Youth Nailed to the Pillory of Shame: The Pain and Regret of Conversion Therapy

At my eighteenth birthday party, someone pulled out my diary and read it aloud. “He likes men? That's disgusting.” The feelings I'd kept hidden were dragged into the sunlight and exposed. I looked at him hopefully. He pulled the woman beside him close and kissed the corner of her mouth. “I already like someone. As for him, it's an illness. It needs to be treated.” With every word, he nailed me to a pillar of shame. After I left the conversion therapy center, he leaned close, his breath hot. “Isn't this what you like?” In that moment, it felt as if someone had stopped me from breathing. My stomach churned. The filth I vomited stained his clothes. In agony, I said, “Stay away from me.” His disbelieving eyes filled with shock. “Wasn't your diary full of how much you loved me?” Do I still love him? I don't dare to anymore.