Elephant in the Room

When I was young, I was somehow instilled with an impeccable sense of pride. My school, my after school activities, my hobbies, and my friends were all reflections on me, and therefore, I needed to try my hardest to make sure that every one of them did justice to my name. Ironically, however, my mother never required me to be more than average; I only ever had to make a C or above on a report card, if I didn’t like a particular activity I could quit, no questions asked, and the only friends I had that she ever had a problem with, I found out later was for good reason.

But there was always something that was off about me. Being younger, I remember not really having any idea what it was specifically, but over time, I figured it out; I was gay. Rather, suffice to say that I figured it out considerably early in my life, but it was an extended process coming to terms and learning to accept it within myself. I think that is the way it is for most gay people at first—recognizing an undeniable and consequently unchangeable part of yourself and figuring out how to cope with that is one of the peskiest feats of strength that life has to offer.

I was a fourteen year-old freshmen in high school—young, ignorantly naïve, and unknowingly impressionable, and for the most part, alone. It didn’t bother me at first; I couldn’t really see myself dating anyone right after I came out. After a while, however, I began to feel the pangs of loneliness as I watched all my friends pair off in their lofty high school couples, looking so adult, so ready to take on the world, while I was benched at the sideline, still wearing my uniform t-shirt from middle school, having no options for my own romantic endeavors.

There was one other gay guy at my school—someone who, in my desperation, I fooled myself into thinking that I had a chance with. He was a tall, Elvis-haired, light-eyed senior with sensational style, and a singing voice that was bound for Broadway. I remember watching him from across the hallway whenever I could, observing how he walked, talked, and acted. He had so many friends, and was loved by everyone, and was even president of the school’s drama club. I was intimidated; so much so that I would lie awake at night and think about ways I could be worthy enough to talk to him. Schemes, scandals and shenanigans haunted me when I pulled the covers over myself as shelter from the cold night air for weeks, until I finally decided that I would do something about it.

As of then, I was out, but I wasn’t out-out. Some of my friends knew I was gay, and my family, but I wasn’t really comfortable sharing it just then. Mostly because I knew that if I labeled myself as gay there would be no taking it back. I was either in, or out. But I looked to this guy as sort of a role model—I had one foot outside the closet, and it was him who was going to yank me the rest of the way out and expose me to the world. Once I made the decision to do so, it was easy to execute. One Friday afternoon, I simply told the girl who had been voted most talkative in our eighth grade superlatives, and encouraged her to tell anyone she wanted. By Monday, word of my sexuality had spread like a plague.

My stomach was tied into tight knots that morning as my mother drove me to school. It was like the first day of high school all over again—you know the feeling, when you are unsure if you are going to sit in the older, much bigger guy’s seat at lunch, or whether you are going to get mowed down in the hallway, or if there will be a teacher that despises you. It was that feeling—only this time, I was afraid that someone would have a problem with my newly-announced sexual orientation, or someone would embarrass me by calling me out in front of a teacher. But when I got there, I was surprised at the reaction.

All of a sudden, I was an instant celebrity in my school. The second I walked in, wearing a baggy t-shirt and old, torn blue jeans, all eyes were on me. It was something out of a scene of a really tacky high school girl movie. I could hear them talking about me, see them staring at me, but I was suddenly unapproachable even by some of my friends who hadn’t previously known my secret—the elephant in the room. I was a pariah—but not in the traditional sense. In just one weekend, my popularity level had soared from who the hell is that? to what do you think he’ll do next? Snooty freshmen girls who, back in middle school, had treated me like I had leprosy were now talking to me like we had been best friends since elementary school, and even some guys wanted to be my friend; after all, gay guys know all of the hottest chicks.
When I went home that day, instead of doing my homework like I normally would have, I went straight to the mirror and took a good look at myself. That’s when I noticed I was fat, had a big nose, and a bowl-cut on my head. As the school’s newest celebrity, I was determined not to be a one-hit-wonder, and knew that if I wanted to be the part, I had to act the part and live the part. So, that weekend I begged my mother to take me to the mall and buy me some new clothes to wear to school. I decided then and there that I would only eat dinner from then on and take my iPod out on my trampoline and jump for at least three hours a day, then, if I wasn’t tired after that, I’d do my homework and go to bed.

Several weeks passed, I had almost replaced my entire wardrobe, cycling through the tight new clothes I bought that were all bright reds, yellows and pinks. The girls that had been mean to me in middle school told me I should start sitting with them every day at lunch, and so I abandoned my old table with the friends I had actually known since grade school, and started sitting with the girls who weren’t afraid to admit that I was “a total loser before I was gay”, and say similarly unkind things about people who I had once called friends. They told me that I was really cool now, and that they wanted to help my pick out a new hair style so I would look my absolute best.

