Let me tell you a story.

Last semester, I began to think to myself that I really needed to go see a counselor. I hadn't been feeling particular depressed, per say, but I hadn't been exactly happy either. I would be fine through most of the day, happy as a clam (or so it appeared to everyone) but once I was alone, I would feel an incredible sadness and loneliness. This would only happen at night, however, and was often forgotten during the day.

After a while, however, I told myself that it was time. I needed to see someone, and sort this out. I went to the counseling center on campus, and schedule myself an appointment. I was admittedly incredibly embarrassed going in; seeing a counselor had always seemed as some kind of "weakness" to me, something that was those who were over-emotional, but not me. I thought I had things in control.

The day of the meeting came, and before walking into the building I took care to make sure no one I knew saw me walk in. I went upstairs, and they gave me some paperwork. Most of it was standard stuff, the usual things that go on paperwork. There was one question, however, that I hadn't been expecting.

"What do you hope to get out of a counseling session?"

This gave me trouble, and I debated on it for some time. I've gotten pretty good at hiding my emotions in just about every manner (hence the whole "only depressed at night" thing above) and I considered just bullshitting. But, I remembered that I did have one purpose, and only one, for why I was here.

To understand myself.

I walk into the room, and meet my counselor, Jeanne. She was incredibly nice, just the right amount of kind and caring and understanding. Something I realized that I didn't get from a lot of people in my life. And I, of course, felt scared and embarrassed about being there. Conversation was awkward. Until..

"It says on your sheet that you're here to understand yourself. What exactly does that mean?"

I took a deep breath. "I don't understand why I do the things I do. I don't understand why I am who I am, and why I do the things I do. I just want to find some answers, and really get to know myself."

The conversation went a bit, but then I found myself remembering a conversation I had with an online friend of mine. "Someone once asked me, 'What would you change about yourself?' I began to list the things that I didn't like about me. It wasn't just one thing. It was several. Many. To the point where my friend cut me off and said, 'Don't want that. You'd be changing everything about you that makes you who are.'"

I'm paraphrasing, of course, but that is what I said. I realized then that I didn't like who I was, and I wanted to know why I was this way, and if I could change it.

I think I'm finally finding some answers.

About a week ago, I was riding home from college with my dad. I was telling him, in the car, about the Art and Lit Magazine I run on campus. I was explaining the troubles the club has been having, overall, and how I wasn't completely happy with how it was going.

For those who don't know, I'm the president of the art and lit magazine on my campus. The book takes poetry, prose, artwork and photography submissions from the student body, selects the highest caliber, and prints them in a yearly book.

I was telling my dad that we didn't have as much art as I would've liked. He tells me, "Why don't you get your cousin to help you draw for the book?"

...

It was that moment that everything clicked into place. I suddenly understood a lot of the reasons why I do the things I do, and the way I do them.

My parents make no attempt to understand me.

This may sound fairly normal, but if you know me, then you know that my family has been incredibly tight knit since my 8th grade year in high school. And to realize that they just don't understand who I am, or what I want to be...it, well, it hurt. A lot.

I hid it in the car ride as best as I could, which surprisingly is very well. My dad started talking about politics and all I needed was to "mhm" at the right moments and he wouldn't know I wasn't listening. But, sheesh, I couldn't believe it.

It made sense. The more I thought about it, the more I realized it was true. It was an epiphany.

I tried not to think about it too much when I went home, and instead let the thoughts simmer. If I dwelled too much on this, I might make radical conclusions that could be incorrect. That, and emotions aren't something that readily get expressed at my house, so I really didn't want to let them show while I was at home. But I did think it over, nonetheless.

I went to my counselor last Wednesday, and explained this incident to her. She agreed. She said it wasn't exactly uncommon, but the desire to be understood is one that can drive the actions of many people. She said it was likely why I took to writing. I saw that the paper was someone who understood me, and wouldn't judge.

She then asked me, "Since your family is so tight-knit, how could they not understood you? You share everything, right?"

I began to explain my room. My room has been, as far as I can remember, football themed. I have football wallpaper. A patriots poster. used to have pictures on my wall from the Snow Bowl. A patriots rug. Etc.

I don't like football. Never did. Don't even know how to play it.

I remember saying, "I think my parents see me as the child they wanted me to be. And, in some way, still see me that way. Or choose to ignore the parts they don't like."

She asked me, "Is there anything in that room that's yours?"

Well. A bit. But it's fairly recent. As in the past three years or so. The first thing was a Ninja Turtles poster. I bought it, and wanted to put it on my wall. I had to fight for it. My parents did not want a "ugly kid's poster" on my wall. I really had to work for that. They agreed to let me hang it as long as it was framed. Yes. Framed.

Don't ask me why.

Later, I got a Transformers poster on the wall as well. That also took some effort. I also have some anime plushies, and I used to have my big whales in there as well. Those are out of my room currently, since they collect dust and I'm allergic to dust. The whales used to piss my parents off. I would come home from school, and the whales would be in the basement. I would bring them up every weekend. Until recently, since I'm trying to get my room dust-free so I breathe freely. But that's another story.

Jeanne asked me about the football poster above my bed. "Why don't you just take it down?"

"My parents would kill me."

"It's not their room. It's yours. And that poster represents their control on you. How they've been trying to get you to be a heterosexual, football-loving son. And instead they got you. They still love you, but they choose not to see who you really are. So, start with babysteps. Take that poster down, and put something you like up there. Preferably something they don't. It might work out for the best. I won't lie, sometimes these things don't end well, but it would at least be a good start. Give them a wake-up call."

My parents don't know about my counseling. I've, on numerous occasions, thought about yelling about it to them. Just being like, "By the way, I'm gay, and I'm seeing a counselor on campus." but I always lose my nerve. Jeanne thinks the poster is the first step toward doing that.

She's right. When I go home next weekend, the poster is going down. I'm gonna try and find a nice FullMetal Alchemist one, or something along that line for my wall instead.

I'm tired of trying to be someone I'm not. So, instead, I'm going to be who I want to be. And if my parents don't like it, tough shit. I'm 21. It's time to start being me.

I don't know if anyone will actually read that short novel. But it needed to be typed. And shared. All part of the desire to be understood, I guess.