Growing up I was the type of young boy who liked to play with Barbie’s and do gymnastics. I was basically thrown into sports – the usual ‘manly’ ones like baseball, football, basketball and. However, once I was in them, things started to get a little strange. In baseball I would just do cartwheels and didn’t care about the game, football I would just stare at the cheerleaders. Not for the reason my dad thought though, but because I was trying to learn the cheers. In basketball I pretended that I broke my toe so I wouldn’t have to play.
Finally I convinced my parents to let me try gymnastics, which I took to and loved. No matter what actual injuries I had gotten I still wanted to compete and learn the craft. Although my parents were not supportive of my new found passion they accepted it because it was a sport that I finally found I loved. They wouldn’t however pay for me to compete at an elite level because they thought it was just a phase that I would grow out of. Needless to say once I was seriously injured they were happy about it.
Eighth grade rolled around, I had already been sexually active but only with girls. Don’t get me wrong I enjoyed it for the most part, but I always felt that something was missing. I had my first ‘gay’ experience in March of that year and it seemed right even though it was nothing major, just two boys experimenting with our bodies together. Even though it seemed more right to me I had convinced myself that I was straight because that’s what my parents wanted. They wanted the whole marriage, perfect wife for me and perfect grandkids for them to spoil. So that’s what I tried to be, the perfect son. It tore me apart because I was so internally confused about whom I was and who I was expected to be so I began cutting my wrists, and it all went downhill from there. By the end of eighth grade I was suicidal, had no appreciation for anyone especially myself. That summer I felt all alone like I had no one to talk to do, because let’s face it, who really does at that age.
My freshman year in high school was no different than eighth grade except my feelings towards killing myself grew stronger. I finally gathered up the courage to go and talk to my schools counselor who recommended that I see a psychologist. We all spoke about it and decided to give it a try. Once psychologist heard my story and knew I was suicidal she sent me to a psychiatric hospital. When I first got there I thought that was the worst thing that had ever happened to me because I was in an environment I wasn’t familiar with being forced to talk about my feeling with a group of strangers. I couldn’t tell the private therapist there because I knew that he didn’t care about any of us, so I was forced to face my demons and talk about it in one of our group sessions. In doing so may have been one of the best things that have ever happened to me. Once I spoke out and shared my story with the group I realized that most of the teens there were feeling the same way. When I was more comfortable with whom I was, I felt almost inclined to try my best to help these other teens. I didn’t know how I was going to do it, but I was determined. I remember asking one of the therapists if they had anyone in the facility that we could talk to who would actually understand what we were all going through. Of course they said “No, whatever anyone wants to say they can say in the group sessions”. That’s not what these teens wanted to do; they needed someone, like I said; that they could relate to them and understand where they’re coming from.
Once I was released from the hospital I had the burden of telling my parents. I remember I was so scared about what they would think and what they would do, but I knew I had to do it. Not just for me, but for the others still in the hospital. As most gay men tend to do, I told my mother first. She was shocked but she had told me that she sort of already knew. We sat down and talked for what seemed like hours, we were both crying and it was truly a very bonding moment for us. I knew the next step was telling my father, which scared me even more because let’s face it; it’s not something a father wants to hear. But again I mustered up the courage, with the help of my mom, and I told him. His reaction was different than my mom’s was; he just sat there with this blank look on his face, disappointment in his eyes and said “okay” , that was the end of that.
Coming out to my initial counselor at my high school, to my therapist, to the psychiatric hospital, and to my parents made me realize something; my calling. Since the group incidents in the hospital I had come to realize that these kids need someone there to tell them that it’s okay, I understand, I’ve been there; and I knew that person was going to be me someday. Everyday I’m inspired to keep on living my dream of helping the next generation of GLBT youth have someone they can rely on.
