Utter_Insanity's late and extremely long GLM submission--How I Lost My Smile

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How I Lost My Smile

Screen name: utter_insanity

Real name: Tessa

Age: 13

Location: North Carolina, United States

Gender: Female

Bio: I’m basically a geek. I love to read, write, and draw, and I’m fond of the novel Wicked. I find people’s minds fascinating, and I like to find what makes them tick. My favorite book genres are sci-fi and fantasy, but I’ll read pretty much anything, except for my mother’s romance novels. My two biggest dreams are to be a published author and get a girlfriend. If you want to learn anything else about me, just continue reading.

I remember the day I met my friend Logan. It was my first day of preschool. I pulled off my brand-new, pink Winnie the Pooh backpack and set it on a table by the door. I glanced around the classroom…and I saw her. I was immediately drawn to Logan. She was a cute, blonde, four-year-old child, sitting on a cushion on the floor in an area where us kids were supposed to form a circle around our teacher’s rocking chair. I decided that I wanted to sit next to her, so I grabbed a green pillow and planted my rear next to hers without a word. She was understandably freaked out, and scooted away from me. Being a smitten preschooler and having no idea why this pretty girl didn’t like me, I scooted towards her. She kept on moving away from me, and I continued to follow her. This process went on and on until she was right next to a classmate who had been sitting in the circle, and therefore couldn’t move any further. Having successfully cornered her, I stayed next to her until we had to move off of our cushions.

When Logan and I were in kindergarten, we were in the same class. In the middle of the school year, she acquired a boyfriend. Since I had a terrible crush on this girl, I wanted to be in a relationship like she was, so I picked a guy out. He was much shorter than me, with reddish hair and dark eyes. I told some of my friends that I wanted him to be my boyfriend. The word got out, and eventually the boy confronted me.

He admitted that he didn’t mind that I wanted to be his girlfriend. At that moment, we got together. We held hands, just like Logan and her boyfriend. We had good times together, and I was satisfied, because I had a guy friend, just like Logan. I had lots of fun with him, even if he did have some weird habits. He liked to pick the petals off of buttercups and chew on them. It was bizarre, but I copied him, because I was curious. Besides, he was my boyfriend. Wasn’t I supposed to try new things because of him? I pulled off these flowers’ petals and chewed them, and I decided they tasted good. After all, my boyfriend had recommended them, and he should know what he was talking about.

Around that same time, I began to play “sex games” with one of my girl friends. We didn’t really do anything other than dry hump each other. I was always the man. My friend would complain and demand to play the male, but I wouldn’t let her. I didn’t want to pretend to be a woman kissing a man. If we were going to fake having heterosexual sex, I wanted to be the man. One time I did give in and play the woman, but I didn’t like it as much as I did when I was the guy. Every time after that, I was always male whenever we played our games.

Logan and I slowly started to grow apart sometime in elementary school. I’m not sure when. I suppose we simply…drifted away from each other. We didn’t spend as much time together as we used to. I barely noticed it. My crush on her was fading away, and I wasn’t really attached to her any more.

In elementary school, I saw plenty of girls that I thought were pretty, but I didn’t really label myself. These feelings felt natural to me, and I didn’t particularly care about them. Looking at other girls’ bodies made me feel nice, and that was all that mattered.

When I was visiting my two lesbian grandmothers one time in second grade, my sister and I were watching TV with them. We were watching some comedy, and in it there were two men in the same bed. I asked my grandmothers why they were both there, and they said that these two men were gay, and that they were in the same bed because they loved each other. One of them added that they themselves were gay, too, just like these men. They were sitting next to each other and holding hands at the time. I think that they were holding hands because they were kind of scared about coming out to us. I had never really cared about whether they were gay or not. I didn’t know what being gay or straight meant at the time. I just knew that my grandmas loved each other, and that was perfectly fine with me. I had known them all my life. I couldn’t imagine them not being together.

In that year, I was also given a book entitled, “The Encyclopedia of Mythology.” I loved that book. It contained information about fantastic myths and folktales from ancient kingdoms around the world, and was extremely thick. I would lug it to school and read it whenever I had some free time. I was especially fond of the section on Greek and Roman mythology. Inside the book there were illustrations along with the information. Most of the pictures were paintings of scenes from some of the myths, created centuries ago, and therefore there was a lot of nudity within the book. I didn’t care about it, since I considered the tales inside to be more important. However, I did like to look at the naked women in the book. They were completely beautiful, and I loved to stare at their curvy bodies and their breasts. Again, I never labeled myself. I just enjoyed the feelings looking at these women gave me.

