Let’s give space to our stories
I was fourteen years old when I first realized I had feelings for women. At the time I was an 8th grader in a small Catholic school smack in the middle of Ogden, Utah. A new girl had moved to our school and I became completely obsessed with her within a few weeks of school starting. The girl was smart, athletic and absolutely gorgeous. We hit it off right away and dove into our friendship easily. By Christmas I was spending most weekends at her house, in her bed, and we were wearing matching BFF rings by New Years.
Looking back the warning signs were all around me. I loved sleepovers with her, I loved being around her all the time, and I was jealous of her spending time with other people. (Ahhhh….the life of a 14 yr old who doesn’t have an understanding of healthy boundaries yet.) Anyway, the day I KNEW, like absolutely 10000% KNEW I was gay was a spring day during PE class. We were out at the park that sprawled front of the school playing tag during PE. It was a massive game of tag and surprisingly, even at 14, we were all into the game. I chased my friend, the both of us laughing the whole time, and when I caught her I grabbed her around the waist without thinking about it. She recoiled (to be fair, she didn’t enjoy physical contact of any sort most of the time) and started screaming at me. I backed up admonished.
“What the hell? What, are you a lesbian or something?” She said. And that was it. My whole body responded to that word, that insinuation, that accusation, every fiber of my being cried out YES, but I shut it down and immediately felt fear. Dread. Disgust.
“No, it was an accident, I’m sorry,” I replied. She stalked off. The game kept going. I wasn’t ever the same.
🥃 Denver, CO, US
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