A View From Sacré-Cœur by Kyra Christensen

A Mosaic of a Life

by Abbey Belling

I am made up entirely of all those who I have loved and have lost. Of those who have loved me and those who did not. I am glued pieces of marble with the words said to me painted in red. Words stain deeper than red wine and will scar greater than anything. Still, I choose to love.

My sexuality found me when I was 8 years old, but it took me a decade to find it in myself. To come out to my family. Ready to be kicked out and cut off, I stumbled into the kitchen to find my mother. The tears poured out of me as did the fear and panic. Manic; praying to a God I don’t believe in, that she would accept me, love me. Her baby girl, who she thought she knew. The words that left her lips are those that are tattooed in my memory. “No parent wishes for their child to be gay, but it’s okay.” Little does she know; I took it all out on myself for years. Little does she know; I still struggle with internalized homophobia. Little does she know; I still don’t feel completely accepted or loved. Little does she know; I think about that moment in our kitchen more than I’ll ever admit to anyone. Little does she know; the number of times her baby girl tried to conform to the heteronormative world that was confining me into a cell. Still, I choose to love.

When I was 12 or 13 years old, my peers started to use the slang that would be spewed at me for the rest of my life. I never experienced understanding, but how could I when I was hiding one of the best parts of myself? After years of therapy, I have come to the realization that I was in survival mode for about 13 of my 22 years of life on this earth. Mental illnesses came for my throat at this time. It started as bringing my own chair to the dinner table. A family of five I am a part of. A family of five, who only ever had four chairs at the table. It was the predetermination of the chronic loneliness, a life sentence. I was not shown how to show my love, because we did not talk about it. There was only black and white, man and women. Anything else was simply blasphemy. It did not exist. I did not exist. Still, I choose to love.

Teenage years pushed me further down than a father’s hands could ever do. I became a pit of rage, and it silenced me. The world silenced me. The lack of representation, the lack of discussion, the lack of care, the lack of love. It was so obvious to me and so oblivious to everyone else. It’s no wonder I struggle to still love myself. To understand that me being gay is not something to be damned for, but something to celebrate. This is something they do not teach you in the churches around here. They talk about tolerance as if it’s about the drinks they’ll knock down on a Saturday night, because they are saved since they praise Jesus on Sundays. So yes, I would much rather be considered a sinner in their eyes than have to fight for my right to exist. Still, I choose to love.

Romantic heartbreak first hit me at the ripe age of 18, and I went through it alone because of the uncomfortable feeling that arose in everyone else by me saying “she” and “her.” What about my experience? What if my parents broke my heart before I was old enough to know? Silence. -

[page break]