But I didn’t. And the result was hazardous; I felt a disconnect, not only with my parents but with myself and everyone else around me. I didn’t know who I was. Over the years, I tried filling the vacant side of my memory with my desperate imagination, trying to conjure up happy pictures of birthday parties, family outings, school friends, faltering as soon as I’d started and ending up dwelling on the same irrepressible feeling of having committed an unforgivable crime. As I struggled to wrap my head around it, I entered into a brief phase of underage drinking, stealing and even gambling. I ended up in police custody but thankfully, my mortified parents came to my aid immediately, dragging me away from the whole mess I’d entangled myself into. Strangely, they did not ground me or yell at me; if anything, they were more doting than ever, supporting my decision to go Emo for a while and accepting my homosexuality with tolerance, if not with open arms. But that did nothing to appease my inner turmoil regarding my identity; I struggled to come to terms with it, failing to keep up in school and losing whatever few friends I had in the process.
“I don’t know me.” I whisper to the ceiling, almost in a state of trance before the shrill ringing of the doorbell rudely snaps me out of my depressive thoughts.
I sit up, wincing as my aching limbs protest against the minutest of movements and slowly haul my legs to the floor. I crinkle my nose in disgust; the room reeks of vomit.