I’ve always seen the value in being alone. I might not like it, but I see its value because it keeps me from getting hurt.

Being the lone wolf, however, is not a strategy that gets one very far. For the past couple of years, I’ve let many people into my life. I’ve told them so many of my secrets. I thought that the hardest secret to tell would be about my bipolarity. But it turns out that I’d rather people know that I’m bipolar than that I’m bisexual.

I know that there’s nothing wrong with me. I know that I deserve to be happy and to love openly. But other people don’t know that. It’s amazing, because people who have been so accepting of my bipolarity always have the same things to say about bisexuality.

“But how do you know?” (How do you know if you’re straight?)

“Ugh, I couldn’t like a guy who slept with guys!” (If sleeping with guys is so gross, why do you want to do it?)

“Ugh, that’s so greedy.” (‘Bisexual’ does not equal ‘screwing everything that moves’.)

“You’re just confused.” (I’m not. I’m not and you don’t have the right to tell me that I am.)

I’ve only told one person that in the past three years. She was supportive, but confused. She thought that, because I’d never slept with a guy or a girl, I couldn’t know whether I actually liked both. But her response was generally good, so I wanted to tell more people.

I tried, I really did. I called some of my friends into my room for a study/snack break. Bisexuality came up because a song played on my laptop that was sung by a bisexual male artist. And before I knew it, all but one of them were saying the same old ignorant and hurtful things. I got upset, but I tend to get upset by all prejudice (imagine that), so I don’t think anyone noticed anything out of the ordinary. But it hurt. It hurt more than anything has hurt in a long time because I knew that they would feel differently about me if I told them. Our jokes would all seem inappropriate (we’re masters of innuendo), our hugs would change.

So now, I’m beginning to see the value in being along again. The real me, the one I lie about every day, is alone. And I notice her more and more every day.

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