There will always be enemies. Time to stop being your own.

—Larry Kramer

I was fifteen when I finally figured it out.

In hindsight, my revelation was a long time coming. There had always been signs of it: my discomfort with the way my mom used to tease me, asking, “Do you have a crush on that boy?” and how I struggled to even identify what a “crush” was. My discovery finally came as I was sitting at the dining room table, scrolling through blog post after blog post in an incognito browser. Although the posts were written by strangers, their stories of questioning, sexuality, and coming out felt so familiar. It was fascinating to see that there were thousands of people who felt like me — who were queer like me. I felt a wave of overwhelming relief; I wasn’t alone.

Yet, in the back of my mind and in the pit of my stomach, something else was brewing. It felt like dread. Like fear. Like frustration and anger. Although I was glad to have found a label for myself, I would have preferred to keep things simple; I hated change. I hated having to relearn who I was. I hated having my life plan turned on its head.

I felt as if my entire world had been flipped over.

***

I slip from the dining room table and climb to the second level of the house. My mom is downstairs watching television, the volume up so high she can’t hear the creak of the stairs.

The bathroom upstairs is always freezing; a wall of cold air hits me as I enter. I push past it and shut the door behind me. The world seems to shake beneath me, threatening to knock me off my feet.

When I look into the mirror, I see someone else there. A girl, one hand pressed flat against the wall until her fingertips turn white, stares back at me. She has a nondescript face with long black hair and wide glasses. She’s wearing a t-shirt I recognize. A small voice in my brain says, That’s you, idiot. That’s your reflection.

Still, she looks so unfamiliar. There’s nothing in her that I recognize.

Who are you?

The girl doesn’t reply. When I blink, her figure shakes, splitting into two before reforming itself. I squint, and the second girl reappears alongside her, a perfect copy, if not a little transparent. The ghost-like figure vanishes when I open my eyes again. I blink several more times, crossing my eyes a little, and watch the two girls dance around each other until my eyes burn and my head aches.

As painful as it is, it’s fascinating to watch.

When I stop to remove my glasses, the girls in the mirror do the same, copying my every move. Mocking, almost. I feel a pang of annoyance, but try to ignore it as I stop to rub my eyes. They copy me again. I want to punch them.

My eyesight has always been bad. I got my first pair of glasses in second grade, and when I put them on, the world seemed to explode before me. I was met with an onslaught of distinct shapes and sharp edges that I couldn’t remember ever seeing before. Even the leaves on the trees, which I could now see waving gently in the breeze, looked so bright that I had to squint and hold up a hand to block out the light. When I squinted, the trees waved even more dramatically. They righted themselves as soon as I reopened my eyes. I opened and closed my eyes like this several times, watching the trees shake.

It was no one’s fault but my own that my double vision wasn’t discovered earlier. I never thought much of it, and even used it to entertain myself when bored. It was fun, I thought, to glance out the corner of my eye and watch the world split into two. It was more annoying while reading or writing, though, when my ability to place my pen or find a word on a page actually mattered. I developed a habit to work with one eye open, the other squeezed tightly shut. When that got tiring, I’d switch to the other. Left eye, right eye. Left again. Right.

By the time I first met my dual reflection, I had been seeing double for at least six or seven years. A year later, I finally got a diagnosis. According to the American Optometric Association (AOA), strabismus is an eye condition where the eyes do not move together, leading to issues with depth perception and double vision. My strabismus was mild enough that no one else could see the misalignment of my eyes. To me, though, the world often looked and even felt as if it existed on two different planes.

When I stare into the mirror, there are two girls in my reflection and two girls in my mind. One girl represents who I saw myself as up until just a few moments ago: straight. She has big dreams for the future: a life with a husband and a cat. She’s “normal,” I would even dare to say. The other is like a ghost of myself. She feels unfamiliar, even dangerous, challenging my conceptions of myself and who I should be. She doesn’t have passions or dreams for the future. I wonder if she has any thoughts or if she even exists at all.

I look between the two identical girls before me and wonder which is my real reflection.

***

In the years since, my two reflections have followed me, haunting me with the question, “Who am I?” Who am I, and why do I find my second reflection so terrifying? In their 2009 study, psychologists David Frost and Ilan Meyer describe internalized homophobia as the set of negative social attitudes a queer person has towards themself. In some cases, they say, it can cause someone to reject their sexual orientation (Frost and Meyer). I believe them; I did it, too. It was hard to accept that I was not straight. In a way, I was trying to convince myself that it was a ruse, that I would soon find an exception to my sexuality and run away with it. I wanted to run far, far away until this phase was a distant memory in the back of my head: forgotten, or perhaps it had never existed.

