Vent. Tw: queerphobia

Today, I had one of those moments where the world feels unbearably heavy. My father said something that shattered whatever fragile sense of connection I thought we had, and it reminded me of three truths I can’t ignore anymore. No matter how much we look alike or how sometimes we laugh at the same stupid jokes, I am not him. No matter how much we might share a fleeting moment of understanding, we are worlds apart in what we value. And no matter how much I want to see him as someone safe, he will always carry the poison of queerphobia in his words. It’s not just ignorance—it’s disgusting, and it sits between us like a wall I can’t break down.

Queerphobia makes me feel something I can’t even fully describe. It’s like being stripped bare in a room of people waiting to tear you apart. Sometimes, it gets so bad that I think, “What if I could just show them how deeply this cuts?” Would they even care if I tore my skin away just to make them see how much it hurts? I don’t think they would.

The worst part is that I want to love my dad. He’s not all bad. Sometimes, he says things that make him sound like he’s my age, like he could be my friend. But then he uses that same voice, the one I thought I could trust, to say things that make me feel like I’m disgusting, like I’m wrong for just existing. I hate that. I hate how much I want to connect with him, how much I want to believe that he could love me for who I really am. But every time I try to trust him, I see it: their love has a limit. My parents’ love only lasts as long as their comfort. The second I step outside the lines they’ve drawn, I’m no longer their child—I’m a problem they need to fix.

And maybe that’s why I’ve always felt like I don’t belong here. You don’t choose your family, but you also don’t have to pretend that people who can’t love you unconditionally are truly your family. Maybe I don’t have a family at all. Or maybe my family is something I have to create myself—out of friends who see me, out of people who don’t flinch when I tell them who I am.

It’s exhausting, though. Everyone acts like they have the right to decide who I’m allowed to be. Like I need permission to just exist without shame. Like my hobbies, my identity, my voice only matter if they say it’s okay. And I know I’m not supposed to care what they think, but it’s hard when it feels like the whole world is telling you that you’re not enough.

I cried today, listening to Cavetown at 1 pm. And it hit me: maybe the real betrayal isn’t that my parents don’t understand me. It’s that they made me think they ever could. I used to believe that no matter what, parents would love their kids. But the truth is, you can become a monster to them with just three words—words you can’t take back, words you shouldn’t have to.

I’m trying to find peace with this, but some days, it feels impossible. Some days, all I can do is scream silently inside my head and hope that someday I’ll find a place where I don’t have to scream anymore.