replaying the trauma. Replaying the scars of the past. I wish they’d fucking stop.
You ever have a thought that you really didn’t want to think about but your brain says “Hey. I know this is painful. So, I’m going to play that moment on loop just for you?” I have grown increasingly familiar with this facet of trauma.
I sometimes think this is just my brains way of revenge. Like maybe on some level, I felt I deserved it. Maybe on some level, I did deserve it.
© Dereck Pritchard, 2025. All Rights Reserved.