On the outside, I looked fine.
I had the grades. The awards. The approval of my teachers. People thought I had it all together.
But inside, I was falling apart like there was a storm, loud and messy. And I was drowning in it.
Tired, Toxic, and Tearing Apart
No one tells you how exhausting it is to be a teenager carrying a heart full of shame, rejection, and longing. I had no space to process any of it. I didn’t feel safe at home because I knew my parents would respond with hostility and anger. Not with friends, because this was too personal. So I kept it all in. Every feeling.
I was tired. Not just sleepy-tired. But soul-tired. Tired of pretending I was okay. Tired of acting like I wasn’t hurting. Tired of feeling like my very existence was something to be ashamed of. I didn’t know how to ask for help. I didn’t even know if help existed for someone like me.
So the pain turned inward. And when that wasn’t enough, it turned outward too.
I became toxic. Manipulative. Cruel, even.
Not because I was born that way. Not because I wanted to hurt anyone.
But because I didn’t know how else to survive.
I clung to control in the only ways I could. I guilt-tripped people. I pushed boundaries. I made threats I didn’t fully mean. I said things just to feel powerful for a second, even if it came from a place of desperation. And then I hated myself even more for it.
The self-harm continued. I cut myself. Not to die. But to feel something. To punish myself. To make the pain visible, even if just to me.
I was suicidal and I wanted to die, but I didn’t dare to end my life. But I also didn’t want to keep living like this.
I felt stuck in this horrible in-between. Too scared to die. Too broken to live.
So I did what I could. I kept breathing. I kept bleeding.
The Conversation That Broke Something
I remember one night, my cousin, the first person I ever came out to, was working on a school project. He casually asked my dad a question across the dinner table.
“Tito, what do you think about same-sex marriage?”
Without missing a beat, my dad snapped back.
“It’s a sin. Two men can’t be married. They can live together if they want, but it’s not right in the eyes of God.”
He didn’t say it with gentleness. He said it like it was obvious. Final. Undebatable.
His voice was sharp. Harsh. Almost angry.
And he had no idea I was listening.
He didn’t say it to hurt me. But it still did. A lot.
To him, maybe it was just his conviction, just his faith. But to me, it wasn’t just an opinion. It was a dagger.
It reminded me of everything I had heard growing up—from Christians, from side glances, from my bullies.
I was a sin
The Questions That Kept Me Up at Night
I started spiraling, not just emotionally, but spiritually.
Every time I tried to pray the gay away and nothing changed, I felt more hopeless.
I wasn’t a murderer. I wasn’t evil. I believed I had a good heart.
But because I had these desires, the Church said I was doomed.
So I started asking the same questions so many queer kids ask in the dark.
If God is all-knowing, why did He make me this way?
If He doesn’t make mistakes, then what am I?
If He created everyone equally, then why am I treated like an abomination?
I didn’t choose to be queer.
I didn’t choose to carry a desire that the world calls shameful.
And I truly believe that no one in their right mind would.
Especially if, even as a child, you already know what the world will do to you for it.
No child wants to be mocked, bullied, demonized, and then told they’re going to hell. And when they say it, they tell you it’s because they love you.
I Was Angry at God
Those questions didn’t just confuse me. They made me angry. And I figured if I was lashing out at everyone else, why not go straight to the source? If God created me, then He was the one to blame
I recall the nights when I begged Him to take it away. “Please, Lord, make me straight. Make me normal. Make me acceptable. Make me like boy things” I prayed so hard. Over and over. But nothing changed.
That’s when the bitterness set in.
My parents always said I was a miracle baby. I was born after nine years of infertility. I was a living and breathing testimony of God’s goodness.
But if God was so good, why couldn’t He hear me now?
Why wouldn’t He fix me? Why did He give me life, only to make it this hard to live?
Picking a Fight with God
This anger made me not just question God, but also challenge Him.
At school, I led a group research paper in our English class and insisted our topic be: Proving the Existence of God
Not because I wanted to worship Him.
But because I wanted to interrogate Him.
If You’re real, why am I like this?
Why did You give me a longing You won’t let me fulfill?
And if You’re supposed to be good, then why is the world like this?
Why do children die in wars?
Why is there so much injustice?
Why do people suffer for things they didn’t choose?
I didn’t just stop believing in Your goodness.
I started clinging to the idea that maybe You didn’t exist at all.
Not because I was convinced You weren’t real.
But because if You were, and You still let all this happen, then that was even harder to accept.
I wasn’t just angry anymore. I was picking a fight with God.
The Performance That Crossed a Line
And I wasn’t done yet.
I loved performing, so I made that my rebellion. I took all the pain, the shame, the anger, and turned it into a show. If God wouldn’t hear my prayers, maybe He would hear my rage.
For an arts class, we had to do a Lady Gaga-inspired performance. It was meant to be theatrical, bold, over the top. I went all in.
As part of the act, I mockingly recited the Act of Contrition. Then, right there on stage, in front of classmates and teachers, I shouted:
“Satan is my Messiah.”
The room froze. My groupmates looked horrified. My teacher didn’t know what to say.
Even I stood there, stunned by what had just come out of my mouth.
Because I didn’t even believe that. I didn’t want to. And honestly, I’m sure Satan was thrilled to hear it.
But at that moment, I wasn’t thinking about theology.
I just wanted to spit in God’s face.I wanted Him to hurt the way I hurt—for making me this way, for being silent, for feeling so cruel.
Of course, I renounce those words now. I regret saying them with everything in me.
Even right after the performance, I felt it. This pang in my chest. Like something had gone too far.
God, if You’re real, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m just so angry.
But of course, I had too much pride to admit that in the moment.
I didn’t want to acknowledge any of it. Because I was angry.
The Seven Deadly Sins
Another way I tried to rebel was through our queer clique at school. We called ourselves The Seven Deadly Sins. I gave us that name—partly inspired by the anime, but also as a way to prove a point. Another kind of challenge to God.
Each of us chose a sin to embody, and I claimed Wrath.
Not just as a joke, but because it felt true.
I was angry. Furious at God.
Wrath wasn’t just a persona—it was my reality.
It captured how I felt about Him, and how much I clung to atheism like it was armor.
Because in a world that made me feel broken, anger made me feel powerful.
It gave me a voice. It gave me control.
I was easily triggered by any hate comment or condemnation toward the LGBTQ+ community. And when I heard it, even hinted at, I didn’t just get defensive. I got enraged.
But even then…
Even in my loudest rebellion.
Even in my cruelest moments.
God never let go.
I couldn’t see it then. I didn’t want to.
But somehow, even when I was spitting in His face, He stayed.
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