I Am Attracted To Other Women
People on this site keep telling that I need to write stories. Everybody has stories. I've been reluctant...but here is the first, and there will be more to come.
I realized that I was attracted to other women when i was 14 years old. I didn't know of any other kids in my high school that were lesbian or gay, and Ellen wasn't around yet to make sure that kids like me knew we weren't the only one. When i was 15, the girl that I secretly had feelings for discovered this secret. She was less than accepting of this revelation. In fact, she was horrified . One day, I found out that she'd been questioning one of my friends about me. I went over to her to ask her to please leave my friends out of it (since none of them knew of my "situation") but as I approached her, she turned her back to me and started to quickly walk away. I reached out with my hand and touched her arm to stop her and as I did, she turned around to me and said, "Don't touch me! Don't EVER touch me!!!" It wasn't just her words. It was the tone of her voice and the way that she looked at me with complete disgust... like I was some kind of loathsome monster or had leprocy and she would now have to scrub her arm just to get the filth and the stench of me off of her. This was one of those moments; the kind that you never forget and they manage to color the way in which you see yourself and the world around you. I remember standing there...shaking. I remember thinking that if I was truly such a detestable monster and being gay was something that would cause people to turn away from me and to react to me this way...then I didn't want to live. Not like this. I literally felt like I could'nt bare it anymore. I had already had so much turmoil trying to deal with these feelings that i was having and had absolutely no one to speak to about. That was it. I couldn't handle living this way. The decision was made. There was only one method of suicide that I was familiar with, and that was cutting your wrist. So after school, when the other students had left the building, I went up to the 3rd floor and stood in front of a window, staring out. I didn't have the guts to actually take a knife or a blade to slice my wrist, so i thought if I smashed my forearm through a window, surely there would be one, perfect, shard of glass that my wrist would hit just right... I did put my arm through the window that day, but what I thought was the great master plan of killing myself turned out to be small cut on the side of my hand and nothing more.
I still have this strange relationship with broken glass. Whenever there are pieces of glass that need to be picked, I'll be the first one on the scene- and I'll pick it up piece by piece with my bare hands...and I never get cut. Unable to be cut by glass??? Rather a worthless superhero power if that's what it is. And after all of these years, today it occurred to me: if I had smashed a bottle of glass on a table top...and then brought my arm, facing wrist down, as hard as i could on those pieces of broken glass....that would have been a much more effective way of accomplishing my mission, wouldn't have been? And tonight, as I sit here thinking about my life and feeling completely alone and depressed- I have an image in my mind of broken glass...beautiful pieces of broken glass. But no need to worry about me....because i already told you that there will be more stories to come. And I'm the only one who can tell them.
