You know that girl at your school, the one you sort of know? She smiles and waves at you in the hallway, she’s nice to everyone but not really close to any one person. She’s friends with the “good girls”, but never in their huddle that blocks part of the hallway. Her uniform is pressed, her hair is brushed, her grades are good, and she never looks upset. Never, ever does she show a crack in her smile to the public, not even for a second. She is the quintessential “perfect girl”. At every school, in every grade, there is one.

And here’s the thing: each one has one major flaw to balance out everything you see on the outside. While it may not be the same across the board, this is the girl who comes home every night and eats only five almonds for dinner because she feels fat and ugly. This is the girl who drinks on the weekends to relieve the stress of being captain of varsity soccer and fighting for valedictorian to the point where she cries over a 95. In my case, it’s the girl who throws herself into debate and overloads herself with classes until she can’t think about anything else to forget part of herself. I can’t watch TV, surf the Internet, or even spend too much time around other girls without remembering that I’m different. That there’s something fundamentally wrong with me.

I find this part of myself so mortifying, so terrifying, that I can’t slow down long enough to think about it. If my head’s buried in a book I can’t interact with the world around me, and that’s the way I like it. I like it when my parents are proud of me for a new award or a fresh publication or a high mark on an assignment. Conversely, my stomach drops when my family members ask me if, at sixteen, I’ve finally found a boyfriend.

The obvious lie never escapes my mouth. I just tell them I’m too busy to date, which is true. For a minute, it makes me feel like I’m out by not saying I’m straight, by pretending that I want to spend my entire life in a busy blur of work done and work acknowledged. That all I am is a report card identified by a student ID number. That I am the sum of my achievements rather than a living, breathing human that feels and loves. That I’m a lesbian.

Sometimes, though, the edges of this tapestry, this image that I’ve built around myself start to fray. When I look at my best friend and fall absolutely in love with her for the seven hundredth time. When I log into Trevorspace and try to find myself the support that I’m too ashamed to reach out for in Atlanta. When I look normal on the outside, but bleed rainbow. When I write an essay to tell the world who I am without a name. When I wonder if I can ask for their acceptance before finding my own.