Nothing particularly terrible had ever happened in my life…until third grade. During this time, I went through hell.

Do you know how, in every school, there is always at least one kid who everybody picks on, just because they don’t want to get teased themselves? Well, in third grade, I was that kid.

I met a pretty girl named Stephanie, who transferred to my class a few months after school had started. I was in desperate need of friends, having very few. I liked to play by myself, but I also wanted to have somebody to talk to sometimes. I thought that this was a good opportunity to become pals, so I offered to show her around the classroom. I talked with her, and we found that we had a few things in common. She seemed to be a nice person, just your average, shy new kid.

However, the next day I saw Stephanie hanging out with a group of girls that I didn’t like. They were the mean girls, the girls who teased other kids and always told anybody who disagreed with them to shut up. She ignored me for that entire day. I didn’t know why she didn’t want to hang out with me, so I just played by myself, as usual.

Day after day, I tried to sit next to her at lunch. She was always with her mean friends, and they treated me like the village idiot. I tried to imitate them, to like the things they liked. Maybe if I did this, they would respect me, and let me be their friend. It didn’t work. In fact, it did the opposite. Stephanie loathed me, but I refused to see that. I wanted to be friends with her badly, but unfortunately, it takes two to tango, and Stephanie was refusing to dance. However, she had no problem ridiculing me whenever I was near her.

Stephanie and her friends were some of the “popular” kids in my class. (If you ask me, I think they were only considered “cool” because they were always mean to you if you suggested otherwise.) Since they were part of the in crowd and were dedicated to making fun of me, almost everybody else decided to do the same.

I felt horrible. I would go to school every day dreading it, and I would come back home wanting to disappear. I cried often. Everybody seemed to hate me. Everybody, that is, except for one boy. He stood up for me when no one else did, always found some way to make me laugh, and when I hung out with him and his guy friends, I felt like I belonged.

Besides ostracism, third grade was also the first time I encountered labels. One day at recess, I was talking to a female acquaintance, and I told her that I liked Star Wars and the X-Men. She proceeded to call me a tomboy. I didn’t know what a tomboy was, so she explained, “A tomboy is a girl who likes boy stuff.”

I didn’t understand. I felt confused. I didn’t want to be a “tomboy.” I didn’t want to be somebody who likes “boy stuff.” I just wanted to be myself and like whatever I wanted to like.

After that year finally ended, I was considerably shaken. I withdrew into myself, hiding from the world. I didn’t want to get hurt again. I spent my entire fourth grade year feeling melancholy and alone. I only had two friends. One was an intellectual fifth-grader that read a lot and liked Star Wars, just like me. The other was Logan, whom I had virtually ignored up until then. She befriended a fifth grader, too, whom she always played with. I began to talk to Logan again, although I didn’t always understand her. During the time we had been apart, she had become much more girly. Now she loved shopping, the color pink, and called her friend named Jennifer “Dwenny-fwuffy.” I thought that she was quite insane, and I still do.

The next year, both my and Logan’s friends had left for middle school. We began to spend a lot more time with each other, and rekindled our friendship. I began to develop a crush on her again. During our poetry unit in class, I even wrote a poem about her. It was a cinquain, and it went like this:

Logan
Blonde, Crazy
Running, Dancing, Gushing
She will drive you nuts
Insane

I showed her the poem, and she laughed. I felt warm inside.

My fifth grade year was the best time I’ve ever had. That year was the time I became popular.

I wasn’t popular the way Stephanie and her friends were; I wasn’t a mean girl. I simply had gotten over the harsh treatment I had been subjected to during third grade, and I began to make friends again. It seemed like everyone loved being around me. I could hang out with boys or girls, and I still had fun. (I preferred eating lunch and such with boys, though. Whether I cared about it or not, I was still a tomboy.)

I completely reveled in myself. I accepted all of the qualities that made me me, and everyone loved me for it. It was the best feeling I have ever felt.

During this time, I also came out, in an odd sort of way. Since my classmates were starting to say things like, “That’s so gay” whenever they thought something was stupid, I decided to tell the class that I had two grandmothers who loved each other and were gay. After I did this, I felt great. Whenever somebody said, “That’s so gay,” I could reply, “Hey, quit making fun of my grandmas!” It was kind of strange, but it was nice to feel free to defend my grandparents whenever someone was using their sexuality as an insult.

