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My confession? I am secretly gay and I h*te it

I have undeniable attractions towards other guys. I am very straight looking and acting and very rarely even have affairs with guys and try to suppress my feelings as much as possible. Problem comes that I am becoming more and more depressed since on one side the feelings are there no matter what I do (prayers, ignoring, dating girls etc) and I hate them.

On the other hand my keeping the feelings away makes me s.x depressed and I am now thinking of su.c.de. I have even tried therapy but it did not work. I am just living knowing one day I will commit suicide since I cannot live with feelings I never asked for.

I needed to replace the shame that no one understood. The shame of an African man. There is some shame that is least of my worries including shame of getting an STI, impotency, s.xual orientation and having a potbelly. The worst kind of a shame I feared was lack of money, those who dismissed me as broke ass n***a. At least for that time being until I found out that true happiness is not in the amount of money you make, but in the happiness you make from the little you have.

You are bound by shame. Not because of the misgivings in life, but because as an African there are things you cannot talk about. Even if you have a mouth. Or the words. The simple rebuke, uttered by someone in a position of understanding the deep secrets you carry in plain sight has the potential to deeply affect a shattered individual. You just have to suppress all the emotions and pain but don’t dare to bring shame to the family, or society.
Keep in silent, even when it's shouting at the top of your emotions. This was a recipe for the black sheep characterization. You are the ugly duckling inside but painted white gliding effortlessly on the arena of life. Smiling. Pretending that everything is fine. Why do we always have to say we are fine when we are asked? Yet we are not? Why? Staunch religious African parents could not tolerate a beat of a different drummer. Neither did the society. A society that boxed us to wear clean underwear to prevent embarrassment in an event of a fatal accident. No one wanted to be caught in stinking underwear. No one wants to be caught in torn boxers, with one of your balls sticking out in the midst of fighting for your life in ICU. They cared less about your life but prioritized clean underwear.

Boxers that can be bought cheaply. A life that can never be replaced. Are our priorities f**ked up? Speaking of cheap boxers, then I only wish hearts too could be bought in the supermarket. Hearts that were 3D printed and labeled on the shelves. How I wish I could plug out the heart that loved Tim so much and replaced it with a brand new one that didn’t even he existed. I wish I could replace all the parts that ached and felt tortured.

Parts that I could choose just as I chose new shoes at the shop. New organs that rejuvenated me and only gave me the happiness I need to keep moving.


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