I'm From Driftwood

by Sam Paxton

Not a lot of people go to the grocery store on weekday nights. A few people duck in after work, grab some bread or a gallon of milk, and zip out of there as fast as possible. Tonight, my lane is one of two still open, not counting the self-checkout machines which are, as always, more popular than we are. I stand under the fluorescent lights and listen to the blandly inoffensive pop music they’re piping in. All the songs are about romance. My depression helpfully reminds me that I’m a 23-year-old virgin who’s kissed neither boy nor beard. I tell my depression to shut up, and fiddle with the cash register. My job is a brainless job, but it’s not so bad. It gives me time to daydream, and think about where my life is headed, and where I want it to go.

If you’d asked any of my elementary school teachers where they thought I’d be in fifteen years or so, I doubt any of them would guess “high school dropout working as a checkout boy.” Up to about sixth grade, I was the star pupil of every class. Straight A-pluses, except when I just got A’s. I didn’t just want to be an astronaut, I went to Space Camp and memorized whole episodes of Cosmosand shocked adults with my in-depth understanding of black holes. I was Hermione Granger on crack.

I’d always dealt with some amount of bullying, but for some reason, it seemed to get worse in middle school. Maybe it was because the school was bigger, so there were more bullies. Maybe it was because I started to realize, deep down inside, that when they called me a fag, they were right. I came out to myself in seventh grade, and told no one, but somehow they seemed to sense it. I don’t know if I subconsciously sent out gay signals, or if their gaydar was so trigger-happy that they got a few lucky guesses along with a whole slew of false positives (that’s a distinct possibility; middle-schoolers call everyone gay), but it felt like suddenly every bully in the school was drawn to me like sharks to blood.

About that time, I started sinking into depression. I dreaded going to school. I’d go into greater detail regarding the bullying, but you all probably know the story by now. The name-calling, the beatings, the teachers’ total lack of concern – you know, the classics. My grades dropped like a stone until I was barely passing anything. By the time I got to high school, I’d completely given up on doing well in school, making friends, or being happy. (Just in case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t go to that Littleton, CO, high school. And for the record, it’s not even technically located in Littleton, so quit blaming my admittedly crappy town for the sins of Columbine Valley.)

Maybe if I’d known then that I could have graduated in three years, or gone to Bard College at Simon’s Rock after sophomore year, or transferred to the hippie alternative school half an hour away, or just hung in there until I could escape to some east coast liberal arts college where everyone is gay or wants to be, I’d have kept going. But at the time, I didn’t know about any of those options. My teachers and guidance counselors told us all, “College will be just like this, only harder” – repeating that exact sentence again and again like it was a mantra. I guess they wanted to scare us into working hard, but it just made me lose all hope in ever escaping the cycle of harassment. It probably didn’t help that my image of college life came from movies like Animal House and Revenge of the Nerds, giving me the impression that the only difference between college and high school was that the bullies would be wearing togas instead of letter jackets. I ended up dropping out and getting a G.E.D. True to form, I got a perfect score on my G.E.D. test. My parents hung my results up on the fridge and left them there for months. I didn’t exactly give them anything else to be proud of me for.

Even though I was now free of the bullies, dropping out didn’t make me any happier. I found I didn’t need jocks to beat me up; they’d obliterated my self-esteem to the point where I’d happily do the job for them. Loathing myself for every perceived fault became like an addiction. Depression is sneaky like that. It’ll convince you to hate yourself for being gay, and when you get over that, it’ll convince you to hate yourself for being too closeted (You’re lying to the people you love!) or too out (You’re making people uncomfortable!) or not perfect enough (You’re making gays look bad!). And when you start to wake up and see the wreckage it’s made of your life, it’ll convince you to hate yourself for hating yourself. (If you were stronger, you wouldn’t be so sad all the time.) But the most sadistic trick it pulls is convincing you it doesn’t exist. I was clinically depressed for years before I sought any treatment, because I listened as it told me, You’re not depressed. You’re just lazy, and you’re using depression as an excuse to not do anything. You just want people to feel sorry for you. You just love feeling sorry for yourself. You don’t need a therapist or drugs; you just need to grow up and be a man.

