"Because here’s the thing about realizing you’re into girls. Hardly anyone I know has ever said, “Am I gay?” in the same way they say, “Hey, do you know what the weather’s supposed to be like tomorrow?” Like they just need to figure out how to dress for the occasion. No, when most people ask, “Am I gay?” they ask it with the kind of urgency they would usually reserve for things like, “Do I strap this parachute to my back and jump from this free falling airplane or do I nose dive into the ocean and hope the sharks don’t eat my remains? SINK OR SWIM? LIVE OR DIE? QUENCH THE FIRE OR BURN ALIVE?” It feels so urgent, and the reason it feels so urgent is because you’re probably not just asking, “Hey, do I want to make out with other girls?”
You’re also probably asking: What the hell are my parents going to say when I tell them I want to kiss other girls? And my friends and my co-workers and my classmates and everyone at my family reunion? And what’s that girl going to say when I tell her I want to kiss her? And how is my life ever going to be OK, and how can I go on being the same, and am I the same, and what else do I not know about what’s alive inside me? And who will still love me and who will start hating me, and is God involved, or the government maybe, and what if it’s only one girl I want to kiss, and how do I label myself and must I label myself, and what if I change my mind and, really, what if I do burn alive?"
to all the teens on tumblr who are so openly struggling
#it gets better
**TRIGGER WARNING: references depression, self-harm, eating disorders**
I have seen your thoughts; I have scrolled through your feelings. Photo after photo, the sayings that resonated, the images in endless, cyclical motion. I’ve seen what your parents, teachers, friends don’t get to see: the stream-of-conciousness shrine you’ve built to house your pain.
The thinspiration pictures. The when & where of your self-harm. The crushed aftermath of another day at school, and how small you feel. I don’t know the details, but the details aren’t necessary. The endless rampage, post after post of isolation, swarms across my screen.
I think about all of you everyday. I think about all of your suffering, and how I will never be able to tell you how much better it gets in a way that will be meaningful. I can’t communicate with you via these flimsy tools: they connect as much as they separate.
Maybe you’ve chosen this place to cry for help because you are afraid of what would happen if you did so elsewhere. Maybe you feel the need to prove to someone you are sick, that your pain is real.
But you can’t heal while trying to convince others you’re hurting, and screaming for help into this void the way you’ve been doing will only bring back echoes, will only attract other kids like you, whose suffering is a reflection of your own.
I want you to get better. I want you to know that it is possible to get through it.
I wish I could show you the way.