The changes in life that we notice the most are the bold ones. Subtlety comes so easily to the secret-holders; we live in silence, and we barely hear our own echoes.

But silence can sometimes be deafening. We wish for one of those bold changes, a master key to unlock the iron bolts that are incarcerating our souls, our desires. In order to yield to the cravings of affection that solitude renders, we have to be true to ourselves… we need to sacrifice what we hold sacred: our personality frauds.

It took me a long time to finally accept who I am, what I cannot change, and what I am supposed to cherish. It took me a long time to stop hating God, my genome, the universe, and whatnot. But now I know that hate only amplifies the silence.

I wish I could tell you that I love myself. But I do not wish to lie, because this is the first time that my true voice will ever be heard. Ever since I was a young teenager, I tried to cling to an image that has been sculpted meticulously by my society: picture the handsome boy, with the cute girl besides him, a successful career, and a high place in society. That’s what my parents signed up for when they decided to produce me. They didn’t want a gay son, the ridiculous cartoon portrayed in the parades, promiscuous and flamboyant. The good news is, even though I’m gay, they’re still not getting that son. Not that there is anything wrong with those guys.

I am a 21-year-old college student. I have good grades, and I speak four languages. Humanity teaches us to always reach further, to set greater goals, and most importantly, to accomplish them. And I intend to do all that.

My reason for writing this is: I’ve never told a soul that I’m gay. I’m not afraid; I’m completely and utterly terrified. Stunned-in-the-spot horrified. The single mental picture of my parents finding out, the pain in their eyes, the disgust in my brothers’ expressions, that sole mental image is enough to break my heart. I like to call my city the city of robots. There is another post in this site that gives a detailed explanation of our city’s social dynamics, so I won’t get into it here.

I’ve battled numerous depressions, homophobic remarks from my friends (not towards me, but it hurts just the same). I keep watching these “It Gets Better” videos, and I’m sure it does… if you live in the United States where homosexuality isn’t so much of a sin like in the rest of America.

My family cannot bear another emotional strain. When my brother came out as a drug addict my parents almost got a divorce. I don’t want to be the cause of their splitting. I don’t want to hurt anyone, especially not myself. I feel like I’m drowning with no water involved. The pain in my chest is almost unbearable. You don’t cage an eagle… you just don’t.

But the almost obsessive necessity to maintain an appearance of Mexican masculinity, to not look weak in front of anyone, to be that man that my parents intended me to be… it’s almost too much. I can’t keep on holding that weight by myself for much longer.

It’s been ten years of pure hell. Ten years of lies after lies after lies. Sometimes I don’t even know where I stand with my best friends. I’ve caused a thousand tears, and I’ve held a billion inside.

I wish I could delete these confessions and make up a story about coming out with rainbows and Britney songs. But that would not be the truth, and what’s the point in lying again?

I need some kind of sign. I need a light breeze of hope to balance the burning ache in every heartbeat. I need a reason to genuinely smile. I need to feel alive.

The worst thing is that I know that being gay doesn’t define me. The fact that I like boys does not determine what type of music I like, or what author I like to read; it doesn’t even influence my sense of humor or my physical appearance. It doesn’t outline who I am, but it certainly dictates who I want to be.

I bury myself in books and music, I go on dates with girls whose hearts I know will be crushed by my fears, and they don’t deserve it. And all that suffering is enough to play a part in a farcical society that produces perfect robotic persons. We are all the same, but at the same time, we couldn’t be more fake even if we tried.

But my real question is: How could I be myself without losing who I am for the rest of the world? I know that love is supposed to be unconditional… but unfortunately I live in the real world.

So I urge the world to hear my cries of pain, to witness my invisible tears, and to sense my intangible scars, all of this while putting my soul back where it belongs.