Since I told them, everybody has been treating me differently. Since I told them, my friends and family has been blocking me out, pretending not to know me. Since I told them, my life has been turned upside down, and there is nothing I can do to turn it over again. Sometimes I wonder that if I had just kept it all to myself, it would be okay. Sometimes I wonder if I was wrong. Maybe it was a big mistake. Every morning I have these thoughts, but at the end of the day, I know that it’s all true. My whole life, I’ve been playing soccer, at least since I learned how to walk.
When I started playing for real, I was the best one on the team. I scored almost every goal, and I’ve had since. At an age of sixteen, I am still the best player, but after I told them, the bench has been my place. If I even get to play, it will be at the side, where I have no chance of scoring. The coach told me it was to help the other players grow, and that we sometimes needed some changes, but I know why I don’t get to play. I know why every time I score a goal, the audience just sits there, silent. Everybody used to cheer and scream for me, not anymore.
The first person I relived my secret to was my mom. It was a Sunday night. The sun was about to disappear behind the trees and the tall buildings. It was dark, and the only thing lighting my room up, was the small lamp over my bed, and the tiny computer I got from my grandparents last year. The screen was all blurry when I logged into my Facebook page. It cleared up when two tears streamed down my face, and left a little wet spot on my sheets. After a while, I could feel the cold and wet fabric to my skin. I looked down and saw a big stain of water and mascara blended together.
Then I heard footsteps. Up the stairs, and further down the hall, until the door slowly opened and a woman entered the room. “Honey” was the word my mother said when she noticed that I was crying. I looked up and told her everything, I told her without knowing that she would never call me honey ever again. I was the first one to come out of the closet. I know that one out of twenty people is gay, and it’s at least four hundred students at our school. That makes around twenty more students just like me. Most of them don’t even know it yet.
Maybe they have a little clue, but don’t have the courage to face the fact. Personally, I have never had any interest in boys. In fifth grade I had a boyfriend called Tyler, but you know what it was like in middle school. The whole town must have heard it by now. People go away when they see me coming, and I can clearly see that they are talking behind my back. What am I, a murder? My parents have been talking about maybe moving me to another school, but what difference would that make? It’s the same type of people everywhere. Therefore, I’m glad high school soon will be over.
In college I can start fresh; make new friends that don’t care about what other people think. I can finally be free, play as much soccer as I want and fall in love with whoever I want. I hope that the students are more grown up. I know I will be. I already am. It’s been hard so far, but I’ve learned how to handle it. Whenever people call me things I don’t like, it’s their problem. Whenever people look at me as I am nothing worth, it’s their problem. They are the bullies, and I am the good one. It’s okay, because as you know, the good ones always win. The whole time, I’ve been ignoring them.
On my way home from school, or on my way home from soccer practice, I’ve walked with my head down. I never speak up, I’m not that brave. Maybe I should. How can it get any worse that this? A little voice inside my head always stops me from doing it. There is nobody on my side, and I’m pretty sure they will just laugh at me. When did it get so wrong to say what you mean and stand against the majority? Take Malala for example. She is a teenager on my age, and has done so much already. She said her opinion, why can’t I? There must be a reason for us to live, right?
We’re like left-handed people. We are different from others, but we are still so much alike. I wonder how a detail so small, can change the way we live, just because others don’t feel comfortable with it. There are created scissors and other equipment for left-handed people. They are accepted, why aren’t we? I’ve never been in love, either in a boy or a girl. As far as I know, you would be really stupid if you talk to me, since I am considered a freak. Even my friends don’t talk to me anymore. I only have Stella, who sometimes talks to me on the phone, but never in public.
You may think it would be easy to stand against the others. You may think that if it was you, it would be no way you let me be alone in the breaks. I guess you never know before you stand there, with no clue what your decision will be. Because I bet that there is at least one person at your school that feels alone sometimes. Would you make conversations with him or her, become their friend? I don’t think so. That’s why I’m not mad at anyone, that’s why I take it so easily. Sometimes I just wish it was easier, I wish it wasn’t so unfair.
