After embracing my authentic self during the span of an academic year, I packed my bags to head home — and, with my clothes, conditionally put away a part of myself.
I could hardly sit still in my seat on my flight to Spain. Once I got there, I often thought of the Latino and Hispanic people back home in America — and how some Americans mistreat them due to the language barrier.
“What do you take medicine for, Kaleb?” Everyone darted their eyes my way. “I have HIV.” I had swallowed all that stigma along with my pill.
This was not a suicide attempt. This was the precursor. This was the consideration. I should’ve called a helpline. Or texted. Or called my psychiatrist. I should’ve done something to help me recover.
Getting ready to transition out of high school, I am learning much about myself, what makes me happy and most notably about how I undercut myself.
As soon as the lights turned down after intermission, my life truly began. Normally, screaming bothers me, but not that night. The screams made me feel alive and made me scream, too.