#dff

I had this friend who suddenly disappeared from my life after I’d crossed an unspoken boundary.

I’d known him since infancy, really, but by middle school something changed. That early crush led me to take things too far. We were never the same.

It was easy to blame myself. I had done something wrong, after all. But there was also something ‘wrong’ about me that I was eager to hate.

The silence and regret that followed offered my shame a bone to crystallize around. It was proof of my failure to be a ‘good’ person, that imaginary person the world wanted me to be.

And I was one of the lucky ones. I didn’t grow up with teachings of a vengeful god or parents who I ever thought would disown me.

Still, my broken adolescent friendship haunted me. I’d suddenly cut out a friend group the year after. When other friends abruptly left in cycles during college, it felt like the appropriate retribution from the universe.

The shame was no longer bound to queerness. I felt happy about how openly gay I had become. But the original sin still echoed. I pushed people away and kept them at a distance while aching to have friendships like everyone else seemed to have.

At the bottom of my heart, I fell into that habitual belief: I was guilty and still needed to serve out my punishment. The wounds were dealt too far in the past for any amends or apologies to reach them.

The closet makes queer people vulnerable to shame. Growing up, parts of themselves are kept in the dark, and they can’t talk out the mistakes they’ve made. Their problems and love can tangle in the shadows.

You can hope for days when no one grows up in that darkness and work on your self-compassion. The mistakes you made won’t go away. You’ll still want to say sorry some days. I promise you’re not alone.