My name is Oaklen Michael Gallagher-Armstrong. I am a thirteen-year-old trans-bisexual male living an extremely closeted lifestyle. I still dress like and have the mannerisms of females out of fear that my masculinity will show through to unaccepting authorities and peers, expose me, and then get ostracized by said peers and be disowned and kicked out of the house by my family. It’s a rather Mulan-esque story, what with “dishonoring the family” and whatnot, but it’s my story. The only time I can unleash my masculine side is here on this site through all my posts. I do drag in secret under the name Noir Asrael. I bind my chest in secret when no one is watching. All of this is to tell myself that my life is a secret, a lie to everyone I meet. I can’t bear to live a lie much longer. If I can’t live a lie, yet I can’t live through the truth either, then, I thought one day, why bother living at all? No one will be sad, angry, disappointed that they couldn’t help me during life. In fact, they would rejoice my death. My family wouldn’t have to look after an autistic daughter (who was really a son), my “friends” wouldn’t have to bear the weight of all of my sob stories, and my enemies can find other ways to release their emotions other than through torturing me with harsh words and cringey, albeit true, insults. That would all be wonderful to be free from. Heck, I could see all the siblings I never knew and that I lost to premature deaths and be accepted by them if I wanted to! Oh, what an afterlife I would lead!
Then I met someone. Or rather, two someones. They are my only and best friends (for privacy, I’ll call the boy Drew and the girl Yvette). Drew I met during a school play, and Yvette I met through this very site. Drew made me so happy and made me forget about what was going on inside me for once in my life, and Yvette was someone I could really relate to and could talk to about anything, even death by my own doing. They are amazing and I wish I could be with them more. They make me so happy even in the darkest of times.
Then came the day I told Drew how I was feeling. He was almost in tears when I told him, so much so that, not even a week later, I (unwillingly) agreed to go in for counseling at my school to make him not feel bad about my life (or soon to be lack thereof). I always knew he was sensitive, but I never knew he would go to this length to care for me. One day, the counselor told me I couldn’t talk to him about my thoughts anymore. He was too devastated to take anymore. This is the reason why counseling hasn’t worked in the past; I get my only trustworthy elements of my life tossed out the window like some sort of dust bunny or blade of grass that somehow got into someone’s bedroom. It made me so incredibly angry that I couldn’t bear to look at her for the rest of our session and for the rest of the weeks following. I think I won’t go anymore. It puts too much stress on me and Drew to see me like this. Yvette, however, was much more understanding that night. She lives far from me, so we talk through email (I know, old school). But she knows what I’m going through, so I figured I’d tell her about it. We talked all night until it was time for us to go. We made a promise that we wouldn’t kill ourselves, for the sake of our sanity. I still felt sad for some reason. A few weeks passed, and I was still sad. A month later, sadder still.
Now we’re here: present-day. I am still silently sobbing to myself, constantly thinking “She wants to die. I want to die. How much longer is this promise going to last?” I began cutting open my wrists and forehead in an upside-down cross design. I never stop thinking about what I’m going to kill myself with; hanging, overdose, blood loss from cutting, jumping off of my school’s rooftop. I am forever haunted with the ghost of my past mistakes and negativities, my wrongdoings and faults I’ve had since birth, the pressure to be the perfect daughter, sister, friend, and role model to all who know me. But I know I can’t be any of their things. I can’t even be the opposite of those things. I can’t be a son, brother, friend, or role model for anyone. I’ve done so much wrong that no amount of right can fix it. If I could go back and fix it, I absolutely would. I would do so much to fix it. I would reunite my family, dead siblings and all. I would keep my father from becoming a drug addict and abuser to my mother. I would make myself not have autism. I would make my family not all have anxiety and depression. I would have a childhood like other kids. I would let myself develop at a normal rate. I would have people I could fully trust for once. I would have real friends. That’s all I want. That’s all I ask of my next life if I ever get a second chance. If I were to give any advice to young people like me with similar thoughts, it would be to not end up like me. Don’t lead the life I once did. Don’t be the one whose death the people are rejoicing. Please, just don’t be like I once was.
And with that, I leave you. Goodbye everyone. I hope you enjoyed my company. Here is a little poem for those who wish to read it. I wrote it myself, and I call it The Final Breath.
I seem to be slipping,
Yet I keep on gripping
Tighter, tighter, yet tighter still,
I stare at the lonely pill.
Aching for an end to the dream,
Picking at my scars as I silently scream,
“They’ll all rejoice my death!”
As I take the pill, as well as my final breath.