Fifth grade was full of crazy moments for me. It was the time when I first discovered the Internet. Sure, I had used it before, but this was the time when my eyes were truly opened to what kinds of things there were on the Internet.

One time, my sister showed me a forum she had found. It was a web site where comic book fans could discuss (what else?) comic books. Since I loved to read comics, I decided to join, even though I was concerned about safety on the Internet, which I had received numerous lectures about at school.

While browsing this site, I met a girl who was a few years older than me, and we became friends. I eventually discovered that she was a lesbian when she came out to me. I didn’t care about her sexual orientation. After all, I had two gay grandmothers, and I also liked to listen to Melissa Etheridge, who I knew liked women. I didn’t care whether she was a lesbian or straight—she was still my friend, no matter what.

That year, I also discovered Internet porn. Now, by porn I mean mature fanfiction, not one of those web sites where you actually have to look at naked people.

In case you don’t know, fanfiction is where fans of a certain movie, book, TV show, or otherwise decide to write stories about the characters in said stories, even though the characters aren’t copyrighted under their name. Fanfiction writers mostly write just for fun, and many of them don’t expect to ever get published.

While browsing a fanfiction site, I found my first mature tale. While I was reading a story, I went on to the next chapter, only to find a “Mature Content” warning. I decided to ignore it and go on to the story. I was completely shocked. I had never read such a graphic description of heterosexual sex before! I hadn’t ever read any kind of book or story that described sex! (Unless you count the “What’s Happening to My Body? Book for Girls,” which is about what girls went through during puberty, and explains about what happens during sex.) I felt traumatized, and I immediately closed the window I was browsing, got off the computer, and never looked at that story again.

I was disgusted. What was so great about sex? Why would anybody write a story about it in the first place? I thought that sex was completely gross, and I never wanted to read about it again.

I tentatively started to read fanfiction again. The next time I found a mature story, I didn’t mind thinking about sex as much. I found that I liked to imagine girls in lacy undergarments, but I didn’t care for the boys much.

I discovered masturbation. I tried to fantasize about a man and a woman having sex, but I never felt very aroused. I knew that masturbating was supposed to give you nice feelings, but it didn’t do anything for me. I would imagine a man seducing a woman, but it didn’t make me feel anything other than bored. I wondered why touching yourself was supposed to feel so great. I would think, “What’s supposed to be amazing about masturbation? It doesn’t feel good at all. Anybody who likes it has to be crazy.”

But sometimes at night, in the darkness of my room, I would imagine two women making love, and I would feel these wonderful, crazy titillations. It was much better than imagining a man kissing a woman, and I would fantasize whenever possible.

While reading fanfiction, I eventually discovered slash fiction. Slash fiction is a kind of Internet story where two men are in a relationship together. Basically, slash is gay fanfiction, but there are some original slash stories that people write, too. It was in slash fiction that I learned all about anal sex.

I swear, sometimes I look back at these fanfiction-filled times and wonder why I was such a hormonal little pervert.

During fifth grade, I also developed a crush on the boy from third grade who had stood up for me against Stephanie and her goons…or at least, I thought I liked him. Since I was a popular kid and I felt so great about myself, I decided that I wanted to be friends with him again, even though we had grown apart over the years. Since I was having such a good time, I decided that if I hung out with him again, my year would be truly perfect.

Of course, I mistook this desire to be friends for a crush. So I’d obsess over him. I cried over him. I would complain to my mom that I had such a huge crush on him and that I was feeling so terrible about it. To be honest, I was kind of a drama queen about the whole thing.

My chasing after him naturally freaked out the boy, and I could see that. I fell into a depression, or at least I thought I did. I had read about gothic people on the Internet, and about how they were supposed to be all depressed over how awful their lives were. (Now I know that’s just a stereotype, but I didn’t know any better at the time.) I thought that, since I had such a huge crush on this boy and he had rejected me, I should act all depressed and dark. After all, weren’t girls supposed to do that when they suffered from unrequited love?

Whenever my friends told me a joke, I would start laughing, but then I would stop and remind myself that I was supposed to be depressed over this boy. I tried to wear black all the time, which was kind of hard, since I didn’t have that many black clothes and I knew my mom would never buy me a new wardrobe. When my mom took me shopping for new clothes, I tried to pick out dark-colored clothes, and she noticed it. She asked me once about why I did this, but I refused to answer her.

