My Escape

            The pen slowly scrawls across the barren paper, leaving nothing behind but a trail of my inner-most thoughts and emotions about any subject I choose to write about. My hopes and dreams, triumphs and trials, loves and lost loves, and my happiness and sorrows are all thrown on a page to leave a minute piece of me behind in a world teeming about with individuals.

            Ever since I was a child, it seems as though the pen was one of my closest companion- a pen and paper is all I really ever need to be completely happy. They have always been there throughout the years, assisting me in all times, joyful or distressing.

            Writing has been my window to the world that we live in today. I have written about major events going on in the world such as the war in Iraq, same-sex marriage, the role of religion in society today, etc. writing has also been a window for other people to get a glimpse of my life as well, such as my mother getting diagnosed with an ailment of the lung, growing up devoid of a father in my life, or something as private and stirring as my first love.

            Since writing has been a major part of my life as a teen, it has undoubtedly been an important part of my life as a gay teen in South Florida. My mother and I have always been kind of close, but not close enough that I was one hundred percent sure she would be fine with the fact that her only son was gay. I distinctly remember writing her the letter telling her I was gay and trying to answer all the questions I could think of before she could have to ask the obvious- “How long have you known?”, “Are you sure?”, and my all time favorite “How do you know?”

So in my freshman year, on my way to volunteer at a nursing home, I left the letter in a shopping bag, walked out of the car and into the nursing home, and… cried in the bathroom (the only reason I gave my mom that letter is because I knew I would not see her for at least eight hours and figured that if she was pissed, that was enough time to calm down). The emotional tension that had been gradually- but greatly- building up inside of me for years had finally snapped like a twig. But all of that stress was all for not. My mother pulled up to the front of the nursing home and I got in the car. An awkward silence ensued and then she hugged me and told me she loved me. From that moment on, I had the strength I needed to come out to so many more people…but with a little help from my friend the pen.

Over the next few years I came out to my sister, four aunts, an uncle, three cousins, too many friends to count, and I am truly blessed to say that I have yet to have a bad experience coming out to anyone. Nobody has disowned me (one of my friends father disowned him completely- kicked him out of his house and all). And even though I go to a school that does not have that many teens who are out, nobody has called me a “faggot” or a “queer”, nor have I been harassed or hassled because of who I choose to love. Of course I came out to almost all of those people through letters, explaining all I could. I understand that I should do this in person but writing is what I love to do, what I live to do. I do not start out writing the letter thinking I am going to give it to them. I start writing it as my own type of personal therapy, a way to get my feelings out. I just write the letter, let it take control of my soul (my inner Me), and the next thing I know, I’m giving the person the letter and praying for the best.

I have been in love once and truthfully am not sure what is going on in that department. But I am not in a rush what-so-ever. I am a 17 year old high school senior. I will start worrying about being alone for the rest of my life when I am stuck in a one bedroom apartment at age 37 with no hope in sight. But for now, I am just living life and having fun with those people who care about me, both family and friends.

I hope that in the future I will be able to inspire many high school students across the nation, gay or straight, to use writing as a means of communication that can help them express their emotions in a healthy and positive way. I love to believe that was a writer, I mature with each piece that I produce. I know that I am not the best writer to ever grace the earth (I am no Hemmingway or Poe), but what I also know is that I honestly don’t care. I do not care how good of a writer I am- all I care about is that I express myself how I want to, when I want to, the way in which I want to.