A frustrated sigh escapes my lips as my thumb slides across the screen of my phone, revealing yet more of the ignorance that friends and family have spewed on my digital time line. At least, that’s the view from my side of the screen.

“You’re too opinionated!”

“It’s against God’s word!”

“No one likes a liberal!”

I’ve heard all of this – within the past week. This is what it’s like growing up in the deep South, where the tea is sweet and the people are sweeter – as long as you agree with the conservative majority.

I was nine when I realized I was different. Not special or unique, just different. I was watching a movie, a subpar rom-com the name of which I don’t remember. But what I do remember is one of the characters. He wasn’t the main character, or even the most likable. In fact, age was the only thing we had in common. Yet I felt myself drawn to him. I spent hours after the credits had rolled imagining what it would be like to be his best friend.

In my daydreams we spent afternoons together after school, went to the beach on holidays, or rode our bikes around the neighborhood. The thought that I had had my first real crush didn’t cross my mind until years later, but to this day I look upon it as my awakening.

In my mind, the transformation from a simple childhood desire for a best friend to the longing for a relationship with a boy was separated by a very thin line drawn by years of religious upbringing. I remember one Sunday, sitting in the pews of our little white Baptist church, I heard the preacher announce that “America’s acceptance of the gays will lead to its damnation.”

I shut myself in after that. If there was ever a metaphorical closet, I sure as hell found it. I’m still in there, hiding the key from myself until it’s safe to come out.

I’ve done the research. I’ve read my Bible. I’ve consulted countless websites about the matter, but I feel as though I’m standing in the same place where I began. I’d like to dismiss those who are certain my soul will burn for eternity, but that’s easier said than done when some of those people are my closest friends.

It’s so simple to them: I made this choice for myself. According to them, I chose the years of sleepless nights and tear-stained pillows. I chose the hate I feel for what I am, and the anxiety that comes with it. I chose to bring God’s wrath, never mind the alienation from my parents, upon myself.

Sometimes I believe them and I pray to be healed or fixed or whatever it is that happens to save lost souls. But the sad truth is that sometimes it feels like even God is working against me when I’ve been told by every church I’ve attended that Christians must reject homosexuality and all it entails lest they too be sent to hell. Well, if that’s what Christianity is, I would like to believe in something else.

I believe in a God who loves us all. I believe that being gay is not a choice. When I have been broken down to the smallest pieces of who I am, these are the things I still believe. If God makes no mistakes, then I am who I am for a reason, and I love who I love because love is not wrong.

I am not a victim, because I have hope. I hope that in the future I can look back and regret the years I spent suffocating inside my skin because I thought it was my only choice. I hope that one day maybe I’ll be relaxing after work, or swimming at the beach, or cycling on a trail with my best friend by my side, and I’ll look at him and know what true love is without feeling the pain that comes with it now.

I hope that one day I won’t have to hide within myself, but rather, I’ll be proud of both my religious beliefs and my sexual orientation. It’s a long road until that day, I know, but the small bit of hope in me grows a little stronger every year.