Another Day, Another Gay Teen Bullied to Death

I am so sick and tired of writing some version of this story every couple of months.

His name was Jamie Hubley. He was 15 years old, and if I had my way, outside of those around him, you'd never once hear his name, read his story, or think about him. He would be, for all intents and purposes, invisible to your life. In my version of the story, Jamie would have lived through high school and graduated, gone off to University and made his family proud. He would have lived through the chronic depression and the mental health problems that surely tied his family and his mind into knots. He would have met a nice boy and had the romance he deserved. He would have found a career, built a home, made a life for himself and his loved ones. He would have done exactly what you or I have done. He would have had his chance at happiness. Instead, Jamie ended his life Friday, leaving behind dozens of friends and family members. I refuse to say he killed himself, or that he committed suicide. These phrases imply that the deciding actor was Jamie himself, like he woke up and decided this was the life course he'd take. No, Jamie did not jump; he was pushed. He was pushed by bullying at school. He was pushed by the pressure of being gay in a heterosexual-normalized world. He was pushed by depression, that damned illness that worms itself in and does not leave willingly, freely, or easily. He was pushed by a silently accepting culture and by oppressive, obscene religions and by every compassionate Crusader for Christ son of a bitch who couldn't wait to push his own sexual insecurity down the throat of every "faggot" he could harass. So, no. Jamie did not kill himself. He was murdered, and those accountable will never, ever be brought to justice. I know it's not his fault because it was not that long ago that I was Jamie — battling depression and sexuality and anxiety and wondering why I didn't just kill myself. I can remember being his age and, quite literally, every day thinking about ending my life. The pain of mental illness can be overwhelming, even at a low level on a strong person. The loneliness and the feeling that it will never end, that life will never get better, clouds out any rational judgment that a therapist might offer. Even now, in my 30s and doing well in life, I have days where I wonder if I can handle all that life throws at me. Like Jamie, I take antidepressants and I ride out the bad days with help from friends, from my girlfriend, from my family, and from whatever I can find inside myself. But I am 34 and have battled this my whole life. I have plenty of good days I can draw upon to get me through the bad ones. He was 15 and could hardly be expected to tackle this. I'm bisexual and have been called a "faggot" more times than I care to recount. It bounces off me because, like I said, I'm 34 and I frankly don't give a damn what other people think. But Jamie? He was a kid and he was loving and all of us, through silence or indifference or participation, killed him. "I hate being the only open gay guy in my school," Jamie wrote. "It fucking sucks, I really want to end it. Like all of it." And really, that's all that matters. All the anti-bullying campaigns, all the "It Gets Better", all the slogans, all the talk — the endless chatter — means nothing when we can't get through to the kids who need it. Gay or straight or bi, no one deserves to die alone, convinced no one will ever love you, that no one finds you special, that you are meaningless in this world. As long as there are people (let's call them Christians) who are free to demonize homosexuality and homosexuals, and as long as those people are allowed to teach their children that hatred, that vile, vile hatred, there will be incidents like this. So long as the culture allows it, the pain will continue, the agony endure, and the deaths? They will rise, too. Fight this. Fight for the son or daughter or friend or cousin or random, loving human being who hasn't the strength left at the end of the day to fight for themselves. Rage against this. Do not forget and do not let bad deeds go unspoken, unmentioned, uncorrected. Let this be the last story like this that anyone has to write.