The Ultimatum

There's been something that I can't get off of my mind recently.  I keep thinking about last October.  The pain.  Parent vs. offspring.  Me vs. them. 

Why couldn't I have just been normal?  Why did I have to be the different one?  But I didn't want to live in a closet of lies, denying who I could be.  I could have let myself be doomed to a life of loneliness, a life full of bad friends long gone, leaving behind holes for the depression to creep in.  But I decided to be that different speck.  I was going to stand up for what I wanted to believe in.  I didn't want others telling me what I should want to do.  It was hard.  So hard.  Being brave is certainly not the easy choice.  They fought back.  They forced their rules onto my life harder than ever.  I found temporary ways to escape them.  But I knew I needed something more.  Something to scare them off my trail.  I needed an Ultimatum. 


Anyways, I really like to write in metaphors.  Let me explain this in normal terms, not therapeutic metaphorical elegance: 


In August I finally told my parents that I was totally, completely gay and didn't want to be in their church anymore.  They got SUPER ticked at me, and forced more rules on me than ever.  I found ways to avoid them, I took really long jogs, and took a temporary job so I could be busy at work on Sundays.  But I decided I needed a more permanent solution, so I forced an ultimatum in front of them.  I told them that my life was hell following all of their rules, and I would much rather be dead, if that would mean my freedom.  I told them that I would commit suicide in the next 2 weeks if they didn't give me my religious freedom.  In a few days, they caved. 

I just can't help but be both scared and proud of what I did.  I'm scared that I hit a point in my life that I was ready to die, and ready to do something about it.  But at the same time, I'm proud that I fought my own personal war for religious freedom.  I must say though, the best thing I found through this was hope.  Even though I suffer from chronic depression, I know that however I feel about life right now, at least I don't feel as terrible as I did.  I feel myself thinking what the next 3 1/2 years will bring.  I find myself coming up with 9 instances in those past years I've wanted to die.  But I haven't yet, so that's something. 

I'm sure depression will finally take me in the end, but let's see if I can contribute something to the betterment of humanity before that happens.



(Note: I am kind of crazy.  But don't you dare send me to a therapist.  I've discovered a strange condition in which I am a shark.  That also sounds crazy.  But, no, I'm a business shark with therapists.  I twist the truth and put whatever spin I want to on the situation.  I'm very, very good at it.)