Going away...not an option

During my seventh grade year I endured some of the worst physical attacks I'd ever endured as a result of my being gay. Strangely enough, there were other kids in school who were obviously gay and weren't picked on as bad. During that year my weight continued to climb, my face broke out in acne and the awkwardness of being a "kid in change" was apparent.

I became very creative in my ways to avoid people. In most of my classes there was at least one student from the mounting horde of students who were picking on me. I was quietly able to shield myself from their taunts by trying to "blend in". There was one kid who became my friend, Allen. Allen wasn't gay, he was just compassionate. He came from a very wealthy family and was always there to at least talk to me.

One day, while we were sitting in history class, this kid Nathan, decide he would take a pencil and jab it in my hand, while calling me a faggot. (I've still got a piece of the lead there). I recall, Allen saw this happen and immediately walked over to him and jabbed him right back only in his arm. Nathan was so shocked he didn't know what to do. Allen came back over sat down and said to me-"just stick up for yourself man". I would try, but it was always met with me facing a group. I sort of felt like David facing Goliath.

As our seventh grade year came to a close and the summer drew closer-I knew that I would once again, be able to "breath". Allen and I lost touch over that summer and when I returned to eighth grade, I would discover that he had moved away.

My eighth grade year was a certain time for transition and change. I had become virtually invisible to people at school and was concerned with survival. Except this year, I would be in gym class and we would be required to change in the locker room.....