I drifted apart from the few friends I had in school. I came to fear summers and holidays, when they’d come home and I’d run into them, hear about their happy lives at college or their volunteer work or their internships or their exciting jobs, and face the dreaded question, “So what are you doing with yourself?” I didn’t even have a dramatic, Oprah-worthy tale of surviving on the mean streets of Denver by selling my body for meth. I just hung around the suburbs and hated myself for the better part of a decade. I got lousy minimum wage jobs and lost lousy minimum wage jobs. I got on antidepressants and got off, and got on other antidepressants, and switched therapists a few times. Some days I woke up and the first thing that popped into my head was “I hate myself,” and I’d be contemplating suicide by breakfast. (Incidentally, Suicide by Breakfast would make a good name for an emo band.) I never did attempt, though, partly because I was afraid of how much it would hurt, and partly because I knew it would destroy my parents. I considered admitting myself to a mental health facility, but I didn’t do that, either. My six-word memoir: “I thought about it, but didn’t.”

A few months back, I enrolled in community college, which everyone around me applauded as a major step forward. (I’m just embarrassed their standards for me are so low.) I’m almost one semester in, and even though I still don’t know what to major in or what career path I’m working towards, I’m starting to see a light at the end of the tunnel. I’m getting good grades in my math class, which I never thought I’d be able to do. I could transfer to a four-year college, get a real bachelor’s degree. I just might end up going to one of those quirky east coast liberal arts colleges after all.

An African-American guy about my age comes up to my lane and unloads a handful of groceries on the belt. He is a walking greatest hits compilation of everything I find attractive in a man. Tall and slender, with broad shoulders. A dark red scarf tucked into his perfectly-fitting black pea coat. His movements are smooth, gentle. He’s slightly effeminate (not the loud and bitchy kind, more the graceful and sophisticated kind). Rectangular glasses compliment his square jaw and high cheekbones. I’m afraid to look directly at him lest I turn bright red and stammer like an idiot. So my eyes bore holes in his groceries as I scan them and mumble out my script.

“How are you doing tonight?”

“Well. And you?”

I have no idea what to say. He said “well” instead of “good.” No one does that. He asked me how I was doing. No one does that either.

“Great,” I lie, because when you ask your friendly neighborhood register biscuit how he is, you’re generally not looking to hear, “Crippled by clinical depression! And you?”

I continue my mumble-script. Does he have a membership card? No. Does he want one? Of course not, no one does.

SAM: I should flirt with him.

DEPRESSION: He’s probably not even gay.

SAM: Are you kidding? He has to be gay. Look at the way he walks. Listen to his voice. And for God’s sake, I’m ringing up his appletini mix! I should work that in somehow. Cheekily ask him if he needs someone to help him drink those appletinis.

DEPRESSION: Great idea! Then he can stare blankly at you and say he’s making them for a party. Or drinking them with his boyfriend. Or just with someone who isn’t a tangled knot of neuroses.

SAM: I’m getting better.

DEPRESSION: I wonder how many dates it would take for him to figure out what a loser you are? Are you even emotionally stable enough for a relationship right now?

His groceries all fit into one bag. I wonder if it means something that he didn’t go to the self-checkout lane like all the other evening customers? Or is that just wishful thinking? I take a chance, work up all my courage, and smile at him as I hand him his bag. He actually smiles back. I might have a heart attack.

I watch him as he leaves. He strides out of the store like he’s on a catwalk, poised, elegant, confident.

DEPRESSION: He probably thinks you’re racist because you were so unfriendly.

SAM: I smiled at him!

DEPRESSION: After acting really nervous and uncomfortable around him the whole rest of the time.

SAM: He smiled back at me! Maybe he thinks I’m cute. Maybe he’ll come back sometime soon.

DEPRESSION: Yeah, with his boyfriend. And he’ll tell him, “Let’s not go to that cashier. That’s the racist one.”

SAM: Oh, go fuck yourself. You ruined my life. I’m not listening to you anymore.

My depression tells me that this story is too long, too self-indulgent, too self-pitying. No one will want to read it. The dark humor is too dark to amuse anyone. The other stories on this website are way better. A story that is literally about folding laundry is more interesting than this story.

I keep writing.

Bit by bit, I’m learning that I’m not as worthless as I thought I was. I know that someday, I want a husband, and a house, and a cat. Maybe two cats. I’m starting to grasp that I could make that happen. I could have that, and even deserve it. I just have to go one step at a time. One semester at a community college. One smile at a cute boy. One story on a website.

Someday, somehow, I’ll be more than this.

-(Share your story with us!)

by Rebecca

Looking back, I remember not always feeling “normal.” In elementary school I wasn’t very pretty, and I had a few good friends, which I still have today. As soon as I was in fifth grade, I was a lot more sociable and comfortable with my looks. But that’s not why I’m writing this. See when I was in fifth grade I felt different. Not as in my religion, my looks, or my friends. But my attractions to girls.

