Bullied into Death

How It All Played out

How It All Played Out~~

When I was nine, I already knew I liked boys. It wasn't hard to tell, but that didn't change the fact I had to keep it a secret. If my parents gave birth to a gay child, their whole life would be ruined. Living in Texas and having a gay child was social suicide, and since my parents were so up on the social scale, I would have ruined their lives.

No one knew except Grandpa. He knew the minute I was born, but he wasn't supportive of it at all. He agreed that I had to keep it a secret. Damn Republican...

"Why can't I tell anyone Grandpa?" I asked sadly. At that age, love had one definition: affection for someone you cared for. But I guess that didn't apply to those who liked their own gender.

"Because it's unorthodox and inappropriate. Besides, you don't want your parents to hate you would you?" He asked sternly. I shook my head looking into the floor. To the side I could see a picture of when my grandparents were younger. They looked happy and in love. Why was it so wrong for me to love a boy and not a girl? It was a question I would never get an answer to.

From that day on, I had kept it a secret, but that didn't stop kids from picking on me. The school was my battleground and I lost every day. Their words were like knives, stabbing my heart as they waited for it to bleed. I tried to dismiss their words, but the long line of bullies handed me names, embedding them into the back of my mind,

I'd spend most days inside reading. I'd lose myself in their stories, fantasizing of a place where I could one day be myself. Books were my escape from the harsh reality I was forced into. I had read through my teacher's entire library. So one day, she offered me something else.

"You seem to like poetry, why not read this?" She asked, handing me a rather large book. The title read Edgar Allen Poe. Its unfamiliarity sparked my curiosity as I opened my mind to the creativity and horror of this man.

He was a genius. The way he thought was so heart-felt and deep, especially for a kid who was still in elementary school. But that didn't stop me. I finished his collections in less than a month. I knew I'd never be like Poe, but I wanted to try. After I finished, I began my own collection of poems. They weren't as gruesome-I didn't have much to write from since my experience was very limited-but I managed to finish an entire journal in two years.

But even escaping though writing never got rid of the bullies. It only made them seem unreal for a few, blissful moments.

"He likes boys! he likes Boys!" They'd chant. The boys would make kissy faces at me, mocking my sexuality. I was always sent home crying. Sadness and fear were my only friends.

My parents would worry and say, "Oh my poor angel what's wrong?" If they knew the truth, I wouldn't be their little angel anymore. When I was home, I'd spend most of my day inside my room, conjuring up my next poem.  I never wrote about what I felt, because if I did, my parents would find it and most likely  disown me. So I wrote about how others felt. For example, my teacher, Mrs. Apple. She always seemed so sad, but she never told me why. I guess it was weird to confine in such a young kid. So in my head, I'd think about all the reasons of why it might be, and write it using all the metaphors I could come up with.