It was completely idiotic, but I did it anyway, until one day when I realized something: I didn’t need him. I didn’t need this boy. It was as simple as that. I stopped pretending that I had a tragic crush on this guy. That day, I immediately got over him. Unfortunately, this time was after the end of the school year, during summer vacation. I had spent the entire year obsessing over this boy and trying to act how I thought I was “supposed” to act when I got a crush on a guy.

When I transitioned to middle school, I had a rough time. I had difficulty adjusting to the completely different environment, and it didn’t help that I was finally realizing that I’m a lesbian.

When I was riding in the family car one time, I saw one of my mother’s Victoria’s Secret magazines, which I had always written off as icky and girly. I tentatively looked inside of it and started to stare at all of the scantily clad women within it. For some reason, I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. After I came to my senses, I quickly put down the magazine and joined my family in the conversation they were having. I wrote off the incident and ignored it, denying that it had ever happened.

Another time when I was in the car, I looked at one of my mom’s Spice Girls CD cases. The girls were in revealing outfits, and once again, I found myself staring at them. When I was lying in my bed later at night, I was scared. What did this mean about me? I pushed it aside, telling myself, “You only think you like girls because you know so many lesbians. Your grandmothers, Melissa Etheridge, your Internet friend… You also read slash fiction. You’re just trying to be like those people. You aren’t really gay.” I fell asleep feeling satisfied. I knew I wasn’t a freak.

The day I finally realized I liked girls was when I was in my room, trying to escape my bizarre relatives who had come over to visit. I started to reread some of my comic books, and lo and behold, I started looking at the women, AGAIN. I thought innocent things like, "Ooh, she's really pretty." All of a sudden, I realized what I was doing. I was staring at other girls' bodies, and the crazy thing was, I liked it. I couldn’t deny it anymore.

I was scared of what this meant, so I went to my mom, telling her about these weird feelings I was having. She laughed and said, “Don’t worry. This doesn’t mean that you’re gay.” I thought to myself, “Well, I might not be gay, but I could be bisexual.”

I thought that since I had had “crushes” on boys before, I must have liked guys, and therefore couldn’t be gay. I decided that I was bi, and I told my lesbian internet friend about my newfound sexuality. She was supportive about it, but asked me if I was really sure I liked girls.

The next weekend, my friend Logan came over for a sleepover, and I realized something: she was cute. I knew that I had fallen in love with her again. I loved to have conversations with her. She had such a wonderful, quirky personality, even if she was still “girly.” I immediately emailed my Internet friend, telling her, “Yes, I’m definitely sure I’m bisexual.”

The first time I came out to a family member was a few months after this. It was during a vacation trip, and I was in a hotel room alone with my sister. Our parents had temporarily left for some reason I can’t remember now. I hesitantly told her that I thought I was bisexual. She wasn’t bothered by it at all. I was relieved, and we started looking in one of my Star Wars comic books and pointing out people we thought were hot.

My sister has been my trusted confidante ever since. She always patiently listens when I’m obsessing over a girl I think is cute, which I am grateful to her for, considering I can go on and on about women for hours.

Later on in my sixth grade year, I began to masturbate again. This time, I imagined women making out, and visualized Victoria’s Secret models. I was pleasantly surprised at the feelings I got from doing this. I was blown away by pleasure. It was amazing.

During sixth grade, I also developed “crushes” on two more boys in order to prove that I wasn’t gay. Both of them were blonde, skinny, and looked similar to Logan. I would look at one of these boys in particular and think to myself, “Look at him. He has broad shoulders. He’s manly. I feel so sorry for all of the other girls in my class who have crushes on boys that haven’t hit puberty yet. I’m glad I have a crush on such a nice, manly guy.”

Now when I look at this boy, though, I think, “Who was I kidding? He’s terribly skinny. I must have been in huge denial, because I’ve never a lankier guy.”

At the end of my sixth grade year, I finally realized that I’m gay. I looked back on all of the times I had had “crushes” on boys…and then compared them to when I had crushes on girls. It was no contest. I definitely liked girls, and only girls.

The summer before seventh grade, I discovered Oasismag. I was surfing the Internet and looking for queer websites when I found it. I was immediately awed. Here was an entire community of LGBT kids, and best of all, many of them were nice people who made the best of their situations in life, even though some people hated them just because of their sexual orientation. I quickly signed up on the site.

