The Coming Out

Once upon a time, at around the age of ten years old, I began to think that I liked boys. In my fifth grade class it was a tradition that on your birthday, you brought in pictures of you from when you were younger that had memories attached. A boy from my class brought in his entire picture album and in it was a picture of him in just shorts. No shirt, no socks, no nothing. Just shorts. And I couldn't stop looking at it. Back then, I didn't know why I I was so drawn to that picture, but I always looked for it before class started every day, just so I could see it, then once I've had my fill, I was content.

Sixth grade came around, and in middle school, everything was made into a big deal. There were boys everywhere that made fun of me for being who I was, especially during class breaks, only I didn't know what the difference between them and me was. So I used to hang out with girls back then; big deal. My best friend was a guy, so why'd they make fun of me? Of course it had to be that the guy who was my best friend moved away and me, being the guy that was most picked on, had trouble making friends with other guys for the fear that I'd be teased. Naturally, girls were more accepting (if you can believe that) and I started hanging out with my little clique of girls. The teasing didn't stop then. It actually got worse. It spread from the halls into the classrooms themselves. There were always snickers about me, there were always whispers whenever I was around. One time during science class with Mrs. Williams, two girls were sitting in front of me. They turned around while Mrs. Williams stepped out and asked me, "I heard you were gay. Are you? Are you gay? Dude, you're such a homo." and I didn't know what to answer since I hadn't thought about it. So it was all denial, denial, denial, all the way until eighth grade. I didn't know how to deal with it then, so I resorted to cutting. Tools of the trade? Plastic cards, erasers, safety pins, and paper clips. I didn't use knives or razors like most did. Instead, I went with blunt objects. The eraser was my favorite in the way that I'd literally burn my skin off by rubbing it as hard and as fast as I could. Cuts were all around my ankles and my forearms. I would develop scabs and I would remove them by tracing the cut with a safety pin. Blood was my favorite color, my favorite accessory, my favorite mood.

Towards the end of that school year, March 2004, I discovered the magic of reading and the local library. I started isolating myself as far as I could from people and instead read my worries away. It was my outlet of leaving my world, my mind, my life which I couldn't make sense of. "Am I gay? Can I be gay? WHY am I gay? I'm not gay. I can't be. I won't be." I read books about boys going on journeys, about girls being spies, about animals and their importance on earth. I found the magic of words that came from a work of fiction, from an autobiography... from the Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul books. Oh, how I loved to read those books! I absolutely adored reading about the nerd who succeeded in obtaining a prom date or the girl who saved the stray dog from death. These stories were inspiring and uplifting, and definitely an amazing escape from my home life.

My father, the alcoholic, had been getting worse and worse over the years. At this point in my life, he'd get so drunk that my mother would have to take us to our cousin's house across town to sleep, as she was afraid what might happen during the night. I always wondered what my father was like when he came home drunk, and I got to see it one night. My mom and I were in the kitchen table, just minding our own business when the door flies open and slams shut. My mother signals me to go to my room, but I stayed there with her. I wanted to see this. The first words I heard were, "Fucking shit...." He stumbles his way into the kitchen. "My beautiful wife. I love you, did you know that? And... you. What the fuck are you doing still awake?" He was talking about me, of course, and I took that as my cue to leave. I went to bed, but with worry. As I started drifting into dreamland, there was a loud bang. I decided to ignore it and just go to bed, not wanting to cause any problems. The next morning I noticed what it was that made the loud sound. One of the cupboard doors had been torn off its hinges and broken in half. I knew what my father was like drunk now, and I couldn't handle it, so off the library I ran.

On the computers at the library, I was searching the catalogue for books that would spark my interest. Then I searched on the internet for any books that I could get from other libraries. In the process, I came across bored.com, a website full of links with things to do if you're bored. There was one link in particular that caught my interest: "Open Diary - Read life, write life. Description: Have you ever wondered what other people's lives are like? On this website, you get to read about the private lives of people as they want you to see it!" Intriguing if not anything else. I clicked on it, and a whole new world was opened up to me.

It was like the Chicken Soup books had literally come to life. People were updating these diaries right and left, filling the computer screen with their own words about their life, their love, their pride, their joys, their downfalls, and their stupidities. I became hooked. From this day on I would try to make time to go to the library and read a new diary, or catch up on an old one. Oh, the things people would say! Some entries amused me, and some made me afraid. I read people's blogs about everything. From smoking to skiing, from washing the dishes to taking a walk on a new trail, from being loved unconditionally to being kicked out of the house for being gay. I stumbled across a diary about a boy who had apparently been kicked out of his house when he told his father he was gay. I ended up reading his entries daily, day after day, and I was so intrigued by it. Was it because he was gay? Or was it because he didn't let something like that bring him down? Day after day, week after week, I followed this guy around his respective state and its towns and cities as he tried to find a place to call home. Then one day, just like that, his diary was gone. "I'm sorry. The diary page you requested does not exist." The boy I lived vicariously through, the boy who was basically teaching me about life as a gay man, was instantly gone.