Still, part of me knew that all my hoping was for nothing. I was most definitely not straight, and there was nothing that I could do about it. Despite my attempts to feign confidence in myself, a gnawing thought still followed me like my reflection on every surface.

Who am I?

I come back to face the girls in the mirror as if they would have an answer. Every blink shakes their images, fading them in and out of existence. When I stare at them, they stare back. One of them almost looks maniacal.

“I am—”

The cold air of the bathroom stings my lungs, drying out my breath before I can finish my sentence. My throat closes up, and I cannot breathe.

“I am qu—”

The girls speak when I do, and the echo of their voices feels sharp against my skin, cutting deep lines in my chest until I am dizzy. My reflections, even more blurry now, grip the bathroom counter. It almost looks as though one has grabbed the other’s hand like a vise, forcing the ghost to keep silent.

“I am q—. I am—”

The word never comes. I think one of my reflections looks sad, but when I try to look her way, she fades from view.

I settle for “I am,” but even that feels like a lie. I look down at my hands, which grip the bathroom counter, and I wonder if they are my hands. If I even exist at all. My life, entirely turned around by my self-discovery, feels so unreal.

“I am,” I say, and it feels like someone is punching the air from my stomach.

***

Again and again, I am revisited by the same question that came to me that day: who am I? Do I still insist on identifying as straight, or am I truly queer?

Frost and Meyer define a “minority stresser” as a source of stress that arises when individuals try to adapt to an “inhospitable social environment” (Frost and Meyer). They define internalized homophobia as one example of a minority stresser. While their observations are certainly true, I don’t find them entirely relevant to myself. My environment has been far from inhospitable; when coming out to my close friends, I have received nothing but love and support. I have only seen flurries of “we love you”s and “thank you for sharing this with us”s, which I am always grateful for. But if this is the case, what could be the cause of my struggles?

Soshana Rosenberg, an academic researcher and sexologist, gives a potential answer to this question. In an exploratory study she conducted in 2017, she coins the term “coming in” to describe the process by which a queer person comes to terms with their sexuality and learns to accept themself (Rosenberg). Coming in is the process of accepting your identity and escaping any negative beliefs you have of yourself. Despite the support I have seen, I still worry that my family or professors may not respond in the same positive way. When I even fear my reflection in the mirror, how can I comfortably be my authentic self around others? My bathroom, serving as an echo chamber of my thoughts, has only helped me build an inhospitable environment for myself. While impacted by social factors such as my friends, my coming in centers on myself and my pre-existing stigmas.

I have attempted to come in many times, not only that day in the bathroom but also in the years that followed. Even now, nearly five years later, the urge to run and to keep running has not faded. It comes down to fear – the same fear and dread that crept up on me the day I first realized I wasn’t straight. To me, being queer meant being different. After all, the original definition of queer is something “different” or “strange”. This straight “normal” filled movie and television screens as I was growing up. Even movies like Love, Simon (2018), which felt like a groundbreaking storyline when first released, lacked what I was unconsciously searching for. The movie follows a gay high schooler and his journey to acceptance. Unfortunately, the film is riddled with unaddressed homophobia and degrading jokes that only reinforce the idea that those who are more openly queer are different. Watching that movie, I absorbed Simon’s happy ending, eager for positive representation. But I also internalized the underlying message that being different was dangerous and unwelcome.

Sadly, the messages of Love, Simon are not unique. Queer representation in media has often been negative, leading to terms such as “bury your gays.” Augustana College writer Jack Harris defines “bury your gays,” a trope that is unfortunately prevalent in media, as the trend of killing off LGBTQ characters for little or no reason (Harris). The 100 (2014–2020) killed its lead bisexual character in an accident. In Voltron: Legendary Defender (2016–2018), the only gay character loses his fiancé in an unceremonious flashback. As Harris explains, killing gay characters validates and normalizes heteronormativity. It reinforces the idea that queer characters never get a happy ending or are punished for their sexual orientation. Sometimes, it’s as if happiness was never an option.

