"I'm Glad You're Not A Fat Butch Lesbian"

"Coming out of the closet" seemed too be too treacherous a road. With my privacy abolished, my contact with the outside world diminished, and my independence dwindling to such a minute amount of freedom I was worse off than a young child, I crept back behind those dark, shadowy closet doors determined to cleanse myself of every impure thought or action ever to cross through the boundary of my mind. My mind became darker than ever, but I force fed it what I believed to be light. As did my parents. My father had me take one of my multitudes of composition notebooks, and research biblical passages regarding homosexuality and write them down, as well as verses on purity of thought and body. I had to write in in it also every day reasons why homosexuality was a sin, and reasons why god desired me to remain holy. Then every day I was supposed to read what i had written and found out to my father. There is a lot I don't remember about this book; probably a lot I don't want to remember. I have blocked it for so long that the memories are faded, but the feelings are powerful. During this time, I began attempting in my own time to transcribe the entire bible by hand. I began to plan to become a nun. I grew attached to catholic thoughts and ideas, and grew very zealous in my faith. I wore the most modest of clothing I could find in my closet; long shirts, skirts, tights, modest shoes. My mother would make comments to me such as, "I'm so glad that you're not going to become a fat butch lesbian", and smile. She thought she was complimenting me. I felt betrayed.
Christmas came, and went. New years passed and it was 2011 now. I didn't think much of it. I was writing stories, and retreating farther and farther into the deepest recesses of my imagination.
I didn't want to be with my parents anymore. I was sixteen; I'd heard from one of my friends about emancipation...but I knew that to do that you needed a job and a place to live. I knew my parents would never let me get a job. Not until I graduated high school. Maybe not until I was done with college even. I might be trapped forever! I grew frantic, and was terrified that I would never get away from them. Their degrading talk, their prying eyes and ears and fingers.
When my shirts showed too much cleavage, my mother would stick her bony finger down my breasts and wiggle it and tell me to pull my shirt up.
When my journal entries were too depressing, my parents would read them to me, and tell me to 'stop being so negative' and ask why I don't ever write about the fun things we do as a family.
I could never tell anyone anything personal on the phone - it was always possible my mother might be listening in.
To me, being sixteen, I thought that running away would solve this. Well to be perfectly frank, I did not really 'think'. I just 'did'.
It was March, and I was in my bedroom. I can't really determine what went through my mind. I am not quite sure what did go through it that night. It was late. Very late. I had a phone book by my side as I dialed a taxi cab from my flip phone. I had packed my big black backpack with everything I 'thought' I'd need. I had also gone to the bathroom and taken a pair of stainless steel sewing scissors to my hair and hacked it all off as a poor attempt at a disguise, or possibly because I wanted it that short and my mother kept leaving it longer than I wanted it.
I put on a beanie, but in the rush to get outside to wait on the curb for the taxi, I forgot my hoodie. It was cold outside, even if it is Florida.

I didn't know where I was going. I had very little money. But nonetheless, this would start something that was bigger than 'gay', bigger than 'being sixteen'. Bigger than