Survivors
Taken from happa_tie_yatta. Not normally my sort of thing, posting stuff like this, but it is something I feel strongly about.
I am the girl kicked out of her home because I confided in my mother that I am a lesbian.
I am the prostitute working the streets because nobody will hire a transsexual woman.
I am the sister who holds her gay brother tight through the painful, tear-filled nights.
We are the parents who buried our daughter long before her time.
I am the man who died alone in the hospital because they would not let my partner of twenty-seven years into the room.
I am the foster child who wakes up with nightmares of being taken away from the two fathers who are the only loving family I have ever had. I wish they could adopt me.
I am one of the lucky ones, I guess. I survived the attack that left me in a coma for three weeks, and in another year I will probably be able to walk again.
I am not one of the lucky ones. I killed myself just weeks before graduating high school. It was simply too much to bear.
We are the couple who had the realtor hang up on us when she found out we wanted to rent a one-bedroom for two men.
I am the person who never knows which bathroom I should use if I want to avoid getting the management called on me.
I am the mother who is not allowed to even visit the children I bore, nursed, and raised. The court says I am an unfit mother because I now live with another woman.
I am the domestic-violence survivor who found the support system grow suddenly cold and distant when they found out my abusive partner is also a woman.
I am the domestic-violence survivor who has no support system to turn to because I am male.
I am the father who has never hugged his son because I grew up afraid to show affection to other men.
I am the home-economics teacher who always wanted to teach gym until someone told me that only lesbians do that.
I am the man who died when the paramedics stopped treating me as soon as they realized I was transsexual.
I am the person who feels guilty because I think I could be a much better person if I didn’t have to always deal with society hating me.
I am the man who stopped attending church, not because I don't believe, but because they closed their doors to my kind.
I am the person who has to hide what this world needs most, love.
Repost this if you believe homophobia is wrong
I am sure there are people out there happy to hear that I am still, in fact, alive. Let me do a full update for you:
On Tuesday, July 12, aproximately 9:30 pm, there was a fire in my apartment. I was not home at the time. A Good Samaritan, wife of one of the firefighters, took my cat in to the animal hopsital on the other side of Dayton. My two rats did not make it. My snakes were unharmed.
The fire was originally thought to have been caused by an electrical problem; however, an inspector for the fire department found several spent bottle rockets and Roman candles on the roof of the apartment. On further insection, no electrical problems were found. The fire started in the bedroom, underneath a window.
On Wednesday, July 13, 8:00 am, I picked Nottingham, my cat, up from the animal hopsital. He could not move. He could not hear. He was blind. His white fur was so coated in ash as to be black in some places. He had seizured twice at the hospital, and once on the car ride over to my vet at Airway Animal Clinic. Prognosis was not good.
I received three calls from Channel 2 News on Wednseday. The third call came right after a call from my vet, saying that Nottingham had taken a turn for the worse. She suggested euthanasia. Then Channel 2 called, wanting to do a story on the cat. I told them he might have to be put to sleep, and to please leave me alone.
That evening, 6:00 pm, Channel 2 aired a story about my cat anyway. They said I had him euthanized. I was incensed. After visiting Nottingham, had I decided to hold off my decision and see how well he was doing the next day. On Thursday, he was doing much better. While still blind, he was responding to noise. By Friday, he was able to sit up, and was deemed well enough to go home on a trial basis. After several trys. I was able to contact the firefighter whose wife had rescued Nottingham to tell them that yes, he had in fact survived. I asked her to please call me. I haven't heard back. There is an envelope of money sitting in front of me for her, because she had to put a $250 deposit down to get Nottingham into the hospital.
Nottingham is almost back to normal now. He still can't entirely see, but he does respond to light stimuli. He is up and walking, alert and getting into trouble, just like he used to be.
His success story completely wowed the people at the veterinary clinic, who had not expected such a complete recovery so quickly. And I have never been able to thank my Good Samaritan, without whom this would not have been possible.
I'm not doing as well. Moving stuff out of the old place (which I had just moved in to) is taking a long time. And really, my new apartment is not home. It's just a space, filled with boxes of sooty stuff. I'm not even sure if I want to bother with it, or just haul everything out to the dumpster. None of it means anything. Everything that meant something was destroyed.