Thankfully, queer media representation is improving. The transition into more positive representation starts with small moments on screen. The Legend of Korra (2012) finale hints that the two female leads will end up together. It then leads to shows like Heartstopper (2022), which explores the queer love stories of six high school students in a light-hearted manner. Heartstopper, a show adapted from a young adult graphic novel series, follows Nick and Charlie, the leads, through their journey of self-discovery and their developing relationship. These shows celebrate differences, telling their audience that they “[are] worthy and deserve to exist” (Harris). Most importantly, they normalize queer happiness. Seeing positive queer lives in media tells every queer teenager that their life is meaningful and deserving of a happy ending. Watching Heartstopper did that for me.

I look forward to when shows like Heartstopper become even more prominent. This future is, I think, within arm’s reach. Since 1996, GLAAD, an organization dedicated to monitoring queer representation in media, has been studying the appearance of LGBTQ characters on television. They reported 637 queer regular characters in 2022, a massive increase from the twelve counted in their first year (GLAAD). That amounts to 637 characters that queer teenagers around the world can relate to. These changes may seem like just numbers, but it feels like more. As Sarah Ellis, president and CEO of GLAAD, expresses in its 2022 report, seeing yourself represented authentically on screen is unbelievably important for creating change (GLAAD).

While Ellis was referring to the push for inclusive programming, the impact of relatable representation counts for more than characters on a screen or numbers on paper. It’s about pride, confidence, and feeling worthy. The lives of these queer characters are fulfilling and, most importantly, happy. They feel like a breath of fresh air. Finally, I can see myself represented on screen and not fear it so much. I can only regret that my younger self didn’t have access to these shows.

Fortunately, at least one of my visual problems was solved by material means. In my sophomore year of high school, I finally found a solution to my strabismus. I obtained prism glasses, which bent light so that my eyes can view the world despite their erratic turning (AOA). When I put my glasses on, I no longer have to worry about seeing two different girls in the mirror.

However, there is no such easy fix for the two girls in my head. They often still haunt me today, preventing me from truly “coming in.” Like the girls in the mirror, they fade in and out of existence. From day to day, it’s hard to tell which girl will become prominent over the other. On most days, the stronger of the two comes out on top: the straight girl who I am most acquainted with. But sometimes, I will see the ghost of my reflection: my queer self, who has learned to accept herself.

Coming in can be a lifelong process, constantly changing as I learn and grow (Rosenberg). In the four years since I first identified that a queer version of myself may exist, I have learned that she does exist. The question of whether or not I have grown to accept her, though, remains unanswered. This acceptance will come with a better understanding of myself — the ability to look at my reflection in the mirror and to tell myself “I am queer” without having to hesitate or catch my breath. It’ll come with my overcoming the negative messages surrounding queer representation in media. As impossible as it may feel, achieving this self-acceptance is possible. It won’t be as quick and easy as it was to help my strabismus, but it is well within my grasp.

Maybe I don’t fully know who I am yet, but this is as good a place as any to start.

Works Cited

The 100. Created by Jason Rothenberg, Alloy Entertainment and Warner Bros. Television, 2014-2020.

Avatar: The Legend of Korra. Created by Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko, Nickelodeon Animation Studio, 2012-2014.

Frost, David M., and Ilan H. Meyer. “Internalized Homophobia and Relationship Quality Among Lesbians, Gay Men, and Bisexuals.” Journal of Counseling Psychology, vol. 56, no. 1, American Psychological Association, 2009, pp. 97–109, https://doi.org/10.1037/a0012844. Accessed 12 Apr. 2022.

Harris, Jack. “The Power of Queer Representation in the Media” (2017). Tredway Library Prize for First-Year Research. https://digitalcommons.augustana.edu/libraryprize/7. Accessed 14 Apr. 2022.

Heartstopper. Directed by Euros Lyn, See-Saw Films, 2022.

Kramer, Larry. Faggots. Warner Books, 1978.

Love, Simon. Directed by Greg Berlanti. Twentieth Century Fox, 2018.

Rosenberg, Shoshana. “Coming In: Queer Narratives of Sexual Self-Discovery.” Journal of Homosexuality,Routledge, Haworth Press, 2017, pp. 1788–1816. Accessed 12 Apr. 2022.

“Strabismus (Crossed Eyes).” American Optometric Association, https://www.aoa.org/healthy-eyes/eye-and-vision-conditions/strabismus?sso=y. Accessed 9 Apr 2022.

Voltron: Legendary Defender. Created by Joaquim Dos Santos, Lauren Montgomery, DreamWorks Animation Television, 2016-2018.

Where We Are on TV. GLAAD, 2022. https://www.glaad.org/whereweareontv21Accessed 8 Jul. 2022.