“[After 9th grade concert] Once we got home, my tears had turned to anger. I ended up slamming every door I touched, kicked off my shoes so hard they hit the wall, and told my mom I hated her. She got in my face, and my dad stepped in. He sent my little brother to his room before I recalled what happened at the school. He sighed, but didn’t say anything. He was a man of few words. After a few minutes of me blubbering, trying to calm down, the three of us went to the kitchen table to talk.
I remember my dad sitting across from me and my mom sitting to my right at our tiny cramped kitchen table. I don’t remember the specifics of conversation, mostly because I blocked it out, but in a nutshell, they told me homosexuality was wrong and I was going to Hell if I continued liking girls. I fidgeted with a leftover napkin as I told them I loved Z. We were best friends. I said I was bisexual, not homosexual, hoping that might somehow make it better. It didn’t. I was still damned just the same.
In the weeks following my admission, my parents forced me to start counseling.”