guyhatedbygod
New Member
- Aug 7, 2026
- 2
This month I plan to end my life. But before that happens, I want to explain at length why I have reached this point. It may be long. Honestly, I do not know exactly where I should begin, but I have to begin somewhere.
First, let me explain who I am now. I am a 22-year-old boy, I am queer, and I have just graduated from my bachelor's degree with the highest academic standing in my department and faculty. Physically, I would not describe myself as particularly ugly or particularly very handsome, but people have always told me that I am cute. For years I have been receiving treatment for major depressive disorder, severe anxiety disorder, and PTSD.
I was born in the southernmost part of my already Europe's most homophobic country, in one of the least developed, most conservative, and rural parts of that country. I was born to parents who were almost forty. I had two older sisters who were older than me by 10 and 14 years, and apparently I also had an older brother who died as a child.
When I think about my childhood, many of the memories that come to me are actually beautiful ones, especially the memories of my mother. My mother and I were extremely attached to each other. People used to call me her "tail" because we were almost always together. We cooked together, cleaned together, woke up early together, talked for hours, and went everywhere together.
My relationship with my father was completely different. I always knew that he existed, but I never felt any desire to spend time with him. I would count the minutes until I could leave. Even his presence in the same room made me uneasy. I never felt the kind of love toward him that people usually describe when they talk about complicated relationships with their fathers. For me, there was simply nothing there.
From childhood, there was also something about me that made me stand out in the environment where I was raised. I was born into an extremely toxic masculine culture, but I was never a wild or stereotypically masculine boy. I did not like fighting, destroying things, breaking things, or acting aggressively. I liked cooking, books, gardening, science, art, sewing machines, and other things that people around me considered feminine. But to be honest I was not even feminine (there is nothing wrong with being feminine of course). I was just a bit different. I was also extremely shy. That was enough for neighbors and relatives to criticize my parents and tell them to raise me properly, because I was acting like a girl.
At the same time, I was constantly told that I needed to behave like a man. I remember being a small child and having boys surround me in the street, circling around me and shouting "girl, girl, girl." I cried and tried to hit them with my little scooter. There was obviously nothing wrong with being a girl, but I was growing up in an environment where being perceived as feminine was itself treated as an insult. I was not doing anything to anyone. I was simply a shy, gentle, non-aggressive boy, and that alone was enough to make me a target.
When school started, I became even more withdrawn. I did not want to approach people. I trusted nobody. I had no safe person to talk to and no one I felt could understand me. Whenever I revealed more of my personality, I would hear that I should stop acting like a girl, become more masculine, or "be a man." I also began hearing local homophobic slurs. My own sisters used the word "gay" against me constantly to mock me. They were older than me, so they understood what they were saying. This was how I first learned what homosexuality supposedly meant. I learned it through insults and humiliation before I understood my own sexuality.
I was beaten by family members and by people outside the family, and I became extremely socially anxious. At school I talked to almost nobody. I had no friends. I would simply sit in the classroom. But academically I was exceptional. I consistently received the highest grades and examination scores and eventually became one of the strongest students in my entire city. Education and intelligence became my secret weapons. They were the strongest things I had. My mother's own academic perfectionism also played a role. She had always been an excellent student herself, and education was one of the things we shared.
As I grew older and the boys around me entered puberty, the abuse became sexual. Male classmates would randomly come up and touch my ass. Bigger boys would push me toward walls and imitate sexual acts against me, treating me as though I were a girl they were having sex with. It happened with clothes on, but it was still sexual abuse. I became afraid to use the school bathroom because I was afraid I would be raped.
I told nobody. I prayed alone because I had no one I could tell. I knew that if I spoke, I might be blamed or punished instead. The logic around me was that because I was shy and conventionally non-masculine, these supposedly masculine boys had some right to use me to satisfy their urges. If I had been "man enough," I was made to believe, this would not have happened.
I remember one day when the boys in my class were talking together during a break and I realized they were discussing me. I heard them saying that I would scream like a girl, that I was skinny like a girl, that I could not do anything, and that they were sure I desired them myself. I was sixteen years old, I had already lost my mother, I had no friends to talk to, and I was hearing myself being discussed as part of other people's fantasies of sexual violence.
