My father said he would kill me if I ever turned homo. I was 14 years old. I wonder how much this has affected my sexual development.
That evening I swallowed half a bottle of aspirin. I knew they were painkillers. I was not in pain. I think I was foreseeing the pain that was to come.
I didn’t know much at age 14. I knew practically nothing of personal identity and even less about sexual orientation. I was simply me. But I learned something important that day: A homo doesn’t deserve to live.
I didn’t think I was a homo. I hardly knew what the word meant. In my teenage mind, the word homo meant “like a girl.” I was a boy. So to be “like a girl” was abominable.
I could have been a thief, a liar, or even a murderer, and my father would have forgiven me. But if I was gay, I deserved to die — to be killed by my own father.
To be bisexual was even worse. That was the ultimate disgrace, the most perverted thing on the face of this earth.
I was bisexual.
The mark of infamy was on me. I didn’t deserve to live and I didn’t deserve to be happy. And if I was to ever succumb to my sexual desires, it would be the end of me.
I don’t think I ever got over it. Even now, decades later. My father is dead. I am free but I am not. He left something in me. The mark of infamy. I wish I could pluck it out.
How can I be bisexual and proud?
I AM proud of myself. But I am not proud of myself in regards to THEM — my family. Bisexuality is not something to be proud of according to Christianity.