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3 Gay Teens Share Their Coming Out Stories

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What’s it like to come out as an LGBT teen? We caught up with three teenagers to hear their coming out stories.
I came out at 16, shortly after I discovered I was gay. To me, coming out was all about being true to myself. I totally rejected the idea that I should hide how I felt, as if it was wrong or horrible. I also wasn’t comfortable with lying about who I was or who I loved. However, my strong feelings on the subject didn’t exactly prepare me for how difficult stepping out of “the closet” into the big, bright world would be or how deeply it would affect me and those around me.
I came out to three distinct groups: my friends, my school and lastly, my family. I told my friends individually, and their responses varied from confused to unsurprised. Regardless of their initial reaction, all my friends eventually accepted me. They all became completely comfortable with it; in their eyes it was just part of who I was. My honesty really strengthened our friendships, and their support became an invaluable resource for me for years to come. Coming out to my friends was one thing; coming out to the rest of my high school was another.
Unfortunately, my high school is rather conservative, and being the first openly gay couple wasn’t very easy. My girlfriend and I faced discrimination and harassment from both students and faculty. We got detentions for hugging and homophobic comments hissed at us behind our backs. I remember the helpless anger I felt when I realized that my school wasn’t going to do much to help us. The frustrating thing was that we weren’t trying to make a splash or a sensation; we just wanted to be treated like any other people and any other couple. Fortunately, after a few months, things started getting better, and slowly, people became more tolerant.
Once I had come out to my friends and my school, I started feeling more and more uncomfortable that I had not yet told my family. The main thing holding me back was fear of my parents’ reaction. They were open and accepting people, but I still doubted they’d be thrilled that I wasn’t “normal.” I prepared many different speeches in my head and was waiting for the right opportunity.
Unfortunately, my school administration eliminated that opportunity by informing my mother after a parent wrote a letter to the school, complaining that her child had to be “exposed” to my girlfriend and me . When I got home that day, my mom met me at the door, looking concerned. I braced myself, but she sat me down and told me she loved me no matter what and that while she wasn’t happy with the way she had to find out, she wanted me to know she would support me. I was overwhelmed by my mom’s reaction, and it brought us closer than ever.
I can be myself, knowing that the people I love support and accept me. I also became closer with my family, especially with my mom. The most gratifying aspect, however, was seeing the positive impact on others. During high school, many students, some of whom I had never before met, thanked me for giving them the courage to come out and showing them that it was possible to persevere.
Now that I’m out of high school and looking back, I’m glad I came out when I did. It helped me see the world a little differently and made my skin a little thicker. And, I can only hope that it has helped my friends, family, school and community become a little more tolerant and aware.
When I was 14 years old, I came out to my family and friends. My decision came from a desire not to hide part of my life, and an awareness that if I didn’t do it soon, I never would.
At the time, I was writing a report for school, with gay adoption as the subject. After my brother stated his position against it on our ride home from the library, I decided to talk with my mom. She told me that she would love me, even if I was gay. I had to try my hardest not to cry, and I forced myself to bite my tongue until I could think more about that statement.
I kept to myself for the rest of the day. When everyone else was asleep, I snuck downstairs and typed an email to my mom, telling her that I was gay and that I hoped she meant what she had said earlier. It was the scariest thing I had ever done, and I lay awake all night wondering if there was any way I could take it back.
The conversation was awful and did not go the way I had hoped. She told me that she loved me no matter what, but that it was probably just a phase and not to tell my friends or anyone in our religious organization. I spent the entire conversation trying my best not to cry. When my dad came home, all he did was walk into my room and ask if it was a choice or not. I said no, it wasn’t, and he nodded, said he loved me and left me alone.
For several weeks, my mom acted like I would grow out of it. I felt worse than I had before, knowing my sexual orientation was now out there and not knowing what to do. When I told my dad that I would be coming out to my religious organization with or without their support, he took care of it for me. He called the organization leader and talked to her about it. She set up a meeting with me.
If I wanted to stay in the assembly, I would have to hide my sexuality and never talk about it. Or I would be forced to leave. For a 14-year-old girl, this was extremely hard to handle. For the next two years, after I got home from events, I hated myself for following their rules. I felt like they were making me ashamed of myself, and I had almost no confidence.
When I was 15, my dad and I convinced my mom to go to a PFLAG (Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays) meeting with us. When I was 16, I finally worked up the courage to come out to my friends in the organization, but it took me until I was 18 to actually discuss how difficult it was for me and for people to realize that I was still me, even if I was in a relationship with a girl.
My first mistake was coming out to my mother. Now, this is a woman who doesn’t handle change well. She thinks being open-minded is eating baked chicken instead of fried. I first came out to her when I was 12. Through her overly-dramatic tears, she basically told me that she didn’t believe me. So I came out at 13… and again at 14. This time, she FINALLY removed the veil of doubt that she’d been married to and listened to me. We argued for about a month, and then she kicked me out.