My family home was not a place of peace either. My father did not physically abuse me or my sisters, but he constantly fought with my mother and used physical force against her. My mother was an extremely strong and aggressive woman herself, so their fights were often both of them screaming and physically struggling with each other. I hated waking up to those sounds. I remember my sister getting out of bed and running to separate them while I stayed in bed trembling. Every night I prayed that the next morning they would not fight.
My father also repeatedly cheated on my mother and was openly egotistical. He said that he loved himself more than anything else. He would rather spend money on himself and on women who gave him attention than on his own children. My mother had to force him to spend money on us. We were not rich, but both parents worked and we were not starving. The household could have been much better if my father had actually cared about his family.
My mother carried an enormous amount of anger and stress. In 2017, when I was thirteen, she was diagnosed with stage three rectal cancer. Because she was a healthcare professional, she understood what the disease meant and what she would have to go through. After learning about the cancer, she attempted to hang herself because she did not want to experience the pain. My father saved her at the last moment. Later, when my sister asked him how he felt, he said that he was worried the police might think he had killed her. My mother underwent surgery and received a colostomy bag. In the winter of 2018 the cancer spread, and in the summer of 2019, when I was fifteen, she died.
My mother was the person I loved most in my family. Losing her left me alone with my father. He did not beat me and he bought me food, but emotionally I could not feel safe around him. He was a deeply patriarchal man who believed women were inferior and primarily useful for sex. He openly told me these things during conversations between us. I never responded. I was sitting next to him as his closeted gay son while listening to him express views that made me terrified of what would happen if he ever knew who I really was. He has openly said that he would behead a "ladyboy" son. He repeated things like this regularly. Even now, hearing his voice can make my chest hurt and trigger panic.
My sisters have their own complicated relationships with him and still retain some affection for him because he is their father. I do not. I feel nothing toward him. At seventeen, I left my home country to attend university in a neighboring country, partly because I needed to escape that environment and finally live as myself.
University initially gave me a chance to build a life. I was still being abused by my sister, whom I lived with, and she repeatedly told me things such as "why don't you kill yourself" and that she did not want me in her home. She beat me and psychologically abused me. I began self-harming even more. My arms are still covered with scars from that period. I had almost no money. I sometimes ate once a day. Some days I searched the ground for coins because I hoped I might find enough to buy tea.
But academically I continued to excel. After my preparatory year, I obtained a scholarship. I also finally saw a psychiatrist and began taking antidepressants for my major depressive disorder and anxiety. I became significantly better. I started making friends. I met queer people. I changed my appearance and grew my hair long.
I started attending a Catholic church because I was desperately looking for a sense of parenthood and belonging. I tried religious and spiritual paths because I was desperate for something to hold onto. I prayed. I questioned. I tried to understand whether there was some meaning behind what had happened to me. I did not do this casually. I was looking for a reason to keep living.
My academic success eventually gave me more independence. I became an undergraduate researcher and received additional scholarship money. I also received support from a local LGBT+ student organization in the country where I was studying. With my academic income and scholarships, I was finally able to save money for my Erasmus visa. After a long and painful process, I obtained a European visa and went to a European country in September 2025.
The first months were beautiful. I had beautiful experiences and photographs, and for the first time I felt as though my life might actually be beginning. Then, on December 24, 2025, my sister contacted me and told me that her friend had seen me on a dating app. She sent me a screenshot. She now knew that I was gay. She used this as the reason to expel me from her home. She sent homophobic threats, including telling me that if I came back to her house I would be dead. She also threatened to tell my father that I was gay so that he could finally kill me. I do not know whether she actually told him because I no longer have ties with my family.
I had a major breakdown in the European country. I stopped eating and started self-harming again after having managed to stop for a long period.
