Personal Narrative: My Homosexual Identity

In the autumn of my freshman year I caused an uproar within the Bishop household, and one with such undignified fervor. All with a few taps of the glowing keys beneath my fingers and a tremulous heart set on relief. Before the revelation, the only consolation my mind had found was first at the top of a building, and then peacefully slipping through the air. Change was vital — in every sense of the word — and it all began with a click. I came out and shouted on my bright screen, “I’m allowed to be happy with myself! No — I deserve happiness!”
At the same time, I announced my homosexual identity. With this I contested the very foundation of my parents' religious and moral belief systems. No longer could they envisage my future nor place their

According to their traditional family values, same-sex romance is rooted in lust and sin. More notably though, these relationships are fruitless; same-sex couples are biologically unable to have children, which is cause for concern to my mother. But despite their beliefs, I could no longer contain such an important aspect of my life. In order to truly live and love, my family had to know that I’m gay. Unfortunately, it engendered many nights of emotionally charged arguments, deafening yells thrown between parent and child, and the exacerbation of compulsive anxious tendencies and incessant thoughts of the macabre. Initially, I regretted the action due to the immediate consequences which rocked the boat I tried so carefully to keep steady. Because of the harsh rejection and disputes, the presence that crept behind every thought reminded me of the building and the falling. It wasn’t always the same scenario though; there were shavers and a bloody sink, a turn of the wheel and a jackknifed trailer, and dad’s smokey empty shells on the floor and that god-awful presence on the wall. This cacophony of endings tormented my consciousness, and my so-called relief only made it