I left her house and went where ever bouncy balls go when they get lost; to a friend’s, a cousin’s, another friend’s, a boyfriend’s, and foster care. Now I’m back with my mom. All in all, taking care of myself made me much stronger, which, now in hindsight, is a good thing.
I also came out to my best, straight male friend, of whom I had absolutely no physical attraction to, whatsoever. He looked me in my eyes, in front the apartment building he lived in, both of our twelve-year-old brains at full attention and said, “You still my boy. I don’t care.” So, we walked to the playground and talked about Tekken 3. I’m sure he was more interested in my fighting skills with Nina and Xiayou than the boys I liked.
There’s no surefire way of knowing who will feel what when you come out. And there’s no way to know what they will do with those feelings. But I do know this; it will be the best load off of your back. I definitely felt better afterward.
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It was no secret that Bobby had a crush on me in the fourth grade… By Amy Friedenberger
It was no secret that Bobby had a crush on me in the fourth grade. I knew it, everyone knew it, and I can’t say I was opposed to the novel male attention.
The innocent crush didn’t last long. A group of girls, being typical females even in the fourth grade, confronted me during a bathroom break one day, and mid-hand-wash I was told, “You know, he only likes you because of your boobs.”
For many girls, starting to develop breasts is a sign of becoming a woman. But for those who mature early, it can be a source of trauma with long-term effects.
That first fourth-grade revelation was the beginning of many unwanted boob-related situations.
In my junior high art class, I simply leaned against a table, and was greeted with a surprised “Whoa!” from the guy across from me. Confused, I looked down and saw that I was giving him a generous look at my cleavage.
High school was no different. I played soccer throughout, and always considered myself to be like the other girls, never thinking that I had large breasts — until our team sat down to some game films. I was appalled by how large they looked on the screen, moving up and down as I ran.
The next day at practice, everyone was talking about how their breasts shrunk when they worked out. No matter how many bench press reps I did or how hard I exercised, my boobs never diminished in size.
“Your boobs are huge,” one of my teammates said to me. I started wearing three bras every time I played.
By my senior year of high school, I was up to a D cup. After going to my friend’s house for a cookout, I was later told that after I met the girl’s uncle, he’d jokingly commented, “Your friend is pretty big up there.”
Breasts, as a concept, are not only considered sexy, but are seen as a comedic element to a woman’s appearance, only adding to overall self-consciousness. In 1986, Playboy published a list of 300 synonyms for breasts. They ranged from the more common “bazookas,” “bosoms” and “knockers,” to the not-so-common “zingers” and “angel cakes.”
Now here I am — a double-D cup. I’m not going to be one of those women who shouts, “Woe is me! My large breasts are a burden. I wish I didn’t have them.” I wouldn’t trade them for a B cup just so I could sleep on my stomach or eliminate the back pain.
But they make me incredibly conscious about how they look to others and how I’m perceived because of my chest.
I notice when men start off looking me in the eye and then do quick eye drop to glance at my breasts.
I try not to wear low-cut tops, and even button-down shirts are a challenge because the buttons are tight at the middle. When I go to job interviews, I always yank my top up; I don’t want anyone to think I’m trying to use my chest as an advantage.
Having to constantly worry about how my breasts look is certainly a burden. Yet what it comes down to is whether I continue to allow my breasts to control me or just stop caring and learn to love them.
The educational diagrams of happily postpubescent girls were no preparation for what actually happened during a girl’s first period. Graphic details aside, starting my period in a third-world country at the age of 11 wasn’t exactly how I envisioned my entrance into lady land. Unfortunately, I did as any other girl would: I cried, I yelled at my mother, I took evening angst walks alone.
When the estrogen attack subsided, I realized a perk of the big P. The esoteric, wonderful emergence of boobs was going to surface from the inner depths of my immortal being.
Simply put: Lady boobs! I was going to be a real girl!
Of course, the land of lady parts didn’t turn out to be sunshine and happiness and B cups. Instead, I resembled a brown Marilyn Manson — long, dark hair and an entirely masculine chest.
Like Manson, I too longed to be a real girl. I spent unrecoverable moments between the ages of 11 and 17 searching my chest for any type of growth. After a severe bout of scrutiny, I almost convinced myself I had breast cancer. Then I realized that if puberty couldn’t locate my boobs, cancer would hardly have better luck.
Yet, as in every underdog story, things could continue this way for only so long. There I was, floundering in the lull of summer before college. I had no plans, no job, no money, just ever-comforting reruns of “The O.C.” and the company of Susan, the poodle.
It took one insignificant laundry day to change everything.
