Mental Health And The Marginalised Identity: Defining moments

The first time I liked a girl, it was a lot like all the cheesy lesbian romances you can think of (there’s barely any but just try). Very much an unrequited love for your best friend sort of situation. I had experiences with girls before this but they all fell under the “childhood experimentation” phase and so I had never taken time to analyse the homosexual nature of my behaviors. To be fair, I also had never encountered the notion of homosexuality at least not explicitly and so self-reflection was not a priority.

This time was different though. This was the first time in my life it hit me that I had romantic feelings for a girl. Genuine, unrequited, painfully suffocating feelings. I wish I could say it had been a happy experience, and sometimes it was, but finding out you might be exactly what your straight peers had been bullying you for, for three years or so to this day remains the most gut-wrenching experience. I cried.

I remember it like it was yesterday (but not really, my memory is trash). She came out to me first. Lesbian. The word felt so foreign yet so startlingly familiar. No, it wasn’t the first time I had encountered the word, but it was the first time it was introduced to me with such positive connotations. She wasn’t confessing “a sin” to me, she was simply, happily including me in what, looking back must have been a really challenging journey to self-discovery. When I got home that day, I bawled my eyes out. I don’t remember if my immediate reaction to her had been satisfactory, I hope it was. But when I got home, my own tsunami of confusion hit. She had confirmed something that I had subconsciously been asking myself for years. I liked her. But it wasn’t just her, I liked girls.

The following weeks were spent with me over-analyzing our interactions, wanting to confess my feelings to her, enduring homophobia from our schoolmates who had now made it their mission to harass and mock her for her identity and slowly shrinking even deeper into the closet because of it.

More than anything else, all this only deepened my feelings for her. The resilience with which she fought back was awe-inspiring, she refused to let anyone make her feel less than. She demanded their respect and if not at the very least, their silence or feigned indifference and I found myself slowly gaining courage. She didn’t even know it but every time she showed up to school again, every time she told me about girls she liked unapologetically (painful as it was lol) or played mean revenge pranks on homophobic bullies my courage leveled up. She was the first person I ever said the words I like girls out loud to. Before I said it even to myself.

Her reaction saved me. She was so excited! I recall her bombarding me with questions about my type in women, studs or femmes? Ellen or Portia? Had I kissed a girl yet? On a random afternoon, in high-school, in the middle of the field during lunchtime, seated next to the girl I liked; my relationship with my sexuality was formed. That moment went on to define how I navigated coming out to others and the bearing bad reactions would have on me. It didn’t matter to me that some people would never accept me, or that I was still surrounded by my worst bullies. None of that mattered because in that moment she showed me that there is an entire world out there for me, even if it would not be her, I would eventually find people who not only accept me but be excited for me.

I’m going to make this a series where I talk about random mental health things, or tell short stories relating to my identity as a non-binary lesbian but it was important to me that I share this story with the world. The smallest, seemingly forgettable things in life can be some of the most treasured memories and affirming moments of your life.

There’s a lot of difficult things about being queer, but more often than not the feeling that she gave me that day, that acceptance; I carry that around with me and on the worst of days, it keeps me alive.