You know, almost every gay guy I've met has said that my sexuality is such a small part of who I am, of who we all are. But it's something that's eaten ten years of my life, consumed me with a constant sense of self-loathing and paranoia. I wouldn't call that a small part of me-- I'd call that a mental illness. Now, I'm not saying homosexuality is a mental illness, but for me, it's a burden, something that follows me like a tall shadow in the shape of a skull.

I don't want to accept something about myself that has done nothing good for me. In doing so, I may invite more misery into my life. All my sexuality has ever done for me is cloud my judgement, muddy my thoughts, darken my days and haunt my mind with a constant nagging, like a dirty fingernail clawing at an old drywall, scraping away dirt and grime only to collect more filth in its cuticles and lay its hands upon my shoulders until I can wall it back up, again.