People have always told me that I was brave. I was never sure what they meant, not really. When I closed my eyes and imagined the word bravery--the actions associated and that are defined by bravery--I always tended to associate it more with tom-foolery and an assortment of other things that I was not particularly concerned with. I was perfectly fine to let two hands that were not attached to my wrists lift and dispose of the bugs, did not tackle great heights, and was over all self-preserving. Brave, I had mused. I wasn’t brave at all. But I had learned years ago to not argue with the strong judgements to which my mother harbored, just as I was fiercely content with not disagreeing with any other sort of adult figure in my life. Okay, I had accepted, I could be brave. Okay. But some time between the fall of my sophomore year and then the fall of my junior year, something within me shifted, and I actually felt brave. It was not the bravery I had expected--the emotion that now layered my skin and coursed through my veins had absolutely nothing to do with acts to garner myself attention from curious onlookers. Rather, it was a sort of confidence. I felt as if I could handle anything, if I really wanted to.

Perhaps this had something to do with my official coming out the summer before. It was not really anything special. In all actuality, the years that I had spent agonizing over it and fearing every possible reaction was more climactic than the actual admittance in itself. It was over in a matter of minutes, painless… mostly. Still, those few moments changed a lot when it came to my self-attitude. There was nothing to hide anymore. I was not holding back any one part of myself. I was myself, through and through, and there was no shame in it. So there I was, in all my confidence, feeling like I could tackle the world. It all seemed so easy now. The world seemed like it was mine for the taking. I told myself, “You are strong and awesome and this year is going to be amazing” and felt it. I felt the positivity, genuinely, for possibly the first real time in my life.  I was ready. But still, all that changed and came crumbling down in one, single moment.

“He’s such a homo. I really don’t like gay people.” As the words were spoken, I remember staring. Do something, I willed myself. Say something. Anything. But no words came out. No matter how hard I tried, all the words seemed lodged in my throat with no way of releasing them. I remember wanting so desperately to release some anger, or pain, or fear, or overall disappointment. But all I could do was sit there and try not to cry. I told myself that he did not know that I was gay, the boy who said it. And he did not. Not as far as I knew, anyway. There had been no reason for me to bring up my own homosexuality. But it still seemed to slap me across the face. In that moment, I was sure that I was drowning. And all I wanted to do, once the initial anger and shock subsided, was go home. I wanted to crawl into my bed, to sleep, to not think about it, to have that controlled isolation I needed to digest things and events and regain my energy. But I could not--I was not at home, and I would not be for hours. I was reduced to sitting… and staring. The exact opposite of what I wanted to do.

Bone crippling shame tore open my skin sharper than any knife I had ever known, when I finally did find my way home. I found myself in hysterics, my chest rising and falling as I attempted to calm myself down. They were not talking about me. They had been talking about someone else. But all the same, that did not do anything to help me. I should have done something, but I did nothing. Absolutely nothing. How could I go on, preaching about acceptance and being yourself? I felt as though I was suddenly a hypocrite for letting the moment pass without saying anything. Even worse, I felt like a coward. It was unbearable. I could not handle it. So I did what I always do when things are too hard for me to handle on my own: I talk about it. I talked about it with a few friends first, who assured me that I was not a coward and that it was not my fault. Maybe I should have done something, yes, they agreed, but I was not eternally damned for not saying anything. It helped, if only marginally. My mind felt more at ease when I finally called my mother, something I had been avoiding. I did not want her to be disappointed in me. I was disappointed enough in me for the entire planet and then some. She was the exact opposite; she was angry right along with me, something that was relieving. But still, what was there to do? It did not feel right. It did not feel right to sit and do nothing. So we agreed to do what we could to raise awareness.

Mainly because it was so recent, not much has been done, aside from gathering my courage and being more prepared. I could not promise to myself then, just as I cannot promise to myself now, that I will do something every single time. There are so many battles going on constantly. Unfortunately, we just have to save our armor for the right ones to fight. We count our men, we bury our wounded, we heal, we recover, and we survive. And sometimes we just have to decide the things that we want to survive from and the things we survive for. Sometimes the difference is non-existent. Sometimes it makes all the difference. But that regret? That regret is something I am not sure I really ever want myself to forget. Will Henry once said that fools regret their choices while wise men regret their silence. My silence was deafeningly loud in those moments. And for me and people before, after, and around me, I want to regret my silences. I choose to bring awareness. And I choose to be heard.