That same summer, I was shocked when my sister told me that our mother had asked her if I was gay. She hadn’t told Mom anything, but I was still scared. I didn’t know what to do. I thought I had done a good job of hiding myself, but apparently I hadn’t.

I asked the people on Oasismag what to do. They all encouraged me to come out, of course. I decided, “Oh well, why the heck not?” After all, my mom is pretty liberal, and she has no problem with my gay grandmothers, so I figured she would have no problem with my being a lesbian.

When I came out to my mom, I was twelve at the time. We were doing laundry together, and I figured that since she was probably in an okay mood at the moment, it was an ideal time to tell her. My mom gave me a little speech about how I shouldn't label myself. Eventually my mom gave me anti-labeling lectures every time I tried to talk about my sexuality. One time I went shopping with her at this place in the middle of a bunch of shops (they sold posters and cards at this particular place), and she pointed out to me this picture of two girls kissing. But when I went back with her to shop again, and I told her that I wanted to go back to the poster shop and purchase that picture, she really
got mad at me. She started ranting about how it was too early for me to “decide” this, and how I was "trying to be a martyr before I'm dead." She seemed to think that my realizing that I was a lesbian at such a young age was a really stupid "decision."

A few weeks later, when my family and I were eating at a restaurant, I was feeling extremely depressed about being gay. While my mom was in the bathroom, my dad asked me why I was so upset. I replied that I didn't want to talk about it. He said that he thought he knew why I wasn't feeling good. When I asked why he thought I was feeling terrible, he answered in a matter-of-fact way, "Because of your sexual orientation." I started crying, and he sat next to me and put an arm around me. I sobbed about how I was having these feelings for other girls, and whenever I tried to talk about them with Mom, she got upset with me. My mom came back from the bathroom soon, and when she saw me crying on my dad's shoulder, she got mad, and said that people were staring at us, even though nobody was actually looking at our table. My dad refused to make me stop. He seemed to think that my venting my feelings and sharing with him was more important than what complete strangers would think when they saw me, which I am eternally grateful to him for.

My dad seemed to be trying to understand me, and I went home feeling slightly better. I was still fervently wishing for my mom to accept me, but at least one of my parents was okay with this.

It took a long time for my mom to accept that I was gay. She was all for me getting gay-themed movies from Blockbuster and Netflix, in order to explore my sexual orientation, but she still talked about men she thought were hot, even though I wasn’t interested in listening to her. She would also ask me what I thought about their appearances.

One time I got onto her Netflix account and ordered the first disc of Season 1 of The L Word. When it came to our house, my mom told me that she wanted me to come to her if I saw anything on the disc that disturbed me (AKA sex). I was exasperated. I told her that I could handle watching people make love. I don’t think she believed me. The next night, I couldn’t get to sleep, so I went upstairs to find my mom watching The L Word! She asked me to watch it with her, so I sat down on the couch. I was mortified. Not by the women making love onscreen, but by the fact that I was watching women shag WHILE MY MOM WAS IN THE ROOM. It was horrible. How was I supposed to enjoy seeing naked women when my mother was watching them with me?

I liked the show. I wanted to watch another episode, but my mom seemed to think that it was a weird show, and I went along with her. I pretended not to care for the pornographic parts on the show, even though I liked watching women having sex. That night was one of the most embarrassing times in my entire life.

It was only after I was outed at school in seventh grade that my mother finally took me seriously. When I lost a journal/sketchbook at school, in which I had written that I’m gay, I was terrified. I didn’t want somebody to pick it up and read it. I remembered what I had gone through when I was in third grade, and I was mortified. I was afraid of being made fun of and teased again.

After school, I immediately went to my mom and asked her what the heck I should do. All she did was make sure that I didn’t write about my crush on Logan in that journal, which she knew about. I told her that I had written about Logan, but I never specified whether she was a girl or a boy. She replied, “Good. You’ve saved your friendship with her.” I honestly think that she made a good point then.

As you can probably see, I still didn’t know what to do about the whole ordeal. The next day, though, I came down with a virus, and had to stay home. I was glad that I didn’t have to deal with the matter anymore, even though I was sicker than a dog.

When I came back to school, I finally found my sketchbook. It was too late, though. Someone had picked it up and read it. That day, one girl began asking me, “Are you a lesbian?” I was flustered, and I made up excuses not to answer the question, such as, “Look, I’m feeling really tired right now, and I don’t feel like dealing with rumors at the moment.”