I had to return to the neighboring country on February 2, 2026, but I had nowhere to go. The dormitory applications had already closed months earlier. When I arrived, I stayed at the airport for the first day because I literally had nowhere else to go. During the day I went to a shopping center, and at night I slept in a central park with my suitcases. After three days of being literally homeless, I got lucky. Someone left a private dormitory and a bed became available in a two-person shared room. It cost 8,750 liras per month and required a 5,000-lira deposit. I borrowed money from a friend and moved in. My monthly income was approximately 8,000 liras. The Erasmus fund of approximately 500 euros, which was paid after I returned to the country, helped me eat once a day and cover the rest of the rent. I have been malnourished for more than six months. I am not legally allowed to work in this country. The only work I could realistically do was sex work, but it is too dangerous and I am not mentally healthy enough to carry that level of stress and risk.
Normally I survived through two scholarships. One was an academic merit scholarship, and the other was based on my LGBT activism and risk status from a local LGBT+ student support organization. Together they provided approximately 8,000 liras. Since I graduated in June, those scholarships ended. I currently have no stable source of income. My friends donated approximately 200 euros so that I could pay rent and buy food. That is how I am currently surviving. I have to leave the dormitory by September.
The most painful part is that I actually have a way out. I was accepted into master's programs at prestigious European universities. I was also accepted into a Master of Science program in Data Analysis at a prestigious European university after an interview. I received a merit scholarship that provides free education and an 8,000-euro annual stipend. Local LGBT+ organizations in the host city have agreed to help me with asylum seeking once I arrive. I have an actual academic future waiting for me there. I have admission. I have funding. I have organizations willing to help me once I arrive. My scholarship documentation itself covers a substantial part of the financial requirement. I have done almost everything already.
The problem is that I cannot get there. I do not have enough money to show the required financial funds, pay for insurance, buy the ticket, or cover the necessary fees. I do not even consistently have enough money to buy food.
I have tried everything I could find. I contacted a prominent international LGBTQ+ refugee support organization and my case was rejected. I contacted another international refugee support organization and my case was rejected. I contacted a human rights defender organization and did not receive a solution. An international academic protection network knew about my case and said they would try to find help, but nothing came from it. A major European diplomatic body flagged my case and referred it toward other human rights organizations, but again there was no solution.
I contacted LGBT organizations, human rights organizations, journalists, academic protection organizations, refugee support organizations, and other people who might have been able to help. I have been in contact with journalists, including one who has said that she will publish my story in a major European newspaper if I die. Many organizations know my situation. My case has even been flagged by a major European diplomatic body. I did not simply wait for someone to rescue me. I contacted everyone I could. I asked for help getting to the European university because once I am there, I already have a concrete path forward.
I also tried religious and philosophical paths because I was desperate. I tried to understand whether I could continue believing in God when I was repeatedly asking for help and nothing changed. I was not saying that God owed me anything. I was asking whether disbelief could really be morally blameworthy in a situation like mine. If God has the power to intervene, knows that I am asking for the opportunity to live a normal human lifespan, knows that I have exhausted worldly options, and nevertheless does not intervene, what exactly am I supposed to conclude?
I do not desire eternal life. I do not understand Heaven as a reward because eternal existence does not have subjective value to me. I am not saying that I want evil or that I want to hurt anyone. I wanted an ordinary human life. I wanted to study, work, have friends, love someone, cook, garden, learn things, and grow old. I tried religion because I wanted a reason to keep living.
If I return to my hometown, I believe my family and community could kill me because of my sexual orientation. If I return to my home country more generally, I also face conscription and the dangers associated with military hazing and sexual violence. I do not see a safe future there. The neighboring country where I currently am is not financially sustainable either. I cannot legally work in the way I need to survive, my scholarships have ended, I am already malnourished, and I have to leave my dormitory by September. The European country with the university is the one concrete place where I have admission, a scholarship, and people willing to help me, but I cannot overcome the financial barrier required to reach it.
I am not just a random queer guy applying for help. I am an activist and a scholar who fought for a very long time and has now reached a point where I do not see another option. I have spent my entire life turning academic success into a weapon because it was the only thing I could control. I became one of the best students in my city. I became a researcher. I became an activist. I graduated first in my department and cum laude. I won scholarships. I was accepted into a master's degree in a safe country. I won an 8,000-euro annual scholarship. I built a future for myself. I did everything I was supposed to do. And yet I am still trapped because I cannot afford the final step.
