Most of the participants were older than me; a few were married. The facilitators, a couple in their forties: he, a typical psychiatrist with a beard and pipe; she, with gray hair and glasses, had a sweet smile. No one spoke for several minutes, and the participants felt uncomfortable, not knowing where to look. I couldn’t take it anymore and spoke up. I talked about my experience with my peers, the persecution, the teasing, the hormones, the prostitute, the exile. I didn’t cry, but every word came out drenched in sweat and blood.
The participants felt relief, first because someone broke the ice, but then I saw expressions ranging from horror, sympathy, to tears.
My peers reacted. They indicated that when they decided to join therapy, they didn’t imagine the severity of the problems they were to experience. “You were surrounded by monsters, a participant told me, nothing of what you have experienced can be justi-fied.” The others didn’t stop questioning the passive role of my parents or the professional capacity of those who treated me. I felt that my peers were ready to shoot them.
I was so anxious that I could barely hear them.
What I caught was enough to cause a whirlwind: abuse wasn’t just about physical kicks; it was invasion of pri-vacy, mental torment, experimental treatments, indifference to pain, non-acceptance, talking to children about adult matters, using them to attack the partner, forcing them into degrading situations, and the 92
list went on. The doctor also told me that my sexual orientation was not the problem.
“It’s just that if I become gay, no one will like me,”
was the only thing I dared to reply.
“I like you, Jacob,” the therapist responded.
New words to my ears. I fell silent. “Did the facilitator just say she likes me?” I asked myself. I had never heard anything like that before.”