The Day that Changed My Life

Friday August 5th, will mark the anniversary of the day that changed my life. It isn't a happy anniversary like the day I meet my partner or anything like that. It is actually an anniversary that only a handful of friends know about. It is an anniversary that I wish never happened. August 5th, will mark the eleven year anniversary of the day I was gay bashed.

Not even my family and friends, except a small handful, even knew that I have been bashed. You may be wondering why I would have kept this from the people who care and love about me. I will tell you, I felt ashamed that I allowed this to happen to myself. I still have a hard time admitting and hard time talking about it, but I know that I’m not alone. It’s a secret most people didn’t know about me. I hate talking about it. I hate thinking about it. Yet, to be totally honest with you; that night still haunts my nightmares. Every time I hear about a gay-bashing the through that run though my head is what would have happened if they didn’t stop?

So yes I am a victim of gay bashing; correction survivor. How it happened is not of importance. The importance is in the occurrence. The few friends who knew tried to sympathize. Yet their sympathy provides little solace and no consolation. Only someone who has experienced this vile, horrid, degrading act can empathize. But you can’t even compare your experience to theirs because it is different for everybody. I pushed everyone away because I needed to allow my emotions to run their course.

Nothing prepared me for the pain and degradation perpetrated on my body. My body; my property; the unwarranted violation of my body. The utter sense of despair and helplessness as people swung at me like I was some kind of piñata. Breaking my ribs, tearing at my flesh, invading my body.
Tossing me about like a worthless rag doll. All the while telling me lies of my filth and unimportance; which later I started to believe.

When it was over my first emotion wasn’t hate. It wasn’t anger or revenge. No, it was shear devastation, self-loathing, worthlessness, pain. For it wasn’t just my body that was attacked . . . It was my soul, my innocence. They emotionally took away my identity. I was left with nothing; absolutely nothing. I could see only nothing. I had been tossed into a black hole; an endless void. Suicide looked like a definite possibility.

I was taken to the hospital; the place you go for help or so I thought. I laid there and waited while my skin turning black and blue. As I laid there I was reminded of my unimportance. And started to sink farther into that blackness and becoming part of the nothingness.

I then talked to the he police, the people you go to for protection or so I thought. They bombarded me with questions; being attacked with inquisition. My mind was already reeling with emotion as I tried to verbalize and rationalize. I started to go into a tailspin; crashing a little further into that hole. How much more could they make me suffer, making me relive this event that I would rather forget.


Their actions destroyed my world of hopes and dreams. I would lie in bad looking for sleep, hoping for its permanence yet it never come. So as I laid there in the darkness I am reminded of my loneliness; which thrust though the bottom of the black hole.

I then went there a period of reality that was never really mine. I become a breeding ground for hate. I hated the men whom forced me into this place of evil. I hated those who could of helped but didn’t. I hated those who should have protected me and couldn’t. But most of all I hated me.

I started to get comfortable in this newfound refuge of complete evil. All of my thoughts and energy fueled my thoughts of revenge, murder. Never once realizing I was killing the person I once was and thought I could never be again.

Hate, which is just as evil as the crime, ate away at what was left of my soul. It was preventing me from healing. It just burned in my mind like a wild fire. Deep down inside of myself I knew I couldn’t stop hating until I forgave.

The hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life was forgiving those who bashed me. With my energies now focused on me I began to move forward with my life. I went back into this world and got closer to my true identity. I was fortunate because deep down I held onto the man that I used to be. He found his way back into my life and the healing began. I started to pick up the pieces of my shattered life; something that requires patience.

It is going on eleven years and still the fear that comes over me sometimes seems like it will never go way. When I meet strangers or am in a large crowded room I tend to get super quiet, stay to myself, or play on my phone. I’m scared of not knowing everything and everyone around me. I’m scared of the unknown. The anxiety attacks I get when I can’t do something are because of it. This is the reality of my life. This is what I have become. Do I know how to fix it? Nope and nor do I want too.

My bashing has shaped who I am as a person and how I think politically. Although I’m a bit more awkward now, I wouldn’t change the fact that I was bashed for anything. The struggles we go through as a queer people is what shapes us as beings, and what helps us realize that as much as the powers-that-be want us to assimilate into heterosexist culture, we never will. We will and forever be queer people, we are strange and not the norm. And I’m proud of that. I am still continue my journey to the person I want to be. That is just part of my life and my recovery.

One final thought; our world is changing. Is it progressing for the better? I am not sure. Are we forgetting that violence against our community is a real problem or do we need the media to remind us again?

MJ