To Whom it may Concern

To whom it may concern, they got it wrong, completely wrong. You know the term “in the closet”? Well, it’s not a closet. It’s a fucking prison, solitary confinement. I’m locked deep inside myself; dark, alone, afraid. I am terrified to reveal the real me. There is so much hate and ignorance, and people trying to mend what is unbroken. There is so much harassment, both physical and verbal. DYKE! WHORE. You fucking faggot. Burn. In. Hell. The true me is not safe anywhere. I’ve got to lie to get by.

To whom it may concern, there is nothing wrong with me. Unfortunately, not everyone agrees.

My mother, for example. Digging through my notebook late one evening, she came across a note. It was a note I had written to my therapist explaining so many things. My mother only read the line that said, “Dear Elizabeth, I am bisexual.” When I walked into the room, I stopped dead in my tracks. I saw the disgust in her face, the heartbreak in her eyes. I knew what she was reading. She became so depressed. For the next two weeks, every time she saw me, she’d walk away and crawl up into a ball in her bed and cry and just stay there for a while. I could not handle being the core of her depression.

To my mother who I love so much, if you even care, please don’t try to fix me. I’m not broken. There is no other way to say it but this.

No amount of therapy or counseling will make it go away. I’m sorry to be the one to say it, but its here to stay. It’s not a disease, it’s not contagious. Your thoughts and opinions are so outrageous. It’s not a choice; it’s how we were made. I’m sorry that you are so hard to persuade. It’s not a bad thing. Do you want me to die? Because that’s what it felt like when who I am made you cry. You wouldn’t even look at me for two weeks solid. I knew you hated me, for it was only me you would not acknowledge. I love you mommy, is there really a need for hate? I’m so sorry you can’t accept your little girl how she was made.