My dad found out I was gay when I was thirteen. He figured it out while doing his weekly lurk through the history on my computer. I was usually good at wiping that shit out, but must’ve missed something. He found one of those porn sites that are just full of links to other gay porn sites: bareback twinks, young sailors, daddy’s boy bondage and so on. He also found conversations between me and a few different twenty-something gay guys on AIM.

I was sitting in science class bored out of my mind when the intercom clicked on and asked, “Could you please send Brad Crelia to the office, his father’s here.” I was up immediately, instantly thinking someone died or got in a accident. My heart was racing and I was in the office two minutes after the call. When I got into the office and I saw my dad standing right inside, lookin’ two kinds of horrible, sad and mad, I knew there was no accident or death. I did something.
We walked out to his big white SUV, not speaking a word. His face red and the veins popping out around his arms because of his clinched fist. I was scared shitless. I got in the passenger seat and he stood outside for a minute or two, opened the door and looked over at me, “Brad, there’s a envelope right behind your seat, get it.”
I fished around in the back and pulled a envelope to the front with us. The manila envelope was stuffed, must of weighed a pound and half. I opened it, saw just the first page and burst into tears. I didn’t need to pull all the other pages out, I knew what was inside.
“Take the rest out.” he demanded.
I spread the pages across my lap.
“Look at it, what in the hell is all of this? This is a abomination, that’s what it is, you know where gays go…this is sick stuff Brad, fisting? Bestiality? Gang bangs! Jesus!” I didn’t know what to say, so I burst into tears again, “I’m sorry Dad, this isn’t me, it was just something I looked at…the guys online was just a joke thing, it wasn’t serious.”
He wasn’t buying it, “Brad, are you curious or something?”
“No, Dad. I am not curious.”
Over the next few days, we set up a appointment with a “pray the gay away” therapist, who I was to see twice a week until recovered. I wasn’t allowed to go to school for close to a week and had to memorize the names of the chapters in the bible. My dad and my step mom, Sallie, were asked to joined me for the first appointment. That’s the session we all decided that this should be kept from my mom. For her best interest, “You shouldn’t put your mother through all of this, God knows how hard it’s been for Sallie and me,” Dad said. I agreed.
Quickly, I should speak to my dad and mom’s relationship; Dad was a football player and Mom, a cheerleader in a small Texas town, they had me at nineteen and divorced a year or so later. They hated each other. The talks they did have I witnessed were only screams, I never knew them as anything more than enemies. So the, ‘let’s spare your mom the pain I endured’ comment was bullshit, it took me a year or so to figure that out.
The therapy sessions were actually not that bad. A lot of just chatting about what was going on with me. Occasionally, he had a ex-gay story to share or had me read from a recovery book. But, that was really the most of it. This was when I also started fooling around with my best friend, Collin. We’d mess around in the pool while wrestling or search porn all night on computer. My dad became suspicious and something more definitely had to be done.
Because of my parent’s custody agreement, any trip had to be approved by both parents. I was to tell Mom we were going to Disneyland or something, but we were really going to a Focus on the Family event “Love One Out” in California. That was the breaking point for me. I had a trip to see my mom planned and when I got back it would be off to Cali. I told Mom the first day I arrived that I really wanted to live with her again.
My mom and her boyfriend, Sam, were getting married that summer. Sam is a really great guy, one of the most caring people I’ve ever met. They got to know each other at grad school. Both were working on their MFA’s in creative writing. They worked together at The Local Planet, a alternative newspaper they owned. “Liberal” is a understatement. The day of the wedding, I came out to my mom and Sam. I was hugging my mom while we both were just bawling, noses red and raw. “What are you two crying about? Whats the big deal?” Sam says with a smile that warmed my heart. I was where I was supposed to be. Over the next few days, because of the lying on my dad’s part, Mom was granted full custody. I wouldn’t even return to collect my things, that was the end of any sort of relationship with my dad.
A month or so later it was time for me to start high school. I was gay-gay-gay at that time. Feeling as though I was just released from prison, I could do what I wanted and be who I was supposed to be. My first day; a pair of super tight turquoise bell bottoms, with a Bowie tee and a Mohawk. Some glitter and mascara on the eyes.(I shudder now thinking of that outfit) I felt free for the first time. It didn’t last long.I was bullied from the get-go. But, it got worse after I started a GSA in the school and from then on all I hear at school was; faggot this, fag that, queer, sissy. I was shoved and laughed at in the hall ways.
One night a group of boy’s, my tormentors from school, caught me walking home from a show. With them in a car and me on foot, they chased me. I ran into a alley and they followed cornering me in. The driver got out and hit me once then returned to his car and drove off. I thought they wanted me dead that night.
I sat in the alley and cried for a good twenty minutes, got up and walked home. My mom caught me on her way to bed and right away noticed I was hurt and upset. I never saw her that angry. She was red-faced pissed. She would be coming to school with me in the morning to see the Principal. Alternative school was my best option, said the Principal. They couldn’t help me if I didn’t rat on the guys. My lips were sealed, fearing retribution. So, I transferred.
My first suicide attempt was about three weeks after leaving my old high school. I got a sweet hook up on pill’s from a girl in my “Rock History 101” class at my alternative school and stole a hand full of pills from my mom. A few friends had me over and we started drinking. I grabbed a bottle of vodka from the fridge with grasp like a boa-constrictor. That liquor was mine.
Half way through the bottle and I lost it. In a instant I had my dad, those bullies and my stupid fucking ex-Principal crashing down on me. I felt so worthless. I got the thirty or forty narcotic painkillers I had and washed ‘em down with the cheap ass vodka I had. My ‘friends’ found me passed out in the bathroom, not breathing. Fearing some sorta of trouble they just drove up and pushed me out at the nearest hospital.

