The words hit me in disbelief. To say I was hurt would be an utter understatement. Never before had I been insulted like this. Sure, I had been called faggot – by some bullies in school or strolling around the city. But this was different. This was supposed to be my safe place and yet these two words – useless faggot! – shattered the walls of my own home down like a wrecking ball.
Disbelief – Hurt – Shock – Disappointment – Anger. My emotions went on a rollercoaster ride.
Had he really just called me that? Useless faggot… how could he? Why would he? Because I didn’t appear to be as masculine as he’d wanted me to? Because I wasn’t as handy in the household as he was? Because my mother loved me more than him?
I scurried back up the stairs. Tears were running down my face. I ran straight into my room – the last stronghold inside this broken castle. My mom followed me. She didn’t know what had just happened. When I told her my disbelief was mirrored in her. She couldn’t find any words for what her husband had just done to me.. done to her… done to them.
And neither could I. All I wanted was to get out. This so-called home didn’t really feel like one to me at that moment anymore.
So that’s what I did. I ran out the door, got into my car and just drove off with no destination in mind and my emotions still going wild. I couldn’t really hold one clear thought. I just needed to get away.
“Useless faggot!”.. the words kept on ringing in my ears. What was I supposed to do now? Act as if nothing had happened? Go back and live under the same roof again that had just collapsed over me? I knew that peace was never an option. My mother’s husband wasn’t a peaceful man. The last few years had shown that. He was choleric, narrow-minded and most importantly deeply insecure about himself. Retrospectively that’s probably why he nagged, screamed at me and eventually called me a “useless faggot”.
So after hours of thinking there basically was only one option left for me: leave.
I drove back to what I used to call home and talked to my mum. I told her that I would be moving out. I was only 18, still going to school, but I didn’t care. I could not endure one moment longer in that house. When my mother asked me if she should come with me I told her that for 18 years she had put her children’s needs before her own and she no longer had to do that for me. This would be her moment to find happiness.
It felt kind of heroic at that time – to “grant” my mother her happiness.
I should’ve taken her with me instead.
Two simple words that resulted in an avalanche of events, thoughts, emotions and pain. From that moment on I was changed. My home had been violently torn down which only resulted in me building my own one – with stronger and higher walls.
I lost the lightness with which I had gone through life before. My happy nature turned into a pessimistic, maybe a more realistic attitude. My emotions from then on would be securely held inside my castle’s vault.
Although it may seem like a sad story I want my memories to be a beacon of hope to everyone out there who feels let down or hurt or is bullied.
Out of the most hurtful thing that has ever happened to me to this day I have drawn a lot of energy: I became independent. I’m successful at my job. I’ve built an environment of chosen family that supports me no matter what.
Out of misery came happiness. The hate shown towards me when I was younger only made me bloom and flourish more. Without it I wouldn’t be the person I am today.