Sinner

I grew up in a fairly small town, in which almost everyone was Catholic or Christian- including myself. In fact, the only things I really remember from my childhood is the scent of incense and some random fragments of sermons from various masses. 

I lived with my religious grandparents and believed anything they told me about the Bible, including their own personal intolerances. When I was seven, they sat me down and talked to me about homosexuality. “If you ever find yourself feeling that way towards a woman”, they warned me, “tell us, so that we can get you the help you need.” 

That’s when I learned to compress it; to compress how my heart raced a little when I watched a pretty woman on my favorite Disney show, or how my mind couldn’t help but wander about a certain Target cashier. 

Luckily for me, I also had crushes on guys. I could just brush off my desire for girls as a phase or admiration.

 It wasn’t until fifth grade that I learned about the term bisexuality. That’s when my worst fears were confirmed. Despite being young, I just knew. Ironically enough, if anyone besides a small group of people found this out, I’d probably be crucified. So, I did everything I could to convince people I was someone completely different. 

In sixth grade, I met a girl. She had soulful brown eyes and dark, long hair. We hit it off immediately. We had the same beliefs and values, and every time she spoke I could feel my heart beating. 

We did everything together; we disliked the same people, went to parties and sleepovers together, and were constantly hanging out. I spent the night at her house for a sleepover, and we were the last two people awake. She kissed me on the cheek in a friendly way, and I was rendered speechless. Did she mean it as anything more? She knew I liked girls, and I thought maybe she did, too.

 We never talked about it afterwards, so I assumed it was a friendly kiss. I just couldn’t stop thinking about it, though. I couldn’t rule out the possibility, could I? I didn’t want to put her into an uncomfortable position. Could you imagine? Did I really want to push away the only person who had accepted me? Was I really that much of a screw up?

A few months later, I was having a sleepover with some other friends, as we had drifted a little bit. Then, at two in the morning, I got a call from her. I rushed to the bathroom for some privacy and answered. She said she had liked me, in a more-than-friends way. So, obviously, I told her I felt the same. I heard snickering in the back. She found some crappy excuse to hang up, which was fine, because I was in no mood to stay on the line either. I still to this day don’t know exactly what the snickering was, but I can make a pretty good assumption. 

I had switched schools the next year, and this new school was a little more accepting. I switched over with my best friend since second grade. She was very extroverted, and quickly found a clique. However, I was left to fend for myself, and ended up with a very different friend group. One of the girls was very vocal about her hatred for the LGBT community, and the rest of them agreed with her. That’s when I knew it was not safe to come out, no matter how ready I was.

That first year at my new school was probably the worst one of my life. Little Miss Homophobe talked about it at least once a week, and my self esteem had never been worse. The second I got home from school, I just laid down in my bed and cried. I felt worthless.

Luckily, the next year, I found myself a new friend group. In this new friend group, two of the girls were openly gay and everyone else in the group accepted them. I was doing much better. I came out that same year.

When I came out, my previous friend group tried congratulating me (everyone except Miss Homophobe). There were so many things I wanted to scream at them. “You made me ashamed of who I am.” “Don’t act like you support me now.” “I have never hated myself more than I did last year.” Instead, though, I just gave a small smile and thanked them. 

After I came out, a friend of a friend started messaging me. She had pretty blonde hair and had been openly gay for a while. As it turned out, we had a lot in common. She was really sweet and truly did care for me. She was so pretty, too. I truly did not deserve her. 

Unfortunately, I lost feelings for her. I tried everything I could to feel something for her again, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to, but I broke up with her. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I was still subconsciously scared of judgement. Maybe I couldn’t handle a relationship. Maybe it’s not that deep, and I’m over analyzing. All are very possible realities. After we broke up, though, I missed her horribly. I messed up my only healthy relationship.

I don’t know what prompted me to write this. It’s clearly rushed and not well-written, and I am well aware of that. I don’t even know what prompt this falls under. I think I just needed an outlet, and what better outlet than writing? This didn’t turn out how I intended. I intended this to be a love story that I spent multiple days on perfecting it. Instead, it turned into the life story of some emotional, bisexual teenager, as I realized I don’t have a lot of experience with love. Anyway, if you’ve read this far, I must thank you. I don’t understand why you did, but thanks.