I didn’t know what lesbian, or bisexual at the time was, but I was still young and growing. In fifth grade I had my first kiss. It was special and different; it was my first kiss with a girl. Yes a girl. It felt right to me. As I went through middle school I ignored a lot of my feelings. Because by this time I was told that being gay or bisexual was a sin and not excepted in society. I was pretty much being brainwashed, but I didn’t believe what anyone with hate said. I knew I was made just the way I am for a reason, and that I’m perfect being who I am. That was all 5 years ago. Here I am a sophomore in high school. Freshman year I came out saying I didn’t find women more attractive than men, and that at that current time I did have a girlfriend. A lot of people found out and thought I was “gross” and that I was going to try and “touch them.” I was hated on a lot, but I never let it get to me because I was perfectly fine with myself around school and public. Just last week I went to the beach in Galveston, Texas, with my girlfriend. We held hands and kissed in public, and I felt comfortable doing so. We got uneasy stares from people who weren’t comfortable being around a lesbian couple, but a lot of people smiled and enjoyed seeing two people love each other even though they’re the same gender.

I may face many obstacles in the future with my sexuality and my choice of living, but I sure am proud of myself for who I am, and how far I got myself in this world.

-(Share your story with us!)

by Sean Berger

Strip away the flesh and bone
Look beyond the lies you’ve known
Everybody wants to talk about a freak
No one want to dig that deep
Let me take you underneath
- Adam Lambert

“Why do you dress like you do? Why do you make your gayness such a big part of your life? You are so much more,” my mom recently questioned me. Does she not realize this is who I am? I used to live a lie. She can’t understand. If she only could see my life as I do. If she had only lived the life that I had. That question would seem but foolish.

My name is Sean Andrew Berger. Born August 11, 1989, in a close suburb to Philadelphia, PA. Brown eyes. Light brown hair. I grew up a typical happy, and sarcastically funny boy. I loved matchbox cars, creating my own worlds of traffic on the living room couch. I loved to race people to the neighborhood fence where you could look through the cracks and see semi-trucks (a personal favorite) zooming by on the turnpike. I loved playing with neighbors and swimming in our little pool with slide. I loved to collect bugs and turn any day into a backyard adventure. Life was all about enjoying every moment of it. In my family, life was also all about Jesus. I grew up in a family where Jesus Christ and religion came first in everything. Praying before dinner. Praying before bed. Weekly church. It was standard. I memorized hundreds of Bible verses for church. It was drilled into me. In any decision in my life I was to put Christ first. I had no idea that very soon my faith would be shaken to its core, by a “choice” that I never made.

When I was around the age of five, I vividly remember an experience that would forever change my life. My mom received a phone call concerning my uncle. I would never, even to this day, find out the details of the call but they became irrelevant. The call brought my mom to tears for days. She needed counseling just to cope with its details. I was, as a young son seeing his mother in pain, very concerned for her and asked her just exactly what was wrong with my uncle. Was he dead? Hurt? Surely the reaction of my mother rendered something severe. “No, Sean, there is nothing wrong with him. I will tell you when you’re older,” My mom tearfully replied. She would however never need to explain. Piece by piece I put the puzzle together myself. My uncle must be gay. Being gay was a sin. Gays were to be hated. Gays went to hell. An unspoken understanding of the religion I grew up with. No wonder my mom was upset. Her brother was destined to eternal damnation. Soon after, I quickly became homophobic. I remember not sticking up for a gay student being picked on in the locker room. I remember not wanting to be around my uncle or respond to his emails. It wouldn’t be until the summer before middle school that I would find out that I was attracted to just guys. At that moment my memory of my mom’s reaction resurfaced. Surely, if my mom had this reaction about her brother, how much more she would be devastated by having a gay son as well. I remember one time questioning my mother about my Uncle in the guest room of our house. “Mom, can Uncle Phil ever change and marry a woman?” She simply replied not knowing its consequence, “Yes he can.” Right then and there I made up my mind what I was going to do. I was going to keep my attraction to guys a secret and somehow change my sexuality. They would never need to know. I would keep it a secret. Forever.