I woke up a day or so later with my mom and Sam around me in the hospital room. My throat was sore from the tube down it and the charcoal they had to pump into me. My mom cried while Sam took my hand. I didn’t wanna die, I told them. A lie that took years to rid myself of. After that night there where multiple other attempts, I started cutting my wrist or OD’ing on crystal. I hit bottom hard and fast. I felt hated and alone. All I could do was make myself not feel, I would take any drug or drink that came my way. Which eventually, led to some huge breakdown and I was right back to misery-fest.
It took me years to feel better. I went to rehab and had help from supportive counselors. I have a awesome therapist. I still go to therapy, sometimes twice a week. I have built relationships with like-minded, loving people. After high school I never saw those boys who hurt me so badly, they became invisible people, in a swoosh they turned into dust and blew away. Every so often I have to sit and reflect back on the hurt and remind myself of the greatness and love that is out there:

• A recent trip to Spokane with the family at my Aunts and Uncles house. Spending time with my brother and amazing cousins who are such beautiful, young ladies now. Hugging my Granny and Grandpa.
• Starting a website with my best friend, Jesse.
• The first trip my first long time boyfriend and I took to the Warp Tour in 2006. Laying on the grass in each others arms in-between shows in the shade.
• A David Byrne concert with my mom on her b-day and the meet and great afterward.
• Taking my little bro to get his first tattoo, our now deceased mother’s initials on his wrist to match mine.

If I would have succeed in taking my own life, I wouldn’t have those times or the great ones ahead. Life can be rough, unbearable at times but it’s a part of living. And it wont last forever, it gets better. As I write this there are undoubtedly queer youth contemplating ending their life, a boy in Oklahoma, my birth state, killed himself just today. Tyler Clementi a few weeks before. Asher Brown. Raymond Chase. Justin Aberg. The list is long and as members of the LGBTQ community it’s our job to help stop these tragic deaths.We have such a hard time understanding why young LGBTQ members try or do kill themselves. But it’s pretty obvious to me, with the fight for marriage equality, non-discrimination legislation and DADT repeal failing or taking years to make any progress constantly in the news and stories of hate-crimes happening almost daily, we really need to look at how society pushes these kids into a life so painful that suicide is their only option.
Talk to people you know who are struggling because of bullying or with their sexuality. Volunteer, vote for liberal candidates….I don’t have the answers but it’s important to keep this dialogue open, so we can make the changes that need to happen to make all this stop.

More information on how to help someone out: The Trevor Project and It Get’s Better