I've seen my college roommate's name in the newspaper dozens of times. After all, he is a journalist. I'm proud to be able to say that I know him, but I'm most proud that our names will appear together in the paper later this year; that is, assuming he accepts my offer to be my best man.

He and I had become quick friends. One day he asked if he could give me a survey interview for a class project; I agreed. The first few questions were softballs, and then he turned to me and said, “Were you ever bullied during high school?”

Without thinking, I responded, “A lot of kids thought I was gay and they called me a fag.” He stared up from his computer with a look that read as sympathetic. I’d been debating if I should tell him I was gay, and now was as good a time as any.

“And they were right.”

As he probed into my story, I found myself telling him everything about those days of being harassed. He was a consummate professional about the whole thing, and my fear soon subsided into relief as he guaranteed me that our friendship would never change. After the interview, he headed off to the library to submit his assignment while I sat on my bed and cried tears of joy.

He came into our room later that week beaming. A story he had written was just chosen for the next day’s edition of our campus newspaper, so we celebrated with a dinner on the town. When the papers were delivered to the rack in the lounge the next morning, we both raced over and grabbed a copy. As I read his article, I started to realize that parts of it sounded familiar. And then I saw my name. My first name, right there in the paper, and my story of being bullied for being gay.

At first, I was fuming mad at my roommate for his lack of integrity. All of my other new friends at the university knew that we lived together, so when they saw the article, I started getting a slew of texts from them; all were positive, thank goodness. One of those friends had a connection to the campus LGBT center and hooked me up with a part-time staff position. This made me feel better, and though my anger toned down, my relationship with my roommate was still rocky.

That is until he, unbeknownst to him, helped me come out to my family. Worried that I couldn’t face them directly, I brought home letters over the holidays, and in each one, I included a copy of the article that I had saved. They were moved by his beautiful words and told me as much. I really had no choice but to tell him that I fully forgave him after that. When I get married, I want him there. Not as a reporter, but as my best friend.

It's a contagion, that's what it is.

"Faggot." The word spread like wildfire,

and it's suffocating like it, too,

it could be a rope around my neck instead,

or pills down my throat.

Words are bullets

that plunge into my mind,

bleeding me, savagely,

it's there, it's all right there.

Even my parents are saying it,

one behind my back, the other to my face,

"Faggot." A pestilence, a molestation

A murderer.

  “I’m gay.” Those were the two words that I had spent years thinking about and hiding away from the rest of the world. Those were the two words I had struggled so hard to say out loud. And those were the two words that had lead me to where I am now. I knew how liberating saying those words could be and I knew how much of a difference it could make.

When I finally plucked up the courage to tell my family and my friends, all I got in return was rejection and disgust. I will never forget the sting of my mother’s palm, the emptiness of losing my best friends, the pang of pain from when my father kicked me out of the house. How could two words simultaneously do so much damage? Why couldn’t I be accepted for who I am?

Even I disgust myself. I’m a shame to my family for being gay. What’s more, I destroyed my whole life in a millisecond by admitting it. How did I screw up everything so badly? Why couldn’t I just be normal?

I’m at the top of the world. Literally. Staring down the rooftop edge, contemplating whether or not I should jump. What’s the point of living if I can’t be accepted, if even I can’t accept who I am? Questions are running through my head, everything else except the ground storeys beneath me is just background. My heart is pounding; tears are streaming down my face.

Goodbye world. I slowly lift a foot, when I feel arms wrap hurriedly around my legs. “Don’t! Please don’t, I need you.” I look down and see the owner of the voice – the girl in my Biology class I’ve had a crush on. With her help, I shakily walk away from the edge. I hear “I’m bi. I know what you’re going through and I’m here for you.”

It was fine at first. I know he tried to understand, but maybe it was a bit much to comprehend. He's not homophobic per say, but it had never directly affected him before, and now his daughter liked girls.

He never called me a faggot or dyke, he didn't kick me to the curb. So I guess I was lucky in that sense. But instead I'm stuck in a household that doesn't quite 'get it.' I'm in a household where I have been told my sexuality makes others uncomfortable, where 'in my day, we didn't talk about such things.'

I was proud of my sexuality before I told him. It was one of the few parts of me I could love, but it slowly got twisted to just another feature to hate.

So I still live under my parents roof, and I don't get called names. But I was taught to hate myself.