And I did. I regret my middle and high school years entirely. They are a missing decade of my life. Gone. Never to be gotten back. I have still never fully recovered. These years were nothing but silent suffering. Quiet pain. No one knew what was going on underneath. On the surface I was doing just fine. On the outside no one ever questioned me. I merely played the part. I excelled at playing three sports. I mastered two different instruments. I was actively participating in clubs and was getting straight A’s in school. No one ever knew there was a battle on the inside that was slowly killing me. No one knew that I never ever felt any happiness at all. I was viewed as just the quiet, shy kid in school. That couldn’t be further from the truth. I was simply holding back on the real me while screaming inside. I was scared to death that someone would find out that I was gay. I constantly felt guilty. Even about things that were out of my control, I would apologize. Many nights I could be found on my knees, begging God to change me, tears running down my face. I would attempt over and over again to get myself to be stimulated by girls but I never once succeeded. I would punish myself. Something was wrong with me. I needed to change. It would. Just not the way I had ever anticipated.

Eventually during my college years, my parents one night decided to investigate my computer while I was at work. What they found shocked them. Neither one of them expected to find guy on guy footage on my computer. They were devastated. I still remember coming home that night from work. It took all of a minute to know something was wrong. “Mom how are you?” No response. She just continued to wash the dishes. “Mom? How are you?” I said much louder so that she had to respond. She muttered something inaudible as she still didn’t even look up from washing the dishes. My heart sunk. My secret was out. I knew even before it was acknowledged. I would be brought to the basement as my sister was sent to bed. I had to pray on my knees to Jesus. I agreed to get counseling, scared. I had my phone and computer taken away from me. The next three days I lost over 10 pounds doing nothing but crying, throwing up and laying in bed.  My world came crashing down. My parents suggested that I drop out of college to focus on changing. I regretfully did. I became increasingly depressed, some days not being able to get out of bed. Less than a year later, I would come so close to committing suicide and ending my life.

Since almost killing myself, I have begun to slowly rebuild my life. I stopped going to the Christian counseling for my homosexuality, realizing that I cannot change. I have moved out from living with my parents and being surrounded by their ideals. I have come out to all of my friends and the rest of my family. I live proud, unashamed. Right now I am back in college working toward my major in communications and minor in business. I am building toward the future. A future that involves a husband someday. I am currently a volunteer in five different organizations trying to give back as much as I can. I want to turn my story of pain, isolation, silence into one of giving back, rejoicing, and hopefulness for others. I live to make the world a better place for LGBT individuals of the next generations. Why? So that they don’t lose a decade of their lives in painful silence, shutting down to the outside world. So that they can live vibrant lives celebrating who they are instead of crying themselves to sleep. So that they don’t live with regrets of not coming out sooner. So that they don’t feel as though they should end their lives. In the words of Harvey Milk, “I know that you cannot live on hope alone, but without it, life is not worth living.” I want to show people the hope that I have found. Hope to someday get married. Hope to someday raise a family. Hope of being accepted. Hope of being proudly me. “You gotta give ‘em hope.” And that is in the end what my life story has become. Hope.

So why do I make homosexuality such a big part of who I am? Mom, simply because I am proud. After years of hiding. After years of pain. After years of denial. I have learned that I am not a sin. I am not a mistake. My sexuality was not a choice. I need not be ashamed of who I really am. I need to let people see that my biggest scar, is the one that I am most proud of. “Welcome to my world of truth.”

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by Izzy

I’m not out of the closet. Yet.

And I think this is because I’m not sure. I’m just not absolutely completely sure. But it started only a month ago. I am still in middle school (and it’s taking a lot of guts for me to write my town for the title) and I go to this after school place called the Teen Center. I met this girl there (who, by the way, I’m texting right now). We will call her Sarah. Now, Sarah is really sweet, even though she is kind of overbearing and wildly insecure about herself. But she’s a sweet girl.

 I think I love her. She kisses my hand, wraps her arms around me, holds me, calls me beautiful, pets my hair, even does small things like tie my shoes when I don’t realize they’re untied. We hold hands and we went to a skate park together and slid down one of the ramps on our butts. We were laughing, screaming, smiling, hugging. I really do like her, but I’m not sure about her sexuality. Though she kisses my hand and everyone comments about us being a lesbian couple (jokingly), I’m so scared. She may be straight and she seems homophobic. Sarah just does. She doesn’t comment on it a lot, but one time she saw two boys holding hands and one kissed his boyfriend on the cheek and she wrinkled her nose. Whether in distaste or just because she thought I thought it was bad (peer pressure is surprisingly strong in humans), I don’t know.

I guess this is a bad story, but I shall end it with: I may be a lesbian or bisexual, but I am from El Dorado Hills, California, a tolerating state. So I’ll be alright and this girl and me will stay friends. Unless she comes out which, in that case, I’m going to go freaking lovey dovey on her.

-(Share your story with us!)