My Brother, My Enemy

Author's note:  Sometimes words can be just as deadly as knives. The pain and self-hate they inflict, especially from family and loved ones, can become toxic. There was no physical harm inflicted on me.

PLEASE read this in the figurative sense, not the literal  and remember to love one another.

At eighteen years old, I became the victim of a hate crime. My assailant, who I knew well, pushed a knife deep inside my body with a surgeon’s precision. The pain was unbearable, but perhaps even more unbearable was the feeling that I had provoked the attack and was therefore responsible.

Being openly gay in North Carolina during the 1980’s was riskier than I was aware. I should not have declared my sexuality. I should have kept it hidden. But I was emboldened by spending a summer with my aunt Sheila in Colorado, who was also gay and living openly. I came back to North Carolina feeling confident and sure of who I was. After the attack, a part of me died. I learned to keep the secret in order to survive. I passed.

But the wound was more severe than I realized. Because most people considered the attack warranted, I never received the medical attention I deserved. Over the years it began to fester and became septic. I ignored the symptoms, but eventually the infection travelled through my bloodstream and infected my brain. I became irrational and started exhibiting uncharacteristic patterns, such as suicidal thoughts and depression, followed by life threatening behavior.

I was ready to give up on life, but life would not give up on me. And because life stubbornly disagreed, I lived, begrudgingly at first. I sought the medical attention that should have been available to me as a teenager. Day by day, I tended the wound and eventually became stronger. Until one day, I felt strong enough to confront my attacker.

“When you told me I was sick, dirty, sinful and needed conversion therapy, you killed a part of me.” There was anger in my voice.

“I was wrong. I figured it out years ago. I hope you can forgive me. I love you.” She pleaded.

Years of anger and bitterness melted. The pain was replaced by love. It was the final step of healing that I needed. For several years I lived without fear.

But tonight, unbelievably, I was attacked again. The knife hit the same spot.

“You people choose this sinful lifestyle. God didn’t make you this way. Satan did.”

The pain was immediate and severe. I pleaded with my attacker, who I knew well, but he couldn’t see past his hate.

Amazingly, my first wound caused my body to produce anti-bodies. While the pain will take time to dissipate, the infection will never take hold. My body learned what my mind should have figured out years ago. Where there is love, there is hope.

I just wish someone would tell my heart.