Once upon a time...
There was a boy. As a child, he loved to dress up, and play pretend. Playing pretend was his favorite, because that was the only way he could be someone else. He loved glitter, and fairy princesses and would wear his orange and gold sequined kitty ears wherever he went. He was generally a happy child, and was close to is parents. even though life was hard, and his mom and dad fought very often, he had a childhood better than most.
As he grew older, he began to notice changes. In the lunch room at school, the girls and boys would sit separately, but for some reason, he was afraid to sit with the boys. He didn't like the same things they did though, so he stayed where no one treated him differently, with the girls.
By the time he was in fifth grade, he began to feel different. Different from the girls, and different from other boys. He became quieter, and shyer, and began to wear his dark hair in front of his face, hiding himself from the glances of others, of which he only imagined were cynical. He no longer had the power of laying pretend, of putting on his fairy wings and flying off to Never Land, so instead he would stay inside at recess and read, losing him self in far away places, in Forests and Castles and boarding schools full of other kids who were "different". Of Course, his "different" was different from their "different" but he found comfort among imaginary outcasts.
The Following year when he became a middle schooler, it began to worsen, the idea of being who he was, not being able to play pretend. He began to develop in a way he shouldn't have, but he didn't yet know why. While his friends would look at the boys, playing football out on the field and say, "He's so cute, I wonder if he likes me," he would think, why can't I be like them? why am I so different?
For the next two years, he thought maybe he was just seeing things wrong, maybe he was crazy, or just confused. He would do his best to push the thoughts away, and would continue to read. But eighth grade was when things began to escalate into an issue he could not ignore.
He would look in the mirror every morning and see the wrong face, one with too round cheeks, too soft of a jaw line, sitting upon a neck that was too dainty, attached to shoulders that were too narrow. His tummy was too squishy and his thighs far to wide. his legs were curvy and naked, and his hands and feet were too small, too gentle.
He would look at this creature, standing before him in the glass and begin to cry.
He knew what was wrong, he knew that HE was wrong.
He would scream and beg for death, for an end to this life where he was who he was. He'd yell until his voice was gone, his eyes red and his makeup he wasn't supposed to use without question, running down the face he never wanted. He'd hit himself, leaving bruises and soreness on his jaw and temples, trying to beat down the monster who he was concealed within. But he and this monster were too connected, the fibers of their being so intertwined, body and soul, at an endless war.
This would go on every morning for the entire year. Tantrums that made him late for school everyday and would go on until he could no longer cry, and only rock back and forth on the floor of his purple bedroom to the sound of Adam Lambert's voice, the man who gave him hope, kept him from answering his own self destructive pleas.
He began to cut his wrists, not deep enough to die, but to know that he could do it, at any time, he could escape. If the monster got too strong, he could escape. His mother didn't know and it killed him inside. He never kept things from her.
In the summer, things were okay, when he didn't have to see anyone, and would just sit in the quiet of his room and write (the fantasy's of others were no longer enough), while listening to Adam Lambert, still holding on.
