Writer’s block…Everyone suffers from it at some point, and now is hardly appropriate. If I was writing fiction, I’d be more sympathetic, but the fact I’m writing about myself, who I was, what I am, no excuse would suit. Why I’m writing this? I have no idea.

This is me.

I absolutely love music. Not a day goes by that I don’t listen to it, yet I’m silent now. Need to concentrate. Do I tell you about how I survived teenage life? Or do I tell you my real life? How I was pushed to the edge, nearly didn’t come back, and don’t feel I fit in even now, amongst others like me? Either way I’m sure you’ll find it entertaining.

I was always a naughty child. From putting cake in the video player to ringing the fire brigade “by accident”, I never had any intention of being good. I was raised by my mum, uncle and nana, the most important people to me. My dad made a late entrance, but I never got to know him, as I don’t now, he couldn’t be bothered to show up until I was 4 – I couldn’t be bothered to love him. Ever.

I never shrugged off my naughtiness, going to school and fighting with other people because they made fun, swearing at teachers, usual stuff a potential asbo would do. But starting middle school, I changed.

My mum said I became a teenager too early, meaning I’d sulk and strop for no particular reason. Looking back, I totally agree. I’d rage over the smallest things, and take my anger out on everybody else. Then I’d cry, so much. At school I was so distanced from everyone else, a bus could pass. A particular art teacher made a lasting impression on me though, and to this day I still think of her as the best teacher I ever had. Her grounded look on life calmed me down, and instead of getting angry, I’d make art. I never really had girlfriends at this point, I had the odd few, but never anything serious. My weight and insecurities got in the way. I was, to put it bluntly – the fat art kid. This tag stayed with me until changed myself, and became someone completely different.

Enter high school. It was at high school I changed entirely, from an insecure art child to a boisterous, aggravated man, who had to grow up way before his time. I started school on the worst terms possible – I became goth. Considering I wanted to blend in, I couldn’t have picked anything more vivid and outstanding. Target of bullying, I became more enclosed within myself, moving onto books as my choice of escape. Alternate kingdoms rife with witchcraft became my escape, a chance to live out my life through the words of another.

I had no plan of action regarding the way I would come out. So I plunged head first and said it. Needless to say, ripples were caused in the water. Major ripples I might add – no one had dared do what I did. Yet strangely enough, I took comfort in knowing I’d made a change. People knew who I was, people cared enough to find out about me. It was then I began to change myself. Being gay isn’t a way of life, it’s a performance. Try argue the point in your head, and you’ll see what I say makes perfect sense. The rest of the world have expectations of a gay person, be they lesbian or gay. We are given stereotypes to follow, we can either make our own impression, or become the secluded people who are treated with extreme caution. And I’d been secluded long enough. It was time to make a change.

I binned the black, grew my hair to an acceptable state, and changed my attitude. I was known to the world as gay Jay. Boys feared me, girls wanted to be my friend, all those in between stayed clear. I’d tell stories to shock people, my fascination with fiction growing, all in the aim of fitting in. I lied my way through life so far, this wasn’t any different. Except deep down I knew what I was doing would come back to get me. One day.

It was after a few months the intense bullying began. Boys would wait for me and hurl abuse, offering me fights, or asking for lude acts to be committed on them. Girls would bitch about me, saying I was no good and should die of HIV. I’d give as good as I got, but inside I’d be screaming to stop. I’d made myself into a monster – someone I hardly knew. This wasn’t who I wanted to be. It was then that I’d try different methods of taking my anger out – art and reading did little other than bore me. I waned to feel my anger hurt someone – and that person was me.

I was called by the head of year to her office. It was then she exposed my arms to my mum. 13 gashes across the underside of my arms. One so precise it lay across my vein – the right way too. The look on my mum’s face finished me. The look of disappointment that her little boy could be this cowardly couldn’t be taken off her face. It was not soon after that I was diagnosed with the Bipolar disorder. I was manic depressive and it had got to this point before I realized. With counseling I’d get past certain things about my life, but I’ve never forgotten my mum’s face.

My love life improved slightly, my first boyfriend a close relative of a friend I’d made, but ended with disastrous consequences. A string of failed romances followed, and in the end I gave up. Men were cruel – cheats, liars, anything possible.

I’d say I’m happy with life as it is now, but I’d be lying again. I’ll settle for content. Life is going ok but I’d like things to improve. College, boyfriend, I have everything going for me. But inside I still feel like the boy I left behind year ago; quiet, distanced, and most of all desperate to truly fit in with everyone else. As much as I want to be happy, I wouldn’t have changed a single thing. The past few years have made me who I am.

My name is Jay. I am 17, from Bradford, and I’m gay.