This Is Why They Hate Us

by Aaron H. Aceves

It’s the same with Jesus. Most of the time, I know He loves me. I mean, that’s what He’s all about. But sometimes when I hear someone—my pastor, my grandparents, a random person on the Internet—say that God hates queers, I have to squash the tiniest inkling of doubt that worms its way into my chest.

I’d never said anything like that before, but I had just realized something: You can’t love someone if you’re not willing to fight for them. And boy did I love that boy in front of me.

Whenever I read queer books, there’s always the initial relief I get from confirming that I’m not, in fact, the only one who feels the way I do, but then comes a certain cloud of melancholy that settles around me shortly after when I think about the fact that I’ll always be fighting myself in a way.

I found that out a year ago after fact-checking a Simpsons episode that claimed a flock of crows is called a murder.

A squad of flamingos is called a flamboyance! How wonderfully gay!

It’s not that I want to die. I think. It’s that I don’t want to feel right now. I want a break from all this, a brief respite, so I can be better in the future. I know what these thoughts are called: suicidal ideation.

It’d be silly to think I’m having these thoughts solely because of Tyler and/or hetero park couple. These… episodes of mine are a result of my brain’s well-trodden path to total meltdown. Sure, there are triggers, but this is who I am.

There’s too much time. Too much time to think. Too much time to feel.

But that’s just my body. In my brain there are sensations and combinations of emotions that I can’t begin to understand. I feel useless and used. I feel hot and cold, empty and bursting, raw and hardened, vulnerable and vengeful. I feel full of shit and gilded in gold. I feel everything, and I don’t know how to make it stop.

“I had the thoughts again. Yesterday. The ones about killing myself. They weren’t super serious. I want to die, but, like, I don’t want to go through the process of dying, ya know?”

Sometimes I lie in bed, unable to move despite trying my best to do so. I stare at the wall or the ceiling and run through all the things I could be doing if it didn’t feel like my limbs were made of lead.

So often I blame myself for being lazy and dramatic, and while I’m sure I can’t blame everything on my mental illness(es), I just don’t want to be making it all up.

“Never underestimate the power of a deep breath.”

“I’m not big on white dudes.” “I’ve guessed as much.” “They do nothing for me. Their dicks freak me out too. They remind me of pan crudo.” “Raw dough?” “Yeah.”

I’m not going to say I’m horny because it’s not only that. What I’m longing for right now, what I’m dying for, is a strong, undeniable connection. I want to be in love. And yes, I also want to physicalize that love in a series of reckless, diversely debauched ways.

You internalize an idea about yourself and it starts affecting how you act and you end up with a self-fulfilling prophecy. So I’m constantly doubting my attractions, my actual feelings. I’m gaslighting myself. Because the message I’ve gotten about guys who like guys and girls is that we’re faking, that we couldn’t possibly be attracted to girls if we’re attracted to boys. Bi girls get the same thing, but for them it means they’re perceived as straight and for us it means we’re perceived as gay. “So I’m kind of terrified that whoever I end up with is going to be determined by how other people see me.”

“I can’t wait until you’re older and look back on this moment and cringe at everything you’ve said.”

Okay, so maybe Mr. Chastman isn’t my Better Man, but maybe I don’t need a Better Man after all. Maybe I am both the Everygay and the Better Man. Maybe I’m neither. Maybe I’m enough for myself. Maybe.

On the ride home, I find myself not thinking, and it feels right. I’m not going to lie, I feel weird, but I also feel… well, hopeful.

“This summer I’ve been realizing that even the most important people in my life don’t know me completely. I’ve kept different parts of myself hidden from them and offered up a version of me that I thought they’d like, that they would feel comfortable with. And lately, that’s become utterly exhausting. Because I’m tired of people loving pieces of me. I want them to see me, in full, and celebrate me for who I am.”

“But the only thing keeping me from being completely honest is fear. Fear that everything will change.”

Because I never think I’m good enough and I feel like everyone else around me is doing fine and I’m the only one struggling and then I realize they’re probably struggling too but I’m too selfish to see it.”

there’s the paranoia that comes every time I’m in a movie theater and I think about the possibility of a shooting.

I need to stop thinking about this, but it’s a reality I can’t forget. It happened in a movie theater like this in Aurora. It happened to people like me and Fabiola in Orlando. It happened to people like Saleem in Christchurch. It happened to people like Molly in Atlanta. It happened to kids our age in Parkland. It happens.

How could I have let myself believe for so long that I have more in common with the villains of the world than the heroes?

“God doesn’t hate anyone. At least that’s what I’ve been taught. But if he does hate a specific group of people, why would he focus on queer people? What do we do that’s so specifically bad?”

But I don’t feel like a person with you. I want to be with someone who makes me feel like a person. Even if we’re only hooking up.”

I think I’ve always been subconsciously aware that in the future, when I’m older, when it comes time for me to take relationships more seriously, to maybe start a family, I’ll probably seek out women. Because that’ll be easier. On my family and on myself. I guess I’m focused on guys at this point in my life because I know any relationship that begins now or in the next few years most likely won’t be permanent. And I hate realizing that. I hate that prejudice is a factor when it comes to my love life. I hate that it makes it seem like I see women as a second choice or a backup plan or a consolation prize when I could very well meet a girl one day who makes me redefine love. I want to be free. I don’t want to consider what people will think of me when it comes to what I want. But that’s not life. At least, not for me, not at this point in time. I hope eventually I find the courage to follow my heart when I need to, wherever it takes me.

I react differently to different people. And I never know who’s gonna cause that reaction. But whoever it is, I can’t help it.”

We stay there, pressed against each other, and it feels so good. Last time it was his hand that made the world stop. His whole body makes the solar system stop. I feel like I’m being healed.

In this moment, with his heartbeat echoing throughout my body, with his smell more precious than oxygen, this broken boy has never felt more whole.

I used to keep Saleem at arm’s length because I was so scared of how badly he could hurt me if I let him in, if I opened up to him. But here I am, intact, having laid my soul bare to him. I have another person in my life who will love me no matter what. Again, I should feel lucky.

Thinking about the fact that so many people have used religion as a way of making people like me and Saleem hate ourselves is crushing. But then I think about my parents (who still love me) and how no one group is a monolith, that no matter what your religion is, you can still choose to love others. And I feel incredibly embarrassed that it took me so long to figure that out.

Some people believe that by finding ‘the right one’ they will automatically be ‘cured’ of their various mental illnesses, but—” “I know about that,” I say. “Saleem can’t fix me. You can’t fix me. Even I can’t fix me. Completely. But I can try damn hard. And I’d be lying if I said Saleem doesn’t make me try harder.”

I may not deserve Saleem, but I don’t deserve a lot of things I used to think I did. I don’t deserve to feel shame, to feel lonely, to be treated like a sex object, to be ignored, to be someone’s experiment. I definitely don’t deserve any of that. And I’m glad I know that now. It’s a feeling I hope doesn’t leave me for the rest of my life.

I’m lucky. Maybe not mentally stable, but lucky.

“You feel like home. When I’m with you, I’m home. Your chest is where my head belongs, and your arms are where the rest of me belongs.”

“I think… I think my brain’s trying to take me away. I don’t think it wants to deal with all the emotions you bring out in me. Even if they’re good. I think it’s scared. I think I’m scared.”