I want people to understand that I did not simply decide that life was not worth living. I have been fighting to live for twenty-two years. I survived my family. I survived my hometown. I survived homophobia. I survived sexual abuse. I survived my mother's death. I survived my father's presence. I survived abuse from my sister. I survived poverty. I survived homelessness. I survived depression, PTSD, anxiety, and self-harm. I survived years of hiding who I was. I kept studying while barely eating. I kept applying. I kept contacting organizations. I kept looking for religious, spiritual, academic, humanitarian, and political solutions. I tried international refugee organizations. I tried human rights organizations. I tried academic protection networks. I contacted journalists. I contacted human rights groups. I contacted LGBT organizations. I tried everything I could find.
I wanted to live. I really wanted to live. I am only 22. I had a future that I can actually see. I have a university waiting for me. I have a scholarship waiting for me. I have people in the European country who have said they will help me. The tragedy is that I cannot reach it.
I am now almost a master at cutting my arms. I do it quite a lot. But I really do not think it can make me die. All I plan to do is drink my SSRI pills-paroxetine-in a large dose to end my life finally within this month. Since I live alone, I cannot be discovered anyway. But I'm kind of nervous because I'm afraid it might just cause huge pain and instead of killing me, only harm me.
Tbh, being alive is itself huge work. Because even when you die, you need to think about what will happen to your body. Who will take care of it? Who will get in trouble? Whose life will be affected? I mean, I'm gonna die-why would I care about it? Maybe it is because of the fact that I actually wanted to live and I'm quite an empathetic person. But yeah, I can take your advice on a better method. I do not have money to buy expensive stuff, so it should be home‑friendly.
I am writing this because I wanted somewhere to speak before I disappear from everyone's lives. For most of my life, there were very few people I could tell the truth to. I spent years pretending that everything was fine. I pretended with my father. I pretended with my family. I hid my sexuality. I hid my depression. I hid my self-harm. I kept getting excellent grades while my private life was collapsing. I became very good at surviving silently.
With love.
First, let me explain who I am now. I am a 22-year-old boy, I am queer, and I have just graduated from my bachelor's degree with the highest academic standing in my department and faculty. Physically, I would not describe myself as particularly ugly or particularly very handsome, but people have always told me that I am cute. For years I have been receiving treatment for major depressive disorder, severe anxiety disorder, and PTSD.
I was born in the southernmost part of my already Europe's most homophobic country, in one of the least developed, most conservative, and rural parts of that country. I was born to parents who were almost forty. I had two older sisters who were older than me by 10 and 14 years, and apparently I also had an older brother who died as a child.
When I think about my childhood, many of the memories that come to me are actually beautiful ones, especially the memories of my mother. My mother and I were extremely attached to each other. People used to call me her "tail" because we were almost always together. We cooked together, cleaned together, woke up early together, talked for hours, and went everywhere together.
My relationship with my father was completely different. I always knew that he existed, but I never felt any desire to spend time with him. I would count the minutes until I could leave. Even his presence in the same room made me uneasy. I never felt the kind of love toward him that people usually describe when they talk about complicated relationships with their fathers. For me, there was simply nothing there.
From childhood, there was also something about me that made me stand out in the environment where I was raised. I was born into an extremely toxic masculine culture, but I was never a wild or stereotypically masculine boy. I did not like fighting, destroying things, breaking things, or acting aggressively. I liked cooking, books, gardening, science, art, sewing machines, and other things that people around me considered feminine. But to be honest I was not even feminine (there is nothing wrong with being feminine of course). I was just a bit different. I was also extremely shy. That was enough for neighbors and relatives to criticize my parents and tell them to raise me properly, because I was acting like a girl.
At the same time, I was constantly told that I needed to behave like a man. I remember being a small child and having boys surround me in the street, circling around me and shouting "girl, girl, girl." I cried and tried to hit them with my little scooter. There was obviously nothing wrong with being a girl, but I was growing up in an environment where being perceived as feminine was itself treated as an insult. I was not doing anything to anyone. I was simply a shy, gentle, non-aggressive boy, and that alone was enough to make me a target.
