America. The free. The equal.

Both statements are false. Society and it's twisted ways have come and given out labels. I hate labels. As if anyone likes them. But it seems that Society has blocked my free and un-tortured path and stuck florescent stickers all over me. Freak. Loser. Outcast. Different. Weird. Straight.

Don't judge me too. I have come running to you for help, hoping that someone out there might not abuse me with their cutting words and glaring stares. I need you. We need you.

Yes, there's two of us. Crazy to think that, two people love each other. But how can people of the different gender be together? That's preposterous. Sinful. We must come from some grotesque race that has bred itself up from the bottomless pits of hell.

But, I assure you, I do not have pointy teeth and a flicking red pointed tail hidden under my identity. I am Rachel. I am me.

But of course, your skeptical eyes do not believe this is so! Rachel, a plain, ordinary name. No, she cannot be equal as we are. But really, what is different about us? I have brown, wavy hair that turns into a cotton ball when brushed. My eyes are an ugly shade of green with sprinkles of brown in them. There's a freckle above my eyebrows, which never seem to stay in line. I enjoy drawing, especially abstract things; Sitting alone on the rocky bank of our calm river and watching the sun set and taking pictures of deer. I find it interesting to spend hours in a record store, talking with the stoned cashier about his strange life, and finding different incenses and their effects on moods.

Most of my time is spent away from home. I don't belong there. They don't accept me. Nature has taken me under her wing, and keeps me safe in the daytime, while a barren room with only a bed and a fading poster of the Jonas Brothers greets me at night. My moms don't like me there. They offer me a platter of dirty looks and silent voices when I walk up the stairs.

But they used to love me. They used to think that I was just like them. I used to think it too, but as a child of 2, chewing on plastic balls and crawling around the floor, there aren't much things to decide in life. But kindergarten came. The grade when the first loves come about. I watched as little girls, clothed in pink with high pigtails bouncing, chased after other little girls, trying to sneak in that sought for kiss. It was funny, watching the little boys being rejected a hug by another. It wasn't until Sharon, a tall girl in our grade, started to talk to me more. Always scooted to me closer in circle time. I realized the signs. I was her crush. But I didn't feel the same way back. It actually creeped me out. It's not that I didn't like her, it was that none of the little girls caught my eyes. I told Sharon this, in a nice way, but she gave me a strange look and never sat next to me again.

Maybe there's another girl out there for me. As time progressed, I found that this wasn't true. I started finding my heart beating faster when I caught eye contact with one of the boys, and it didn't go away. When I reached freshman year, I couldn't ignore it any longer. I wasn't gay; I was straight.

I was nervous. How would people react? Surely they could accept my differences. That was my first mistake, thinking that the human race would accept such a change in their ordinary lives. Just like African-Americans struggled with their skin color, I have struggled with my sexual orientation.

I told one of my friends, keep it a secret. But lips loosened and soon everyone knew. Instantly the labels came flying at me, stuck forever on my skin. It seemed as though they were branded, tattooed on my skin, never able to be removed. I was bullied online, in school. I started to become depressed, sharpening a knife against my skin.

They say whenever one door closes, another opens. And it has, the day when I found Logan. I still kept my Twitter, blocking the mean tweets. Lately, I had just begun to follow inspirational pages and tweeting out my thoughts. No one from school followed me. At least I assumed it was so, until a little circle appeared next to the electronic envelope. A breath escaped my lips. What was hiding from my eyes? Just a click. A click could change everything. It could send me over the edge of my depression, where I had been teetering on the edge, watching little pebbles and rocks loosen and fall down the cliff. What harm would it do now, only numbly register in my mind, painfully etching another scar upon my wrist.

So I clicked.

Logan: hi!(: I know u probably think im here to bully u like all the others, but I wanted to say... I like you


This had to be a joke. A sick joke. I replied.

Rachel: youre kidding


Maybe he wasn't. I stared at the bright little screen and decided I would give it a chance. Suddenly a little notification popped up. He replied!

Logan: no im straight like you


A little flutter in my chest.

Rachel: do you go to my school? I dont recognize your name

Logan: im a sophmore

Rachel: oh.. can I see a pic?


He sent me one, and he was cute. I told him so, and he asked me out on a date. Of course I couldn't say no, so we planned for a small restaurant that no one really went to. It was perfect.

So that's how me and my boyfriend met. We tried to keep it quiet that we were together, which surprisingly wasn't that hard since everyone was friends with the opposite gender. No one has found out. We keep our dates to secluded areas; a picnic under the bridge, a walk in the woods, the back of an old theater that only shows Western movies.

Has your mind opened up yet? Do you still judge me, who I am, on the road my heart has chosen? Or will you still continuously judge me on a way of life that I had not chose. Even though my wrists have been healed, the scars remain. Society refuses to believe I am the same. I run in turmoil, fighting the never ending battle of my equality. Do not allow me to be labeled. Rip them off. No one else will.