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dismalgreen · 8 years ago

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This is so inspiring I relate to so much of this. You’ve come so far. Keep going man

I Am Naked Today

Trigger Warning; Homophobia / Bullying / Sexual Assault / Self Harm / Suicide / Eating Disorder

I have laid the skeletons from my closet for all to see. Read the ultimate personal piece. All of you will now have a piece of me. Will I haunt your dreams? ————————————————————————

It always began with the question of “Can I ask you something?” And my answer was always, “No, I’m not gay.”

The first time my sexuality was questioned, was at the age of five. I was in kindergarten, and I found myself admiring the popularity of a boy in my class. He seemed to be loved by the world. I wanted to be him. I wanted his smile, his friends, his personality… everything I couldn’t achieve. I really thought I had a chance at being his reflection, so I befriended him. An idol had finally acknowledged his groupie, but I learned quickly that people like him only make friends to seek the benefits that come with the relationship. In this case, one more addition to his fan base served to boost his social status. Nonetheless, I was a fool who wouldn’t settle for a simple “Hi!” I would clean up after him, put his chair on top the desk at the end of the school day, and run towards the line to be right behind him.

Eventually, a few boys in my class came up to me and one asked, “Do you love him?” I could see the disgust in their faces and hear the outrage in his words. I started to fidget, because I couldn’t understand what they meant. In unison, they repeated the question. I looked at them with fright in my eyes. Had they realized I was trying to steal an image that didn’t belong to me? Well, a few seconds later they spit out, “I knew you were gay,” and proceeded to walk away. For the rest of the year, no one came close to me. No one wanted me to touch them. I learned the pain of loneliness for the first time.

I was five. I didn’t know what love was. I couldn’t possibly know what sexual desires were either. Though in all honesty, I did take my obsession too far, but my intentions were never to love him. I was simply unsatisfied with myself, and it remained that way for a long time. In 1st grade, I was teased in the bathroom for being “girly” and beaten up with a soccer ball in gym. In 2nd grade, the only person who praised me was my teacher. In 3rd grade, I managed to befriend a girl who was bullied for her weight. Sadly, I wasn’t allowed to finish 3rd grade at the school I was attending because the office found out I didn’t live in the district. Therefore, I was forced to complete my remaining months at a school actually near my house. Those few months were miserable to the point where I don’t even the remember the faces of those I met there.

I transferred to a new school, where I finished 4th to 8th grade. Here is where I came to encounter the same old question, “Are you gay?” All I had to do was breathe, and the hounds would come searching for meat to rip apart. I also discovered that being called a “faggot” was not a beautiful thing. In my early academic years, I came to be labeled a “genius” and was often relied upon for answers. However, I was extremely shy and anxious, so I only came to have one friend for a brief while in 5th grade. He was my best friend, and for once I actually felt normal. I had finally managed to befriend a boy again. However, I made the mistake of jokingly insulting his laugh as “girly,” and since the male ego is fragile, he decided to drop me and began the rumor that I was gay. At this point I was dealing with issues at home and at school, so I did what any 10 year old should not do: I attempted to kill myself.

I grabbed a pair of the sharpest scissors I could find. I’m not sure how I knew what to do with them, but I looked at my arm and made a few light cuts. I stared at my wrist and began to cry. I told myself that there was no going back and slashed right in. I did bleed. I bled, but I didn’t die. Over the course of my middle school years, I did find amazing friends ( three of who I still talk to today), but despite the good in my life, I suffered in silence. I tried to overdose on painkillers, but only managed to put myself to sleep. I still continuously self harmed.

There wasn’t a single year that my sexuality wasn’t questioned. Therefore, in 7th grade I worked tirelessly to shut everyone up. It was the year I awakened my sexual hormones, 1 because of puberty and 2. I stumbled upon an adult website. So, when I was antagonized by the boys in my class during their discourse on girls, I blurted out that I had sexual intercourse with a girl. In reality, I only had foreplay and dry humping action with a girl once, but let’s be honest, most boys lie at this age about their experience. I mean at least I hope.

For once, I was looked at differently and boys actually wanted to befriend me? But it wasn’t enough. Instead I was dared to slap one of the popular girl’s behind with a ruler. She overheard this and began to run around the room. I was confused, but I was so stuck on pleasing the alpha pack and ran right after her. I only managed to lightly tap her, and at that very moment: I regretted it. I was disgusted with myself. The boys laughed, but she didn’t. She wore a perplexed expression. The guilt didn’t allow me to sleep, so I apologized over and over again the very next day. She accepted my apology, and shrugged it with the phrase “Boys will be boys after all.” I didn’t want to be a boy anymore. I didn’t want to be part of a clique that celebrated sexual remarks against girls in our class. I did myself the favor of retreating back into my shell.