Why does it seem like every time I get a handle on life, it finds some new way to fuck me up?
L.A.
I am the girl kicked out of her home because I confided in my mother that I am a lesbian.
I am the prostitute working the streets because nobody will hire a transsexual woman.
I am the sister who holds her gay brother tight through the painful, tear-filled nights.
We are the parents who buried our daughter long before her time.
I am the man who died alone in the hospital because they would not let my partner of twenty-seven years into the room.
I am the foster child who wakes up with nightmares of being taken away from the two fathers who are the only loving family I have ever had. I wish they could adopt me.
I am one of the lucky ones, I guess. I survived the attack that left me in a coma for three weeks, and in another year I will probably be able to walk again.
I am not one of the lucky ones. I killed myself just weeks before graduating high school. It was simply too much to bear.
We are the couple who had the realtor hang up on us when she found out we wanted to rent a one-bedroom for two men.
I am the person who never knows which bathroom I should use if I want to avoid getting the management called on me.
I am the mother who is not allowed to even visit the children I bore, nursed, and raised. The court says I am an unfit mother because I now live with another woman.
I am the domestic-violence survivor who found the support system grow suddenly cold and distant when they found out my abusive partner is also a woman.
I am the domestic-violence survivor who has no support system to turn to because I am male.
I am the father who has never hugged his son because I grew up afraid to show affection to other men.
I am the home-economics teacher who always wanted to teach gym until someone told me that only lesbians do that.
I am the man who died when the paramedics stopped treating me as soon as they realized I was transsexual.
I am the person who feels guilty because I think I could be a much better person if I didn’t have to always deal with society hating me.
I am the man who stopped attending church, not because I don't believe, but because they closed their doors to my kind.
I am the person who has to hide what this world needs most, love.
Repost this if you believe homophobia is wrong
I am sure there are people out there happy to hear that I am still, in fact, alive. Let me do a full update for you:
On Tuesday, July 12, aproximately 9:30 pm, there was a fire in my apartment. I was not home at the time. A Good Samaritan, wife of one of the firefighters, took my cat in to the animal hopsital on the other side of Dayton. My two rats did not make it. My snakes were unharmed.
The fire was originally thought to have been caused by an electrical problem; however, an inspector for the fire department found several spent bottle rockets and Roman candles on the roof of the apartment. On further insection, no electrical problems were found. The fire started in the bedroom, underneath a window.
On Wednesday, July 13, 8:00 am, I picked Nottingham, my cat, up from the animal hopsital. He could not move. He could not hear. He was blind. His white fur was so coated in ash as to be black in some places. He had seizured twice at the hospital, and once on the car ride over to my vet at Airway Animal Clinic. Prognosis was not good.
I received three calls from Channel 2 News on Wednseday. The third call came right after a call from my vet, saying that Nottingham had taken a turn for the worse. She suggested euthanasia. Then Channel 2 called, wanting to do a story on the cat. I told them he might have to be put to sleep, and to please leave me alone.
That evening, 6:00 pm, Channel 2 aired a story about my cat anyway. They said I had him euthanized. I was incensed. After visiting Nottingham, had I decided to hold off my decision and see how well he was doing the next day. On Thursday, he was doing much better. While still blind, he was responding to noise. By Friday, he was able to sit up, and was deemed well enough to go home on a trial basis. After several trys. I was able to contact the firefighter whose wife had rescued Nottingham to tell them that yes, he had in fact survived. I asked her to please call me. I haven't heard back. There is an envelope of money sitting in front of me for her, because she had to put a $250 deposit down to get Nottingham into the hospital.
Nottingham is almost back to normal now. He still can't entirely see, but he does respond to light stimuli. He is up and walking, alert and getting into trouble, just like he used to be.
His success story completely wowed the people at the veterinary clinic, who had not expected such a complete recovery so quickly. And I have never been able to thank my Good Samaritan, without whom this would not have been possible.
I'm not doing as well. Moving stuff out of the old place (which I had just moved in to) is taking a long time. And really, my new apartment is not home. It's just a space, filled with boxes of sooty stuff. I'm not even sure if I want to bother with it, or just haul everything out to the dumpster. None of it means anything. Everything that meant something was destroyed.
Why does it seem like every time I get a handle on life, it finds some new way to fuck me up?
L.A.