Trigger Warning: mental health struggles
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to will the tears to stop, but they had a mind of their own. They came like clockwork these days, soaking my pillow, blurring my vision, and leaving my face sticky with salt. The weight on my chest felt permanent now, like it had grown roots in my ribcage.
I was exhausted—not just physically, though that was part of it. I hadn’t slept in days. It was the kind of exhaustion that digs into your soul, the kind that whispers, “Why bother getting up tomorrow?”
I had always known I was different. It wasn’t a dramatic realization, just a quiet truth that took shape as I grew up. In middle school, while my friends gushed about boys, I found myself stealing glances at girls. But it wasn’t until high school that I had the words to describe it: I liked girls.
The first time I said it aloud, it was barely above a whisper, just a test to see how it felt in my mouth. “I’m a lesbian.” It felt both freeing and terrifying, like stepping onto a shaky bridge over a canyon. I didn’t want to believe it, because I knew what it meant. I’d heard the jokes, the slurs, the sermons at church that painted people like me as broken.
I tried to deny it at first, to stuff it down, to date boys even though it felt wrong. But the truth has a way of clawing its way to the surface, no matter how much you try to bury it.
When I came out to my parents, I expected them to be surprised. I even braced myself for anger. But what I wasn’t prepared for was the silence. My mom just stared at me, her face unreadable, before muttering, “I don’t know what I did wrong.” My dad didn’t say anything at all—he just left the room.
The days after that were unbearable. They didn’t yell or disown me outright, but they stopped looking me in the eye. Conversations became clipped, as if I was a guest overstaying my welcome. I could feel their disappointment like a heavy fog that hung in every corner of the house
At school, things weren’t much better. I hadn’t even meant to come out there, but rumors have wings, and soon everyone knew. Some girls avoided me like I was contagious. Others whispered behind my back or left cruel notes in my locker. “Dyke.” One time, someone scrawled “Burn in hell” across my notebook.
I’d always been good at pretending. Pretending I didn’t hear the whispers, pretending I didn’t notice my mom flinching when I mentioned liking a girl, pretending I was fine. But the mask was cracking, and I didn’t know how much longer I could hold it together.
The worst part wasn’t the bullying or the rejection, though those were hard enough. It was the loneliness. The feeling that no matter how much I tried to
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to will the tears to stop, but they had a mind of their own. They came like clockwork these days, soaking my pillow, blurring my vision, and leaving my face sticky with salt. The weight on my chest felt permanent now, like it had grown roots in my ribcage.
I was exhausted—not just physically, though that was part of it. I hadn’t slept in days. It was the kind of exhaustion that digs into your soul, the kind that whispers, “Why bother getting up tomorrow?”
I had always known I was different. It wasn’t a dramatic realization, just a quiet truth that took shape as I grew up. In middle school, while my friends gushed about boys, I found myself stealing glances at girls. But it wasn’t until high school that I had the words to describe it: I liked girls.
The first time I said it aloud, it was barely above a whisper, just a test to see how it felt in my mouth. “I’m a lesbian.” It felt both freeing and terrifying, like stepping onto a shaky bridge over a canyon. I didn’t want to believe it, because I knew what it meant. I’d heard the jokes, the slurs, the sermons at church that painted people like me as broken.
I tried to deny it at first, to stuff it down, to date boys even though it felt wrong. But the truth has a way of clawing its way to the surface, no matter how much you try to bury it.
When I came out to my parents, I expected them to be surprised. I even braced myself for anger. But what I wasn’t prepared for was the silence. My mom just stared at me, her face unreadable, before muttering, “I don’t know what I did wrong.” My dad didn’t say anything at all—he just left the room.
The days after that were unbearable. They didn’t yell or disown me outright, but they stopped looking me in the eye. Conversations became clipped, as if I was a guest overstaying my welcome. I could feel their disappointment like a heavy fog that hung in every corner of the house
At school, things weren’t much better. I hadn’t even meant to come out there, but rumors have wings, and soon everyone knew. Some girls avoided me like I was contagious. Others whispered behind my back or left cruel notes in my locker. “Dyke.” One time, someone scrawled “Burn in hell” across my notebook.
I’d always been good at pretending. Pretending I didn’t hear the whispers, pretending I didn’t notice my mom flinching when I mentioned liking a girl, pretending I was fine. But the mask was cracking, and I didn’t know how much longer I could hold it together.
The worst part wasn’t the bullying or the rejection, though those were hard enough. It was the loneliness. The feeling that no matter how much I tried to
