I’ve always thought that being born into a dysfunctional family is the hardest blow, especially if you care too much.

A mother that is not in the capacity of being one, a father that is weak in will and far from being a protective fatherly figure, mediocre defect yet disastrous elements of parenthood. But I realize, I never chose any of those things and sooner or later I’ll just have to move on. Yes, I never thought that moving on from my own family is even a, if not the cure.

But it’s not. It’s not the hardest blow.

The hardest blow for now is, despised for being who I am, what I am, how I live my life. Despised for being true to myself, being gay, by people I once thought would accept me no matter what. It’s a passive aggressive kind of behaviour: I am being avoided, kept distance from, silently. And boy, it feels – how should I put it – different than any other heart-wrenching emotions I have ever experienced.

Yet I was surprised by what’s left.

I found nothing inside me that resembles hatred to fight back. Instead, I feel so alive. Nothing has ever made me feel so alive than having my own true identity confronted. An identity that has gathered courage for years to finally speak out – no matter what the consequences are – simply because I had to, you know, truly live.