When school started, I became even more withdrawn. I did not want to approach people. I trusted nobody. I had no safe person to talk to and no one I felt could understand me. Whenever I revealed more of my personality, I would hear that I should stop acting like a girl, become more masculine, or "be a man." I also began hearing local homophobic slurs. My own sisters used the word "gay" against me constantly to mock me. They were older than me, so they understood what they were saying. This was how I first learned what homosexuality supposedly meant. I learned it through insults and humiliation before I understood my own sexuality.
I was beaten by family members and by people outside the family, and I became extremely socially anxious. At school I talked to almost nobody. I had no friends. I would simply sit in the classroom. But academically I was exceptional. I consistently received the highest grades and examination scores and eventually became one of the strongest students in my entire city. Education and intelligence became my secret weapons. They were the strongest things I had. My mother's own academic perfectionism also played a role. She had always been an excellent student herself, and education was one of the things we shared.
As I grew older and the boys around me entered puberty, the abuse became sexual. Male classmates would randomly come up and touch my ass. Bigger boys would push me toward walls and imitate sexual acts against me, treating me as though I were a girl they were having sex with. It happened with clothes on, but it was still sexual abuse. I became afraid to use the school bathroom because I was afraid I would be raped.
I told nobody. I prayed alone because I had no one I could tell. I knew that if I spoke, I might be blamed or punished instead. The logic around me was that because I was shy and conventionally non-masculine, these supposedly masculine boys had some right to use me to satisfy their urges. If I had been "man enough," I was made to believe, this would not have happened.
I remember one day when the boys in my class were talking together during a break and I realized they were discussing me. I heard them saying that I would scream like a girl, that I was skinny like a girl, that I could not do anything, and that they were sure I desired them myself. I was sixteen years old, I had already lost my mother, I had no friends to talk to, and I was hearing myself being discussed as part of other people's fantasies of sexual violence.
My family home was not a place of peace either. My father did not physically abuse me or my sisters, but he constantly fought with my mother and used physical force against her. My mother was an extremely strong and aggressive woman herself, so their fights were often both of them screaming and physically struggling with each other. I hated waking up to those sounds. I remember my sister getting out of bed and running to separate them while I stayed in bed trembling. Every night I prayed that the next morning they would not fight.
My father also repeatedly cheated on my mother and was openly egotistical. He said that he loved himself more than anything else. He would rather spend money on himself and on women who gave him attention than on his own children. My mother had to force him to spend money on us. We were not rich, but both parents worked and we were not starving. The household could have been much better if my father had actually cared about his family.
My mother carried an enormous amount of anger and stress. In 2017, when I was thirteen, she was diagnosed with stage three rectal cancer. Because she was a healthcare professional, she understood what the disease meant and what she would have to go through. After learning about the cancer, she attempted to hang herself because she did not want to experience the pain. My father saved her at the last moment. Later, when my sister asked him how he felt, he said that he was worried the police might think he had killed her. My mother underwent surgery and received a colostomy bag. In the winter of 2018 the cancer spread, and in the summer of 2019, when I was fifteen, she died.
My mother was the person I loved most in my family. Losing her left me alone with my father. He did not beat me and he bought me food, but emotionally I could not feel safe around him. He was a deeply patriarchal man who believed women were inferior and primarily useful for sex. He openly told me these things during conversations between us. I never responded. I was sitting next to him as his closeted gay son while listening to him express views that made me terrified of what would happen if he ever knew who I really was. He has openly said that he would behead a "ladyboy" son. He repeated things like this regularly. Even now, hearing his voice can make my chest hurt and trigger panic.
My sisters have their own complicated relationships with him and still retain some affection for him because he is their father. I do not. I feel nothing toward him. At seventeen, I left my home country to attend university in a neighboring country, partly because I needed to escape that environment and finally live as myself.
