The more suicidal I become the more I want to become visibly queer and do activism. This whole closet thing is pretty depressing. No good when you already got a tough time going on. So I think, I’ll come out one day and what’s going to happen will happen. If I get murdered by extremists or get lynched by a mob, it would be better than just going down silently by my own hands, right? The pain might be worse but once it’s over, there’s not a difference to it anymore. So I tell myself someday I’ll make the homophobes do what I already want to do to myself. I’ll come out and I’ll let the homophobes punch me to a pulp and god knows I’ll try to punch some of them back too in their tiny little nutsacks before I go down. A part of me feels invincible. Like I could beat up the entire world, put on an iron shirt and chase the devil out of earth. And I know I’m wrong. And I know the whole thing and the promise to myself that I’ll come out soon instead of committing suicide out of the feeling of mental suffocation is just one more excuse to keep myself from ending it all but it’s an excuse that works so I keep telling myself it. At the end I know I’m not as brave as the LGBT martyrs of Bangladesh and I’ll die old and lonely just dreaming of being bold and doing something to change this society. But still the fantasy of being a braver person one day is comforting.
Source: BAH( Bangladesh Against Homophobia)