It’s no secret that I am not very fond of myself. I struggle with my identity and where I sit in the world, and can’t help but describe myself as a terrible person.

Last night was no exception, I cried myself to sleep, reliving the pain of loved ones passed, unable to watch the brutal conditions that I saw inflicted on others. I pushed myself, life pushed back, I snapped.

I swept up the pieces and withdrew to people I trust.

I’ve spent my life around queers, punks, misfits, and fuck-ups, always feeling like the straightest guy in the room. Despite spending years with people just like me I felt like an impostor.

It didn’t matter how many boys I’ve kissed (many), or how much I rejected the social norms of masculinity. I thought I was straight and hated myself for it. I was wrong.

I’m queer.

It wasn’t so much coming out—my friends told me my sexuality, rather than the other way around. Nothing will change in how my friends see me: they never thought I was that straight at all.

Admitting I’m queer doesn’t change who I am, but admitting I’m queer has changed how I see myself.

It’s been in front of me all this time.

I’m not straight. I’m not gay. I’m not bisexual.

I’m queer.