Unmoored

There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from living a double life. It isn’t the tiredness of a long day’s work; it’s a soul-deep fatigue that comes from constant, vigilant acting. For years, I was the lead actor in a play I never auditioned for, reciting lines that felt like ash in my mouth.

The Script of “Normalcy”

I remember the conversations in the hallways and the locker rooms—the casual talk about girls, the “crushes” we were supposed to have, the performance of masculinity that was required to stay safe. I joined in. I had girlfriends. I spoke the words I was “supposed” to say to fit in, to blend into the background of a Christian school where standing out was dangerous.

But while my lips were saying one thing, my heart was drifting elsewhere.

I didn’t want the girls I was with the way I wanted the men I saw on the screen. I remember the magnetic pull I felt when a certain actor appeared on TV—a draw so sharp and undeniable it felt like a secret I had to bury deep in the earth. I would dream about guys, creating a private world where I could finally breathe, only to wake up and strap the mask back on for another day of “normalcy.”

The Suffering in the Shadows

We often talk about the “safety” of the closet, but we rarely talk about the suffering that happens inside it. By performing to make everyone else happy—my family, my teachers, my peers—I was slowly eroding my own spirit. Every “I love you” to a girl I wasn’t attracted to was a lie told to myself. Every fake conversation about a “crush” was a brick in a wall that kept me isolated from my own life.

I was making everyone else’s world comfortable while mine was a storm of guilt, confusion, and longing. I was the “perfect” student, the “perfect” son, the “perfect” boyfriend—and I was dying inside.

Flipping the Script

The moment I decided to “flip the script” wasn’t just a change in preference; it was an act of survival. I reached a point where the cost of the performance was higher than the cost of the truth.

When I finally let the mask fall, the world looked different. Yes, the fallout was real. There were several people—people I had loved and respected—who decided that my truth was a dealbreaker. They didn’t like the new “character” I was playing, not realizing that for the first time, I wasn’t playing a character at all.

The Lens of Peace

But even with the rejection, something miraculous happened. I felt secure. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t looking over my shoulder. I wasn’t checking my words to see if they sounded “too gay.” I wasn’t performing. I felt a happiness so profound it was almost disorienting—a lightness that allowed me to see the world through a brand-new lens.

When I talk to people now, I’m not calculating how to be accepted. I am simply there. I am Zachary—unfiltered, unanchored from your expectations, and finally at peace. The “peace” isn’t the absence of conflict from others; it’s the absence of conflict within myself. I would take the judgment of a thousand strangers over the self-hatred of that one boy in the 7th-grade desk any day.