January of my freshman year, my hair was short and bleached blonde. My mascara was clumpy, almost weighing down my lashes as I entered the overcrowded cafeteria. 

I placed my lunch on one of the sticky wooden tables and sat in the creaky chairs—still warm from the last person who sat there—next to one of my only friends.

“So did you hear they’re dating now?” my friend asked as I rocked in my broken chair.

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Well, don’t you have a crush on him?” she asked, pointing across the cafeteria.

“Yeah, I do,” I said through my teeth.

Hiding my neck in my shoulders, I pressed my lips together, not wanting to talk anymore.

A place in my chest cracked, the part where my hopes and dreams lived. It was physically painful to watch. It just wasn’t fair. 

I could feel the tears wanting to escape my eyes when I saw them laughing and holding hands. Her sparkling green eyes, paired with black voluminous lashes stared into his. She flipped her long red-brown hair behind her shoulders as she laughed at his joke. 

Her smile—one that both tore me apart and healed me—was for him.

All I wanted was to be with her and look into those emerald eyes and tell her how beautiful she is. But that couldn’t happen. And she could never know that.

Because I’m gay. And she’s not. 

——————-

At age 14, my brother would call me names.

I was a “dyke” when I would say a girl was pretty on TV..

I was a “fag” when a girl would sleepover at my house. 

Did he know? No, he couldn’t know. There’s no way.

I can’t be gay, I thought. I couldn’t be.

I was in eighth grade when I realized I was attracted to girls. 

I was always told this was wrong. This wasn’t the image I thought my parents wanted me to have.

A perfect life meant having a husband, white picket fence, two kids with my husband’s last name, a dog, a cat and a nice job that pays well. 

To me, this was perfection. And being with a woman wasn’t.

There would be days where I would sit in my closet with the door closed and lights on. 

I remember the salty taste of my tears. “Why am I like this?” I would scream out loud.

I hated myself for being different.

I opened the door and stood looking in the mirror, still standing inside the closet.

I didn’t recognize myself. 

My puffy eyes were bloodshot. The blue in my iris glowed. Snot ran down my nose. My face was bright red. My hair was ratty from me pulling on it. 

I was a mess. It was moments like this where I would feel so alone. 

When I left my room, I had to be a different person.

I couldn’t be the girl who cried in the closet because she was gay. 

So for almost four years, I was the person people expected me to be.

———————

Sophomore year, I had my first and only boyfriend. 

For a time, I thought I really loved him.  

And I did. But not in the way he wanted. When I was with him, I knew that something wasn’t right. 

That place in my chest—the one that swelled with joy when I saw a girl I liked — it felt empty when I was with him.  

But in senior year, I decided it was time for things to change. 

I couldn’t spend another night in the shower, letting the sounds of classic rock music drown out my sobs.

I couldn’t spend another night insulting my reflection in the mirror, wishing that she could disappear. 

I couldn’t pretend that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with the man who I told I loved.

That’s how I knew it was time. 

From that point, I told myself not to waste anymore time in that closet.

In front of that mirror with puffy eyes and worrying about what my brother or anyone else thought. 

I told myself not to be sad.

Not to be scared of who I am.  

But there are days where I still get scared and sad. 

Scared to dress how I really want because it’s “too gay.” Scared of going out in public with someone I love.

Scared of what my father will think when I tell him about my first girlfriend. Sad that I will never give my mom the perfect family she wanted. 

Some days are hard, yet I feel relieved. 

Now when I look in that mirror, I’m learning to love what I see staring back at me.

When I see an attractive girl in that cafeteria, I don’t have to hold my tongue.

Now I only keep clothes in my closet. 

After years of self-hatred, I have a reason to be hopeful.