And so they did. I cut my hair, and by that time I had also lost an unhealthy amount of weight. I obsessively looked in the mirror, checking out my hair, my clothes, and my body, because each time I did and liked what I saw, I accumulated a tad more confidence, and that made me feel like everything I was doing was worthwhile. The only thing that was missing was my tall, dark and handsome senior to come sweep me off my feet. Surely he had noticed me, everyone had noticed me. I was practically king of the school. I knew it would just be a matter of time until he talked to me and we would ride off into the sunset together.

So I waited. And waited. And waited.

Nothing.

I began to get slightly offended. I had done all this self-improvement to the point that I barely even recognized myself, and he still didn’t notice me? This realization hung over me, and each time I looked in the mirror, I noticed that I was still fat, had a big nose, and my new hair cut was looking too much like my old round bowl-cut. So, I stopped eating dinner as well, and decided that I could have one small snack in the morning, and one small snack in the evening, and I would extend my daily workout from three hours to four hours after school.
Additionally, I would beg my mother to get me more new clothes, and I’d get my hair cut once again.

And I waited again.

Still nothing.

So, I ascertained that there must be something wrong with him, because there certainly wasn’t anything wrong with me. That’s when I decided that I would look online for someone who would appreciate everything I did to be noticed. Several emails to random gay guys my age in my area I found later, I met the guy that I would go on my first date with. His name was Cody, and he was from a few towns over. He was a sweet, gentle, and shy guy with beautiful blue eyes, a sad smile, and charming brown hair that curled and tangled together. There was an ageless youth to him, which made the two-year age difference between us barely noticeable.

Our first date was to a beautiful, scenic lake in my town, with modest park and a romantic gazebo that extended out into the middle of the perfectly round lake. We took shelter together under that gazebo when our date was interrupted by rain. I stood there, awkwardly avoiding eye contact, trying not to lean against the dirty wood, as not to stain my new white pants that clung tightly against my thighs, and watched the light rain patter against the lake. Suddenly, I felt his delicate touch on my abnormally-protruding spine, and then creeping up my shoulder, gently spinning me around, and before I knew it, he kissed me.

It was my first kiss, and sparks shot up my body, wind blowing stray droplets of rain against my face. I felt alive, and as if all the changes I made to my body prior to then were finally worth it. I became a bad cliché, because after that kiss, I felt as though I loved him, and that we would be high school sweethearts and stay together forever, raising kids, growing old and being buried next to each other, all from that one first kiss. I was immature, I was stupid, and I was dead wrong.

The relationship lasted the duration of the school year, and into the first part of summer between my freshmen and sophomore year. I ended it with horrible grades and no explanation as to why, other than being focused solely on my new boyfriend. I was young and inexperienced. The age difference between us, while making little difference physically, put an emotional Grand Canyon between us. He was the mature one—or at least the one that was supposed to be mature, and he was the experienced one; he was supposed to watch out for me, protect me, make me feel safe, and tell me that everything that I was doing to myself was unnecessary. Instead, he ignored my texts, played a game of Hot Potato with my fragile emotions, and in the end, he cheated on me, destroying any remnants of self-confidence I had.

The thing I remember most about this, is that the day he broke up with me and told me that he had cheated on me, and was now in a relationship with that guy, it was raining. Not a hard rain; a drizzle, and I remembered that first kiss we shared in the gazebo on the lake, when the rain turned into mist in the wind and made me feel alive. I sat in the rain that evening, crying, feeling sorry for myself, and called ten of my new friends and complained about him. They were supportive, but their mundane tone practically screamed indifference to me.
I got on my trampoline, getting ready to complete my day’s work out, turned on my iPod, and just started jumping.

When school started back up that fall, I was already on the prowl for my next relationship. I was skinny, armed with a killer wardrobe, and ready to take on the world. The pain was still fresh from the rejection I had experienced, but I wasn’t going to let it stop me from living my life. That year, I sat at lunch with the same girls, talked with them about guys, and the back-to-school outfits that were laughable in quality, and of course, I didn’t eat. I had been talking with Cody’s friend Logan for a while, whom I had met while I was dating Cody, and finally, we decided to give it a try. Needless to say, it was a miss, and that became a trend for me.