You see, the thing is I was never like other boys. I didn’t care about sports, action figures, or what kind of cooties girls had. Instead I found myself drawn to cooking sets, dolls, and what my imagination had to offer. Unfortunately, my parents were never fond of the idea of their son being attracted to “feminine” things. Every time I begged for anything remotely “girly” I was reminded I was a boy, and I had to play that role to the best of my ability. My imagination grew wild during elementary and middle school. I only had my brother to lean on for friendship, but I also had created six different imaginary friends. Each of these friends were human, all with different personalities, and I played all their parts. It wasn’t until high school where I decided that I needed to leave them behind, but I didn’t. Instead, I internalized them. I would take on their character at random times, and I truly did believe I was developing a sort of personality disorder.

During freshman year, I was given the assignment of writing a poem to reflect who I was, but I really had no idea who I was. Therefore, I mentioned in the poem something among the lines of “six voices within me.” The teacher was pretty concerned about this and advised me to see the social worker on site. I met with the social worker once to confess that I had six people living in me. She probably thought I was exaggerating, and simply stated that if I ever felt like talking to someone to come to her office again. I didn’t. A huge reason was that my family didn’t allow me obtain psychological help, because “there was nothing wrong with me.”

However, that same year I became extremely self conscious about my body image. I had been previously fat shamed in elementary but now a few more people chimed in. It wasn’t too brutal, but it was enough to spiral me into the realm of anorexia and bulimia. I struggled with restricting my diet, so I settled for throwing up. And yes, still I constantly cut myself, but by then It was a habit or more like an addiction of some sort.

Sophomore year, the year where students are forgotten, was uneventful except that I grew a stronger bond with the girl I know call my “sister best friend.” It was junior year where my downfall began. The year was full of ACT prepping, and it was also the year I learned what it meant to be destroyed. It seemed like an average evening, but it proved to be quite the opposite. I won’t go into the details here, but that day the thin thread I had been holding on to was cut. I was sexually molested. The person might believe he did me a favor, but the only thing they achieved was stealing the last piece of innocence I had locked away. It wasn’t until a few months later, where a predator came for my blood once again.

The thing about assault is that there are many ways things can play out. A good strategy would be to fight and scream for help. But some of us reach a point where life has beaten you to a pulp, that when the devil comes to take your soul, you might resist, but you quickly give up. I became a limp body. I didn’t care then what they did for I had chosen right there and then, that I was already emotionally dead. I was finally ready to accept my place as a corpse. But before I could take away my life, I had to make sure no one would care. Therefore, I set out to ruin my reputation. I needed to tarnish the “good boy” image I had accumulated over the years. I stopped doing my homework and projects. I stopped paying attention in class. I stopped planning for the future. However, much to my surprise, people wouldn’t give up on me. In fact, I had befriended a group of seniors who I viewed as my guardians, and my teachers would not let me fail. One day, one of them took me out to the hall to speak to me about my increasing lack of participation in the class. Needless to say, I cried in front of her. Somehow I managed to pull myself up again and even got my first job. I really did plan on having a senior year to remember, and I got it… just not in the way we hope for. At work, I met an individual who was pretty comfortable with their sexuality and gender. I wanted to have that sort of comfort, therefore, I dove into exploring the feminine side of me I had ignored for too long. When it came to my sexual orientation, I still self identified as heterosexual, but part of me knew that I might actually be interested in men. Yet every time I thought about that idea, I would get flashbacks to the one who had pushed me to the edge. I couldn’t possibly like men after all the suffering they put me through. I set it aside.

I tried to focus on school, but little inconveniences started to bother me. I started losing my sanity rather quickly. My three year eating disorder was now full blown anorexia. I was cutting deeper and with the intention of looking like a tiger. The expectations that come with being a senior and deciding your future only made things worse. My personal statement was due, and I didn’t ever make the attempt to make one. How could I dare myself to write about the vast amount of trauma and pain I had experienced these past years? So again, I was at a crossroad of life or death. Before I made the final decision, I ended up confessing my severely depressed state to two teachers whom I have trusted throughout high school and the social worker who I briefly interacted with freshman year. They decided that it was best for me to start seeing an intern social worker at the school on a weekly basis. She truly was an amazing person, who I owe a huge debt to, but I still couldn’t manage to shake off the increasing suicidal thoughts.

It was Tuesday, December 8th of 2015 when my life changed entirely. On Sunday, December 6th, I made the choice to finally tell my parents that I was indeed suffering from depression. Unfortunately, I went about it the wrong way by showing them a movie titled The Perks of Being a Wallflower. The only thing they said after it was done was “So are you the gay one or the one who was molested?” I reacted violently to their remarks, and proceeded to take a large amount of diet pills mixed with a couple of painkillers. I went on to beat myself in the head with a boot, bruise my body, and make about 30 cuts in each arm. Fast forward to Tuesday, I was in Anatomy class when I realized it was my mother’s birthday. A voice inside my head repeatedly yelled, “You are a failure! You have failed as a son!” I began to panic and cry, and excused myself to the bathroom where I fell apart even more. I stood there for about five minutes, and headed back. As I entered, felt eyes staring and heard whispers among my peers. I thought I was composed, but instead I broke down. By this time, the whole class was walking around looking at projects, and I was in the corner, and asked my teacher to allow me to see my social worker. In the office, I sat confessing all the things I had done to destroy my body on Sunday.

