The Absolutely True Story of a Part-Time Sinner 

My parents packed up the family and moved to Connecticut in the summer of 2014. They planned to leave a lot behind, but religion could not be one of those things. Mom ensured her church and early Sunday services were safely tucked away in one of our three suitcases, somewhere TSA wouldn't get to.

In the midst of learning a new language and culture, seven-year-old me noticed girls giggling and blushing over boys. Soon enough, the complications of childhood puppy love had me squealing and kicking my own feet. Mom would question if anyone had caught my attention when I got home with a grin and flushed cheeks. Naturally I lied and told her yes, a boy with long shiny hair and pretty brown eyes called Britney had me wrapped around her finger. The way her hair graciously flew in the wind while riding a bike had me smitten. I felt my stomach flip and flutter if she so much as looked my way. 

It wasn't normal to feel that way about a girl; God constantly reminded it was a sin. Why did he have to make girls so pretty then? He must have intentionally set me up; perhaps this was some cruel joke. A gag to humor himself as I burned in Hell for being in love. 

Sundays came and went. I gave a respectful head bow to the eyes that loomed over me. As we knelt to pray though, I remained silent. This became a routine for most of my childhood; with every Sunday service that passed, the boulder mulling on my back expanded, feeding off my guilt and self-hatred. I made sure to disguise that boulder, dressing it up with frilly dresses and pretty bows. After all, I was my mother’s perfect angel, and couldn't risk becoming anything less.  

***

During an uneventful family dinner, my brother whispered we would need to talk about something important later that afternoon. I figured it was about something silly, as we often joked around, but the way his leg bounced as he fidgeted with his hands told me otherwise. That night while we were getting ready for bed, he revealed he was dating someone. I was instantly intrigued, seeing as he hadn't shown much attraction to anyone prior, and asked who it was. He let his head drop and quietly confessed it had been a boy from school. We sat for a minute in silence. After closing my gaped mouth, I gave him the “I will always love you.” speech and an awkward hug. That night's sleep did not occur to me though; my mind was racing. It wasn't because I was secretly revolted, but because he had accepted a part of himself I had yet to. 

A few months after he came out to me, our mother found out. Not wanting to let my dad know, she kept silent. Exclusively speaking to him through me. On the seventh day of this silent treatment we had gone to church; she snuck out in the middle of service, and I followed. Standing out in the parking lot was misery. It was the middle of April, but no sunny weather could beat my mom's cold demeanor. 

The thing I feared most happened to my brother. Although he didn't have as close of a bond with mom as I did, it confirmed my suspicions. She would be disgusted if I ever came out. We quietly let tears fall in each other's presence as we looked into the sky. I didn't need mind-reading abilities to guess that she was praying for my brother. I choked out a speech along the lines of “The little boy you raised is just the same as before.” It wouldn't open her eyes or miraculously change how she thought of him, but it was the closest thing I had to confessing I was the same. We sat in silence for a while, I hung onto the sliver of hope that she would agree or at least say something, but she didn't. Instead, she closed her eyes and headed back inside while muttering something about not wanting my dad to worry. We never spoke of his boyfriend after that, so I buried my feelings once again.

***

In the sixth grade I truly began to question my sexuality. I didn't want to make it a huge part of my life, but labels quickly became a burden. I’d tell my friends about a girl, and they quickly jumped to interrogate me. Although they were the only people I felt comfortable being myself around, their questioning drove me crazy. I always answered with a pathetic, “I don't know.” Even though I did know, it was frightening to admit. Accepting that I liked girls wasn't difficult. Not swooning over boys was a different story; there would be no chance of being happy while living the life my mom dreamed for me. Eventually I came down to one conclusion: I would have to fake my way through life for my parents, marry some desperate bastard, and give them grandchildren. 

On March 13th, 2020, a few months into seventh grade, we went into lockdown. By this point my self-esteem was down the drain. Everything I did felt wrong, my boulder turned into a ticking time bomb, waiting for the day I would slip up and drop it. Schoolwork was the only thing keeping me going. Being stuck at home constantly reminded me of the disappointment I would become if my parents ever figured out my secret. At least I could hide in my room for most of the day, buried under school work and focusing on making it through the year maintaining straight A’s.

 Once summer began I had no escape, no reason to reside in my room all day. Old messages collected cobwebs as I stared, hoping someone would text or call, but no one ever did. My friends were either with their families or secretly meeting at each other's houses while I was caged in my room, too scared and ashamed to come out. 

 There was no reason for me to live. No one would notice if I suddenly vanished. Suicide lingered on the back burner all summer, slowly simmering and coming to a boil during the tougher days. It was the easy way out, I'm still not sure about what kept me going. Perhaps it was the fear of arriving at the fiery gates of Hell; or maybe the thought of leaving my pets behind, not knowing why I had abandoned them. Either way, my parents eventually realized it wasn't normal for their daughter to only come out for meals and showers. My brother had done the same before being diagnosed with depression, so I was sent to see a therapist. 

Finally, the summer was over. Although 8th-grade year came and went the same as 7th, there was one huge difference: I would be graduating. Going into the abyss of hormones and sweaty gym clothes was not fun, but life moved on, and so did most of my friends. 

Four months into freshman year I was found comparing experiences with other students. They seemed to make new friends quickly while I still looked like a lost puppy during lunch. Not having a proper support system made things much more difficult every time I got home. Because of this, my panic attacks and after-school breakdowns returned. 

During one, my tears became silent as my chest closed in. If I had uttered a single word my bomb would have exploded. I went to my mom inquiring to speak with my therapist, but she was fed up. Even after doing everything she could to fix me, just like my father's old van, I would not budge. I couldn't blame her; she had done everything right, and yet I still chose to not open up. She took my phone and told me I would get it back when I confessed what was wrong. My friend and I had been texting that night; trying to calm me down, but nothing was helping. Finally, after choking up my last few tears and gathering my scattered thoughts I chose to confess. 

The flood came rushing back as soon as we made eye contact again. I asked repeatedly between sobs if she would still love me; it was all I could think about. The answer each time was “yes.” Eventually, she realized why I could not stop asking and she looked disappointed. I told her about all the boys who had secretly been girls, about my girlfriend whom she adored, and about the secret pride flags I would arrange in my room to feel somewhat comfortable. She stood and listened, not interrupting me once. I secretly hoped she would shut me up with a hug and reassure me that nothing would change, just like in the movies, but it’s all that was, hope.

  I walked back to my room with my head hung low, wiping away remaining tears. While lying on my mattress I stared at the ceiling and contemplated what I had said. She followed after some time and sat next to me. I was prepared to be denied my sexuality, something like “You're too young to know.” or “You're just confused.” But she never said that. Instead, she let me know she still loved me and nothing would change, though the truth was written over her face. I knew she would see me with different eyes from now on. Even with this knowledge, I couldn't help but feel lighter. The boulder I carried around all those years had finally been lifted off my shoulders and begun to crack. 

***

When we let others control how we act because of fear, we are incapable of growing as human beings. Although my mom isn't as interested in hearing about my infatuations anymore, I'm allowed to let my feelings be unrestrained after suppressing them for so long. Being able to walk and live in my house without feeling like I'm stepping on eggshells or drowning has made an extraordinary difference in both my mental and physical health. Allowing ourselves to express what we are can heal wounds no form of therapy or medication can. There is a long way for me to go in accepting who I am, and I know it won't be easy, but healing is a journey that begins with ourselves. Whether the people around us like it or not, we are all human, and as cliché as it sounds, love is a part of that.