I dated several guys that I didn’t really know that year, proclaiming my love for each, and each time, seeing my “love” somehow backfire. Logan, Shayne, Travis, Robby—all of them a bad decision, and another chapter in my romantic escapade book of failure. Something else changed at that time as well. Suddenly, I was no longer a celebrity at my school; my life was a bad soap opera, and I was the character that everyone hated. Words floated around like “whore”, “queer”, and “desperate”, and my new circle of friends slowly disappeared.

One night after school, I went home and looked at myself in the mirror. My face looked like someone had let all the air out of it, I was pale, and my hair was four different colors from all the dye. I looked like an extra from a low budget horror flick, and my clothes were too tight. No one had confronted me about my eating problem, and I filled with anger as I lifted my shirt, exposing my ribcage, and unnaturally skinny stomach. As I looked, I didn’t recognize myself at all, or the selfish boy-crazy automaton I had become, and the really terrible thing was, I didn’t even remember why.

I went to my computer, sat down, and pulled up my school’s online grading system. My grades were an alliteration of D’s and F’s, and my GPA had dropped to almost a 2.5. I picked up my phone, and looked through the contacts. It consisted of none of my old friends, and contained only all my shallow new girlfriends and my collection of ex-boyfriends; all bros and hoes, but no one that truly ever cared about me. It was then that I realized that not only had my stomach lost its’ depth, but so had I. I was shallow, callus, and uncaring of anyone but myself and what I had been through.

I walked into school the next day, wearing sweats and a baggy sweatshirt, to make it look like I had some meat on my bones, and to ensure comfort, because I wanted to try to have a day where I actually did my school work instead of day dreaming about boys and clothes. When I walked into the school, people started to stare, as usual, I was the elephant in the room. I found myself mocking them in my mind, having nothing better to do than to wait for me to make my next move, leaching their entertainment off of my personal tribulations. It was alright with me, though, because they were going to find themselves extremely bored with me after that day.
That day marked the day I began to turn my life around—sort of.

It was just like when I decided to come out, I already had a foot out the door, I just needed a yank; some inspiration to become more like I was when I was fat, with a big nose and a bowl cut. And the form that inspiration came in is the biggest irony of the entire story—a guy.
I met him at honor band, a tradition for my high school band program to attend, where I had placed a rather low chair, another sign of my change, because in middle school and early high school, I wouldn’t have settled for anything less than first. He was the first chair in the flute section, a guy that I glanced over at every now and then, which was just an automatic response that I had learned over my time of dating in high school, until once I looked back at him just for a second, and was surprised to find that he was looking at me as well.

Later on that weekend, he boldly approached me, and asked for my number. After reluctant consideration, I gave it to him, afraid I would slip back into my old ways, and found out that he lived in the same town, twenty minutes away from my house. I was intensely focused on taking it slow, and we went out on a few dates before making it official. But when we finally did decide to officially be monogamous, my grades instantly began improving. I paid attention in class, I started eating three meals a day again, and stopped obsessing over every inch of my body, and I left my merry band of men behind, taking on a new leaf.

To this day, I still don’t know how he did it, but somehow, he inspired me to be a better person. Two years later, we are still together, I eat, and I do well in school. I have made new friends that genuinely care about me, and that will be there when I need them the most, and every day I am thankful that I was rescued from the darkness of the shallow waters I once waded. The question is, why would an eighteen year-old write an autobiographical article when he still has so much life left to live?

The answer is; because I learned so much from my experience, it would be selfish to keep it to myself, and I am absolutely through being selfish.

The first thing I learned is that being in the spotlight is more of a burden than a gift. It drives people to act out of character, and eventually take on bad habits that were originally out of character, and sometimes the people in the spotlight never asked to be there, but suffer the consequences as if they had sold their soul to the devil. Mostly, though, being in the spotlight requires being alone on an endless stage, and all the people you encounter while on that stage are nothing more than costumed actors, with no sincerity or loyalties to people other than themselves.

Secondly, I learned that the end of fake love can hurt just as much, if not more than the end of real love. At least with genuine love, you don’t go through the detoxification stage, where the falsities of the other person are purged from your heart, leaving you with nothing but memories of times that never really mattered. Often times, the relationship will end with more questions than answers, and any remains of your self-worth tattered and scarred. Luckily, though, the end of a bogus love is like a wildfire—when the flames are gone, the ashes and dust purify the soil and allow for something bigger and greener to grow in place of the old, thin, moss-covered trees.

Ultimately, it can be determined that if you have to change yourself in order to get the approval of friends, crushes, or anyone, for that matter, they are not people you want to get involved with. High school is like a revolving door of change, which will come when the time is right. But if you get in the door too soon, there is no telling which side of the door that you will come out. And if you aren’t careful, you could end up being the elephant in the room.