I was transferring clothes to the dryer and discussing with Susan why she shouldn’t have such a judgmental face when an unusual amount of change fell to the tiled floor. Flabbergasted, I counted out nearly $1.50 — the first substantial amount of money in my possession since I spent my net worth on a pair of Ray-Bans.
Since saving money is a concept to be learned in your early thirties, Susan and I headed to the only place $2 was worth anything: Taco Bell.
Little did I know, Taco Bell would be my Mexican miracle worker. A month into our grotesque routine of treasure-hunting for burrito quarters, I noticed a change in my chest, an uncomfortable garroting by my bra, something that resembled cleavage.
I’ve never particularly liked turtlenecks.
What a sweater is to a hug, a turtleneck is to a strangle.
And as someone who’s well-endowed, I’ve tried really hard to avoid ever deciding that I needed to be dressed like a ’90s substitute teacher just so people don’t stare.
Because I made that decision, I thought that I deserved the cracks.
Look, pet names like “Honey” and “Love” are adorable. But no matter how sweetly you say it, “Jugs,” “you and the twins” and “Thunder Tits” will never, ever sound affectionate.
Yes, they may be funny, and if you’re a friend of mine and we have a good mocking rapport, I might not have the desire to hit you. But if I’ve just met you, keep your mouth shut.
So we’re all clear, there’s no graph that demonstrates that the amount something protrudes outward is proportional to how much you can openly and awkwardly talk about it. I’m talking to you handsy stranger at the bar, friend of a friend who suggests we play strip beer pong and starts with bras.
I’m not ashamed of my rack, but I don’t want a side of degradation with my small talk for it.
And because it would have never occurred to me to play tit for tat in public, I’ll share the story that helped me explain why I don’t think I need to have a sense of humor about it when you try to grope me in public.
One night in Sorrento’s a girl stood on a chair and started cheering. A strange guy walked up to her and said, “Show us your tits.”
She didn’t get offended, she didn’t tell him he was an asshole.
She just said, “You want to see my tits? You show me your dick first.”
The guy called her a b*tch and slinked away while everyone laughed at him.
And that’s when it hit me: I like myself, and I like my breasts, but don’t ask to see mine if you’re not going to ante up and show yours.
In fifth grade, I was the first girl in my class to wear a bra.
My measly 32AA training bra held up the “breasts” I’d developed earlier than the rest of my classmates. For an 11-year-old, I was well-endowed — a physical trait that did not follow me past my middle school years.
Wearing a bra was more of a nuisance than a blessing. The almost-adolescent male population of my class took particular notice of the fifth grade girls’ physical differences. They thought the horrendous process of puberty was utterly amusing until their voices started to crack.
As the only girl in my class with a bra, I became an easy target. Every boy wanted to know what it looked like, how it felt and what was underneath the thin material.
They wanted answers. So one braved the unknown frontier and elected himself to answer these questions: He was going to snap my bra strap.
I went to take a drink from the water fountain and, as my friends and I chatted, the fifth grade bully approached from behind me, inching closer to my back with every step.
As I bent down to sip some water from the fountain, I felt a strange hand on my back. He took my innocent water break as the opportune moment to find the answers to his questions. He grabbed my right bra strap and flicked it against my skin, causing a shot of pain to course through my shoulder.
Even as an 11-year-old I knew something was wrong about his actions. Because I had the only signs of development coming out of my chest, I became the target of his joke. There was only one solution to my problem.
I turned around and punched Justin in the face.
He walked away from my reaction unscathed, but no other boy in the class attempted to touch my 32AA bra.
During my final semester at Pitt, I’ve begun experiencing something absolutely wonderful: confidence. I look in the mirror and I see a young woman who’s proud of her majors, pleased with her accomplishments so far in life and even happy with her body.
Unfortunately, when I was younger, I did not like the way I looked. Even more unfortunately, I hit puberty earlier than a lot of my female classmates. So when my chest started growing, I apparently began hunching over in an attempt to hide my changing body from my peers. I say “apparently” because no one mentioned my bad habit to me, so I didn’t initially notice it.
Not long after entering high school, years of bad posture and trying to hide my chest caught up with me. My back went out. I was 14, and at the time, it was mortifying. I was the youngest person at the chiropractor’s office, and I went through months of rehabilitation to fix my back and posture.
Even though this is a fairly unusual story, it’s a story about a common problem: my failure to accept my body. Self-confidence issues related to our bodies are a big issue. They’re a universal anxiety.
While we primarily think of body-image issues being related to weight and obesity, for women, the size of our breasts is a big deal. Our breasts strongly tie into our self-image, and our self-perception is often overridden by the fear of how others will perceive us based on how we look. My lack of confidence regarding my girls started at a very young age, and it could easily still be a problem today.
Fortunately, now, at the end of my undergraduate career, I’ve come to a radical conclusion: my body — and my breasts — are perfect the way they are. Denying that from a young age only hurt my health — physically and, in many ways, emotionally.
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