The girl who had asked me this had talked to me before. She had seen me drawing in my sketchbook previously, and she told me that I drew well. When the rumor got out that I’m gay, though, she seemed to forget all that. She forgot that I could draw, that I liked to read, everything else about me. Suddenly, I was just a lesbian. I was a freak. There weren’t any other defining qualities about me. I had no talents or faults. I was gay, and to her, that was the only thing that mattered about me.

Since everybody was talking about me, I thought I might as well come out to my two closest friends, who I hung out with all the time. After all, neither of them were homophobic, so they would probably be fairly accepting. Thankfully, I was right, and they didn’t care at all. Now they know, and I can talk to them about girls whenever I want to and not be afraid of them rejecting me.

The whole being outed thing frustrated me to no end. I wanted to be out to my friends and acquaintances, but it seemed as though, to quote Doctor Seuss, those who minded didn’t matter, and those who mattered didn’t mind. It was only nosy people whom I hated who cared whether or not I was gay, and who asked me if I was. None of my friends cared, and therefore didn’t ask me about it. I was glad that I had real friends who didn’t think it mattered who I was attracted to, but the irony of the situation vexed me to no end.

After this whole incident, it seemed as though my mom had finally gotten used to me. One time when she was watching a movie while I was on the computer typing up a story, she said, “Ooh, look, these two are getting it on.” There was a man and a woman on the screen, kissing each other in front of a fire. I replied, “Great.” She said, “Oh, come on. Just imagine two women in front of a fire instead.” I groaned, “Mom, I’m writing. I don’t want to think about romance at all right now.”

Later on, I ordered the musical Rent on my mom’s Netflix account, and the two of us watched it together. I loved the movie, and my mom thought that it was all right. She told me that it was a good movie, but that it was too serious for her.

I feel wonderful now that my mom is finally acceptant of the fact that I’m gay. We’re much closer now, so close that we can even talk about sex, even if it gets awkward sometimes. I believe that our relationship has improved since I came out, even if it did go over a rough patch.

People at school slowly stopped asking me if I was gay. I let the rumors die down. I was kind of a coward about being outed. I’m not much of an advocate. I’m thinking about being more out, though. I have a peach-colored tank top, and I’m wondering if I should draw an inverted triangle on it in black permanent marker and wear it to school one day. I’ve only thought about it so far, but who knows? I might actually do it sometime.

My second crush on Logan is history now, and I’m glad it’s that way. Neither of us are the girls we were in preschool anymore. Now she always follows the trends, listens to pop and rap, and loves to wear makeup and long, dangling earrings. I always loved the girl with natural beauty inside and out, not the teenager who disguises her features with cosmetics and does what everyone else thinks is “cool.”

As for myself, I have become a butch lesbian who loves Star Wars, Star Trek, science fiction in general, reading, writing, and old rock bands. I hate shopping and like to be alone, while Logan loves to go to the mall and socialize. I have red highlights, am extremely sarcastic and logical, and refuse to do something just because everyone else is. If I actually like something that every else has, such as an article of clothing that many people own which I think looks good, I’ll wear it without a complaint. If everyone is wearing something I think is stupid, I just won’t buy it, simple as that.

Since both of us have such differing perspectives on clothes, music, and life in general, I couldn’t keep crushing on her. It was impossible.

Recently when my mother asked me to smile for her, I gave her a huge, fake-looking grin. She remarked sadly, “Over the years, Tessa, you seem to have lost your smile.” This thought disturbs me. I know it’s true, though. I used to be able to give a sincere smile on command. Nowadays I can’t do this. When I think something is funny, I’ll smirk and laugh, but I can no longer grin whenever I want to. I can only smile when I have a reason to do so. For this reason, my smile in my school pictures is always either too small or has a large, fake look to it.

I don’t know when exactly I lost my smile, but I think it disappeared because of all of the stress I’ve felt over the years, not just from realizing that I’m gay, but also from many other things that have happened to me. I’m not just a lesbian, I’m a whole person, and there are multiple things that have nothing to do with my sexuality that have troubled me in the past, and are still hurting me now.

Maybe someday I can make my life better, and regain my smile. I’m determined to find it again. I don’t know when or how I’ll get it back, but I will someday. I have to. I refuse to let the idiotic, homophobic world out there win. I will fight everything is making me feel pain, and there isn’t a soul out there that can stop me from doing so.