That gave me the courage to start my own diary on that site. "Ok, i'm 14 years old, i live in Utah, and I am gay. Yeah yeah, i know. "Another Gay Diary." But i think this one will be different that the other ones that ppl have read. Trust me. So umm, this diary will prolly tell you about all the things in my life. Please leave notes. I've seen that notes are very helpful in some diaries, and i think that I will enjoy them. So yeah. If there's anything else that you want to know about me, just ask and i'll write it down or something..."

This was my new thing. As a freshman in a small, 400 student high school, I could tell my secrets to the world and not suffer any consequences. I quickly made some friends on this site, one of them being a gay senior in high school. All throughout his blog he always regretted not coming out earlier in his life. He always believed his high school years would have been made much easier if he came out. And that got me thinking. What if I didn't want to live my life as a lie? What if I wanted to be myself? Still on my library-induced crusade for books, I came across one titled Real Boys: Rescuing Our Sons From The Myths Of Boyhood. One chapter was specifically titled "Being Different: Being Gay." My heart throbbed the entire time it took me to finish that chapter. Once I did, I looked in front of me, into the mirror, and I saw myself trembling with fear. My face was a pale yellow. And I said to myself, "... I'm gay." I burst into tears. Tears of happiness, tears of anger, I'm not sure what kind of tears they were, but they kept flowing. I read the chapter again and again, until I realized that it made me feel good. Not just good, but peaceful.

The book quickly became overdue, but I didn't care. That single chapter understood completely what I was going through, and even though I had almost learned it word for word, the feelings that came from the text was unlike any feeling I've experienced up to that point. It was now December 2004. Monday, December 13, 2004 to be precise. Sixteen days before my fifteenth birthday, and there I was in my room, 11:45 at night... contemplating coming out to my mother. I had been thinking about it for days and days before, wondering what was going to happen, thinking about any possible outcomes, and pondering about the worst thing that could happen. The book was in my hands. It was as if the bible; I read the good word and now I was just waiting for the right time to act upon it.

I walked into the kitchen and paced. This was literally the most nerve-wracking moment of my life. Although the book and the diaries from online had given me the courage to stand up and speak my piece, there was absolutely no instruction on how to begin and that's where I was struggling. I guess I was pacing too loud because my mother asked me what I was doing in the kitchen. As I walked to her room, I figured it was best to just let it happen... let it happen.

"Well, i walk into the room and mom says "you're yellow. something's wrong." I tried to hide it by saying "No, everything's fine!" and i gave a weak little smile, while inside i felt like bursting out... just letting it all go... "NO you're not. We're going to talk, right now. Okay, so what did you do?" mommy asks. She gives me this look of stern-ness. "I didn't do anything... it's something that i didn't do." "Then what didn't you do?" I can't get myself to say it. It's a terrible terrible pain inside me that's stopping me, all kinds of emotions running through my body, some telling me to spill, others to hold it in, all expecting you to follow their orders... nervousness, upset stomach... "What is it?" She asks again, now with a look of worry. I feel the tears trying to come out, not hesitating, but they're being held back by something... something unknown...."

I developed a stutter that night. It's something that I've yet, to this day, get rid of. Whenever I get into stressful situations I stutter. I stuttered my way through explaining to her that I had something to tell her, something that my friends knew, something she needed to know. She looked at me with eyes of worry as well as confusion. How else is a mother supposed to act? Her only son is sitting on the bed with her in the middle of the night, him in the worst mental state any human being can experience at that age.

"... I'm gay."

Silence. After what seemed an eternity, she spoke up and said, "Oh, but why?" She couldn't think of anything else to say, I could tell. I wanted to break down then and there, but it never happened. I explained to her my anxieties over the topic, and how much I've wanted to tell her. I showed her the scars from my cutting sessions and how I went along with the cutting. I told her everything. She was completely astounded, as was I. I couldn't stop talking. She eventually had to stop me and tell me that no matter what, she was going to love me, as I was her son, and nothing I did could ever change that. And with that, she told me she was fine with it, and she sent me off to bed.

I walked into my room and closed the door. The air was heavy and I looked like I had just come from a week-long funeral. I seemed lifeless. I had absolutely no energy left in any part of my body. I got in bed. Seconds later, the breakdown happened. It was the most beautiful cry I've had in my life. I was freed from the burden of keeping my life a secret. I was relieved. I cried as if someone whom I loved dearly had died, when, in a way, someone did die. The old me. The me that had gone through so much. I now had a clean slate, and I knew that I was going to be supported by the woman who loves me the most. And that's all I could ever have asked for.