I leaned against the kitchen countertop, my gaze fixed on a bottle of Tylenol sitting there like a silent sentinel. The refrigerator hummed softly in the otherwise quiet house. Just moments earlier, I had spent an hour lying on the living room floor, tears streaming down my face—first quietly, then with the kind of raw emotion that felt like it could fill an ocean. I scribbled furiously in my journal, pouring out my pain and even contemplating what my parents should do with my belongings after I was gone.
I glanced back at that bottle of Tylenol, contemplating how many it would take to end my suffering. At 14, I had no understanding of what overdose meant, nor did I realize that acetaminophen wouldn’t provide a swift exit. I could make myself sick, and after days of neglect, I might succumb to liver failure. But my parents would be home soon, and Tylenol was hardly a reliable means of escape.
In the depths of my heart, I knew that I didn’t truly want to die. Yet the thought of continuing to live in a world filled with shame, guilt, and anxiety felt unbearable. Now, at 31, I look back and struggle to access that place of pain. I proudly embrace my identity as a gay woman, unafraid of the consequences that come with loving someone openly. I’m married to my soulmate—a woman—and living a life I once thought was beyond reach. Today, when I face emotional turmoil, I dive into it, knowing it can’t defeat me. I have wisdom, maturity, and the right tools to navigate the storm.
If only I could reach back through time to reassure that lost girl that everything would turn out fine. I want to tell her that she would rise from the depths of despair, stop hiding, and discover a world filled with light and truth. Yes, there would still be challenges, but the hate and pain wouldn’t come from those she loved.
At 14, I lacked the understanding to see beyond my immediate grief. I mourned the person I wished to be—a version of myself who felt no intense love for her best friend, a girl, but instead had a crush on the boy who nervously reached for her hand during a grocery store shift. I wanted to blend in, to be “normal.”
Reflecting on my past, I peel back the layers of my life, trying to comprehend why I felt so trapped and hopeless. Despite having a supportive, loving family and a proudly gay aunt, I believed that coming out would trigger an irreversible cosmic catastrophe in my life. I still can’t quite grasp why I felt this way. All I know is that my difference shattered my heart.
Recently, the CDC released its first national study on high school students who identify as LGBT, revealing alarming statistics. Over 40% of LGB students reported having seriously considered suicide, while 29% had attempted it in the past year. This means that two out of five students grapple with suicidal thoughts, and nearly a third have attempted to take their own lives. Additionally, 60% reported feeling so sad or hopeless that it interfered with their daily lives, and LGB youth experienced bullying online and in school at twice the rate of their heterosexual peers.
These are LGB youth thriving in a world where same-sex marriage is legal and where many countries recognize the rights of gay and lesbian individuals to build families. Yet, these statistics underline a stark reality: marriage equality alone is not enough. Young people in our community often feel that ending their lives is a more appealing option than navigating a future filled with pain. For many, including youth of color and transgender individuals, the daily realities of violence and suffering are all too common.
A Call to Action
To my straight friends: it’s crucial to engage the young people in your lives about love. Discuss relationships not just in terms of traditional family structures but also the diverse paths that love can take. Make it a daily conversation, ensuring that kids understand there’s nothing shameful about their feelings.
To my queer friends: let’s not become complacent. There’s so much work left to do.
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In summary, the staggering suicide rates among LGBT teens are a pressing issue that we must address collectively. By fostering open dialogues about love, identity, and acceptance, we can create a supportive environment for the younger generations, ensuring they know they are not alone.