I calmed down, only to have my first severe panic attack in another class, so she did what any social worker should do and called for a professional agent to come evaluate my mental health. Sadly, we also had to call my parents to discuss that I was having a few issues. It wasn’t until around 5PM when my parents came along with the agent. He decided that I needed immediate hospitalization. My parents, well, they were angry, confused, and emotional. I was asked to show them the cuts on my arms. I felt the world burn that night. I was taken to the emergency room in ambulance that night. So here you have a 17 year old who was supposed to be the perfect role model of a student, president of some after school clubs, and held a few other important titles in and outside of school sitting on a hospital bed. The life I lived in the hospital is an entire novel in itself. Every time I thought I was better, I ended up backtracking. From December 2015 to February 2016, I was hospitalized four times, or three if you don’t count my two day stay at a behavioral hospital that doesn’t deserve to be funded. How did I manage to get locked up so many times? Well, in summary losing 50 pounds too rapidly, two more suicide attempts, and running away from school and home will lead you to be labeled “mentally ill.”

In the beginning I was simply diagnosed with severe major depression and an eating disorder. A while later they included PTSD and insomnia for my emotional reactions and inability to remain asleep. I went on to suffer through a couple manic episodes and reached a diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder. I haven’t quite recovered from anything just yet, but as I’m writing this I can say I’m stable enough, despite being off medication.

Unfortunately, life is cruel and unforgiving. My grandfather passed away, and my uncle was murdered. I will never forget the cries my mother made. Due to these events, she began to wish for her own death, and was diagnosed with depression. My mother and I are tragically similar, we have a way of either blaming ourselves or the entire world. It didn’t help that I ran away from home in the freezing Winter with only a shirt and jeans on. My parents found me. They asked me why I was doing this to them. So I confessed to being assaulted and kind of threw in that I might be bisexual. Of course, they denied my sexuality and blamed it on the assault. Shortly after being released from the hospital for the last time, I made myself the promise of finding some worth. I decided to begin with sexual pleasure on my own terms. The approach I took was out of impulsiveness and the thrill that came with meeting strangers. So I did occupy my time talking to people who worshiped my body, but never who I was. I only managed to hate myself even more. No matter how many times I showered, the sins I committed can’t be washed off.

I’m grateful that the rest of senior year did not go to waste, and that with the support from friends and staff at school, I found some stability. I graduated with honors, yet I never technically decided where I was going to college. Thankfully, I went to community college with a full ride scholarship. I graduated December 2017 from there, so I’m a newly grad, somehow?

During my time at college, I managed to leave bad habits behind. I went through semesters clean of self harming, but I also went through some when my only fashion choice was a long sleeve. There’s honestly way too much to cram into here, so i’ll tell you the number one thing I came out of college with: an identity to be proud of.

For now, I find solace in identifying my sexuality as Queer. Being Queer has a different meaning for each of us. Some might view it as a derogatory term used against gay men. While others have reclaimed it as an umbrella term to mean gender identities and sexual orientations of people who are not cisgender and/or heterosexual.

Personally, I view my identity as liberation from the rigid expectations of conventional love. Monogamy is dead in my world. Masculinity and femininity are simply states of expression that should not apply strictly to any gender. Sexuality and gender are fluid like the rivers that run through the earth. To be free to love who ever regardless of how they physically present themselves is my gospel. I will gladly reside in hell if my only sin was to love. It’s been a year since I abandoned religion for I have no need to place my faith in divine things I can search for in myself. I will find the God within me. And no, I do not need your prayer, nor do I know the absolute truth that comes with life and after death. I have spent countless nights questioning the existence of every molecule.

At this point, I should end the essay because my words are starting to become detached. As you may have seen by now, I have a hard time writing coherent thoughts when I’m falling into either side of the bipolar scale. Those who know me, know that I can be impulsive, change my mood drastically in a couple of days, and jump into dangerous situations. Being my friend is difficult, because I might not answer you for days to weeks. I can be your best friend or your worst enemy. You never really know when I might relapse or attempt suicide. There will be days when I hate you. There will be days when I love you. At 3AM I’m no longer the person you might have come to adore, I’m either stuck between suppressing my feelings with drugs or sex or feeling like the God of the world giving myself the illusion that I will be cured the next morning. I do not know why I wrote this piece. Maybe it was meant to serve me as therapy, or maybe I’m slowly fading away. I am not happy, but I don’t want to die anymore. I left out a million things in this short summary of my life so far, but not because it wasn’t important… I just don’t want to bore you with a novel when you only came to read a few paragraphs. This actually started as a short essay on my sexuality, but ended up talking about the events that basically shaped me in one way or another. Thank you for reading. I can’t believe you actually read this.

Ps. English majors and teachers, I am so sorry you had to read this grammatically incorrect essay I wrote. I’m posting it with minor proofreading, so I won’t back out on sharing my story that I hope can help someone in this world.

#peace

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