University initially gave me a chance to build a life. I was still being abused by my sister, whom I lived with, and she repeatedly told me things such as "why don't you kill yourself" and that she did not want me in her home. She beat me and psychologically abused me. I began self-harming even more. My arms are still covered with scars from that period. I had almost no money. I sometimes ate once a day. Some days I searched the ground for coins because I hoped I might find enough to buy tea.
But academically I continued to excel. After my preparatory year, I obtained a scholarship. I also finally saw a psychiatrist and began taking antidepressants for my major depressive disorder and anxiety. I became significantly better. I started making friends. I met queer people. I changed my appearance and grew my hair long.
I started attending a Catholic church because I was desperately looking for a sense of parenthood and belonging. I tried religious and spiritual paths because I was desperate for something to hold onto. I prayed. I questioned. I tried to understand whether there was some meaning behind what had happened to me. I did not do this casually. I was looking for a reason to keep living.
My academic success eventually gave me more independence. I became an undergraduate researcher and received additional scholarship money. I also received support from a local LGBT+ student organization in the country where I was studying. With my academic income and scholarships, I was finally able to save money for my Erasmus visa. After a long and painful process, I obtained a European visa and went to a European country in September 2025.
The first months were beautiful. I had beautiful experiences and photographs, and for the first time I felt as though my life might actually be beginning. Then, on December 24, 2025, my sister contacted me and told me that her friend had seen me on a dating app. She sent me a screenshot. She now knew that I was gay. She used this as the reason to expel me from her home. She sent homophobic threats, including telling me that if I came back to her house I would be dead. She also threatened to tell my father that I was gay so that he could finally kill me. I do not know whether she actually told him because I no longer have ties with my family.
I had a major breakdown in the European country. I stopped eating and started self-harming again after having managed to stop for a long period.
I had to return to the neighboring country on February 2, 2026, but I had nowhere to go. The dormitory applications had already closed months earlier. When I arrived, I stayed at the airport for the first day because I literally had nowhere else to go. During the day I went to a shopping center, and at night I slept in a central park with my suitcases. After three days of being literally homeless, I got lucky. Someone left a private dormitory and a bed became available in a two-person shared room. It cost 8,750 liras per month and required a 5,000-lira deposit. I borrowed money from a friend and moved in. My monthly income was approximately 8,000 liras. The Erasmus fund of approximately 500 euros, which was paid after I returned to the country, helped me eat once a day and cover the rest of the rent. I have been malnourished for more than six months. I am not legally allowed to work in this country. The only work I could realistically do was sex work, but it is too dangerous and I am not mentally healthy enough to carry that level of stress and risk.
Normally I survived through two scholarships. One was an academic merit scholarship, and the other was based on my LGBT activism and risk status from a local LGBT+ student support organization. Together they provided approximately 8,000 liras. Since I graduated in June, those scholarships ended. I currently have no stable source of income. My friends donated approximately 200 euros so that I could pay rent and buy food. That is how I am currently surviving. I have to leave the dormitory by September.
The most painful part is that I actually have a way out. I was accepted into master's programs at prestigious European universities. I was also accepted into a Master of Science program in Data Analysis at a prestigious European university after an interview. I received a merit scholarship that provides free education and an 8,000-euro annual stipend. Local LGBT+ organizations in the host city have agreed to help me with asylum seeking once I arrive. I have an actual academic future waiting for me there. I have admission. I have funding. I have organizations willing to help me once I arrive. My scholarship documentation itself covers a substantial part of the financial requirement. I have done almost everything already.
The problem is that I cannot get there. I do not have enough money to show the required financial funds, pay for insurance, buy the ticket, or cover the necessary fees. I do not even consistently have enough money to buy food.
I have tried everything I could find. I contacted a prominent international LGBTQ+ refugee support organization and my case was rejected. I contacted another international refugee support organization and my case was rejected. I contacted a human rights defender organization and did not receive a solution. An international academic protection network knew about my case and said they would try to find help, but nothing came from it. A major European diplomatic body flagged my case and referred it toward other human rights organizations, but again there was no solution.
