I was 15 when I was forced out of the cozy closet, and it wasn't a pleasant experience.

The Day began like normal, almost. A feeling of impending doom lay over my head like a thunder storm. I hid everything that morning was the only thing different. By everything I mean my DSi (my only form of contact with my girlfriend) and my “pencil sharpeners”. They were the two things I'd never want to lose. The person and tool I could never live without.

School was normal. Ignore people on the bus as I blow my ears out with music, isolating myself from the bullies. Pulling my sleeves down or rubbing my aching thighs. I don't remember much else. Boring stuff, really. Blah blah blah. Lunch was the good part. Lunch on The Day...oooh I will never forget; and that is not a good thing.

I distinctly remember grabbing a red tray with panic rising in my chest. Red trays, for some reason, were the trays I loved. (Maybe because they were hard to come across in the school lunch line at the time and to me it was a bizarre sort of honor.) I had second lunch that year, so I was starving. I don't even approach the table when my friend comes up to me and apologizes. I stayed quiet, the panic silently getting worse but I thought she just cut again. Some issues she has just pushes her too far.

She said it again. “I'm so sorry Maurleen.” (that was my nickname...long story.)

Finally I asked why.

“Nurse Charla hasn't talked to you...?

What did that mean? I hesitantly responded “no..?”

“My mom found your journal in the back of my closet...”

I kept it there for protection. I wanted to move on.

“She gave it to the school...”

you liar you told her didn't you?

“and Nurse Charla is talking to your mom right now.”

I put my tray down and hit the table. The boom echoed through out the cafeteria, which automatically went silent for a few moments. Momentary embarrassment was flooded out by white hot anger. I wanted to yell; and I did.

“WHAT THE HELL KAYLA WHY'D YOU LET IT HAPPEN?” was the first words the boomed out of my mouth. She tried to defend herself saying she hid it well but her mom was raiding her room for drugs and found that instead.

“YOU should've hid it better! God dammit IT WAS ALL ABOUT HER!!!” that last part was louder than the rest, but also quieter. My tone got scary. The only way to describe my mind is horrible, I called it Hiroshima because of how violent and dangerous the explosion was.

“I know...” She muttered. I walked away from her before I punched her. She deserved it though, had I punched her. The tray left behind was declared free food and I ignored the remarks from my table mates on how wasteful it was to get food and not eat it.

I didn't expect this.

I pulled out my cell phone and the only logical thought was that calling my girlfriend would be a hell lot worse for her and myself because then there would be contact.

I called a friend of a friend and, after ranting, I listened to him telling me that I should have told my parent's earlier. I tried telling him to shut up but it only increased the rage at which he was going. Thirty minutes of it, anger made it go by quick, and the bell rang to end lunch. On to my next class. Maybe it was that next class or the proceeding one, but I got a blue slip home. I was in math ranting and getting the same talk my friend's friend. Chris, gave me, only this time through notes. My friend wished me luck before leaving and gave me a hug. I didn't want to go.

I could run away.

Where?

The Lunghofers house, or the Wellings-Miller's house. Both of whom are trusted friends.

Could I last, survive even, should they deny me?

I entered the office and the foreign faces of the office staff greeted me. I was told where my mom was. I don't know if my face radiated my emotions strongly or if they knew; but the sympathy I received was in great amounts.

I waited for my mom.

It felt like hours.

Hadn't school ended? I was so ashamed I wish it had.

Then I heard a familiar voice of a toddler. My sister, who was 2 at the time and walking with mild issues. You know, the stumbles. I stood up and I tried very hard to picture the bravest person I could be and the right person for the situation. I pictured my fictional character; a princess who defended her country. I pictured the yellow silky dress flowing behind me and I became her. The strength to overcome anything.

VALORA

I walked down to meet my sister and hold her hand, but not meeting my mom's eyes. I was terrified to, scared that I may bolt. Or cry. I didn't want to lose my facade. The walk to the car was silent, tense. I was scared, maybe she was too, looking back. We got in the car in silence. We drove away, in silence. After five or so minutes she broke it.

“Would you like to start or should I?” she asked.

“You.” I responded, my voice robotic as my numbing defenses went up.