I contacted LGBT organizations, human rights organizations, journalists, academic protection organizations, refugee support organizations, and other people who might have been able to help. I have been in contact with journalists, including one who has said that she will publish my story in a major European newspaper if I die. Many organizations know my situation. My case has even been flagged by a major European diplomatic body. I did not simply wait for someone to rescue me. I contacted everyone I could. I asked for help getting to the European university because once I am there, I already have a concrete path forward.
I also tried religious and philosophical paths because I was desperate. I tried to understand whether I could continue believing in God when I was repeatedly asking for help and nothing changed. I was not saying that God owed me anything. I was asking whether disbelief could really be morally blameworthy in a situation like mine. If God has the power to intervene, knows that I am asking for the opportunity to live a normal human lifespan, knows that I have exhausted worldly options, and nevertheless does not intervene, what exactly am I supposed to conclude?
I do not desire eternal life. I do not understand Heaven as a reward because eternal existence does not have subjective value to me. I am not saying that I want evil or that I want to hurt anyone. I wanted an ordinary human life. I wanted to study, work, have friends, love someone, cook, garden, learn things, and grow old. I tried religion because I wanted a reason to keep living.
If I return to my hometown, I believe my family and community could kill me because of my sexual orientation. If I return to my home country more generally, I also face conscription and the dangers associated with military hazing and sexual violence. I do not see a safe future there. The neighboring country where I currently am is not financially sustainable either. I cannot legally work in the way I need to survive, my scholarships have ended, I am already malnourished, and I have to leave my dormitory by September. The European country with the university is the one concrete place where I have admission, a scholarship, and people willing to help me, but I cannot overcome the financial barrier required to reach it.
I am not just a random queer guy applying for help. I am an activist and a scholar who fought for a very long time and has now reached a point where I do not see another option. I have spent my entire life turning academic success into a weapon because it was the only thing I could control. I became one of the best students in my city. I became a researcher. I became an activist. I graduated first in my department and cum laude. I won scholarships. I was accepted into a master's degree in a safe country. I won an 8,000-euro annual scholarship. I built a future for myself. I did everything I was supposed to do. And yet I am still trapped because I cannot afford the final step.
I want people to understand that I did not simply decide that life was not worth living. I have been fighting to live for twenty-two years. I survived my family. I survived my hometown. I survived homophobia. I survived sexual abuse. I survived my mother's death. I survived my father's presence. I survived abuse from my sister. I survived poverty. I survived homelessness. I survived depression, PTSD, anxiety, and self-harm. I survived years of hiding who I was. I kept studying while barely eating. I kept applying. I kept contacting organizations. I kept looking for religious, spiritual, academic, humanitarian, and political solutions. I tried international refugee organizations. I tried human rights organizations. I tried academic protection networks. I contacted journalists. I contacted human rights groups. I contacted LGBT organizations. I tried everything I could find.
I wanted to live. I really wanted to live. I am only 22. I had a future that I can actually see. I have a university waiting for me. I have a scholarship waiting for me. I have people in the European country who have said they will help me. The tragedy is that I cannot reach it.
I am now almost a master at cutting my arms. I do it quite a lot. But I really do not think it can make me die. All I plan to do is drink my SSRI pills-paroxetine-in a large dose to end my life finally within this month. Since I live alone, I cannot be discovered anyway. But I'm kind of nervous because I'm afraid it might just cause huge pain and instead of killing me, only harm me.
Tbh, being alive is itself huge work. Because even when you die, you need to think about what will happen to your body. Who will take care of it? Who will get in trouble? Whose life will be affected? I mean, I'm gonna die-why would I care about it? Maybe it is because of the fact that I actually wanted to live and I'm quite an empathetic person. But yeah, I can take your advice on a better method. I do not have money to buy expensive stuff, so it should be home‑friendly.
I am writing this because I wanted somewhere to speak before I disappear from everyone's lives. For most of my life, there were very few people I could tell the truth to. I spent years pretending that everything was fine. I pretended with my father. I pretended with my family. I hid my sexuality. I hid my depression. I hid my self-harm. I kept getting excellent grades while my private life was collapsing. I became very good at surviving silently.
With love.