“Okay...” and she asked me about the cutting (last time at the time was mid February, a few weeks prior) and the alcohol and drug use of which I only pondered and desired. I answered in a robotic voice all the honest answers, but as short as possible.

We were in a strange area; full of trees that I seem to want to remember as green that surrounded the road; when she asked me the dreaded question. “The nurse mentioned gender confusion?”

I stayed silent, and it was then that I focused on my music blaring from the one headphone. Black Veil Brides, some song about standing up for yourself no matter what. Fallen Angels, was it? I was tapping my foot to it and mouthed the words out the window as she repeated the question.

I believe I told her that I wasn't ready but she pushed it,

and pushed it,

and pushed it.

Telling me we won't go home until I tell the truth. I wanted to say that we could drive forever or I could just do a tuck-n-roll out of the car, but I stayed silent until..

“I feel I'm bisexual.” I wanted to break it to her calmly. “I like both boys and girls.”

“And who do you feel this way about?” She asked, proceeding with a long list of friends who are females. I said no to every one of them until she asked who.

“You don't know her...”

“Then how do you know her?” She said.

“Linda introduced us, we hit it off.”

there was a discussion following, I believe, about internet safety; but I have confirmation that she was truly her. I wasn't worried.

I asked her, though, to not bring the bible into it.

You see, my mom is religious, not crazily so but dedicated to being a Jehovah Witness. you know, the door knockers? I nibbled on a burrito during the rest of the silent car ride, feeling relieved, but wanting to cut once more. My self injury desires were waning away, but still existed and I still obeyed at times.

We arrived back home, the suburban coasting into our driveway; but we weren't done. I was scared once more and went to my room to grab my bows and arrows seeing as I couldn’t cut. I missed every single shot but my anger faded away. Slowly faded away. I had headphones in, blasting music that I felt like screaming to. Three arrows at a time, 35 pound pull on my compound (I believe?) and for a good half hour or so.

I went in the house.

I found my mom sitting at the table.

I found religious books, two sets of each, on the table.

I found panic growing in me.

Betrayal.

More anger.

Hurt.

Cold icy monster darting down my nerves and through my veins, begging to be released.

I hesitantly approached and sat down.

She prayed, I instinctively bowed my head, crying.

Amen was long since an empty echo.

Fragments.

Obscene in God's eyes.

Disgusting.

More and more verses, more quotes piled on and when I thought I couldn't take it, I had to repeat it. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. As if it would drill in my head that to be worthy in His eyes I must repent my lifestyle. I must repent. Rid myself of the stain to become pure. But instead of taking it to heart, I became cold and distant there. A closing prayer. Tears. Another empty echo.

I wasn't allowed to be alone. In fact, they almost took me out of public school because of my issues with addiction. I bargained and went for a half day to fulfill my electives.

I didn't stop cutting, but I carved obscene, fag, and disgusting on my thighs.

I grew away from my mother, even still. Even with apologies.

I shut off to religion, to the point that being inside a kingdom hall or a church causes a severe anxiety attack that reduces me to tears, even years later. Even though I have a boyfriend.

I hated myself, and sometimes I still do.

I tried to kill myself later, feeling unloved as my girlfriend and the only person I trusted broke up with me. My attempt made me high, which I became close to addiction.

I was forced into things by a girl because of the pain. She took advantage of me and my weakness, even though I had said no to everything she did. This made me feel even more w****-like and disgusting. I cut more. Got high a few more times.

Went to group therapy for various sorts of addicts, where I felt out of place and attacked because self injury isn't a true addiction to many.

I was scared and even to this day I feel as if I will never be accepted by my family and want nothing more than to leave home when I'm 18.

But I still stand proudly bisexual. To be specific, demisexual biromantic; where looks don't matter if the heart is good. Because once you love the heart of a person, everything about them becomes beautiful. And I still can like both males and females.

Yet there will always be this form of self loathing and low confidence from not being accepted in my own home. To have to pretend I'm not who I really am. I will never get over this day. But one day I will get married and have kids and even go to college to eventually be a public defender and be imperfectly perfect at it.

BECAUSE I AM STILL HUMAN!