A couple of weeks ago I found myself riding my bike home from work angry, looking for a fight. I had just heard of yet another suicide related to anti-gay bullying. I was angry that my community was under attack and wanted revenge. I was revisited by the disgust that I felt in 1989 when the Bush (senior) administration tried to suppress its own Health and Human Service Department’s findings that approximately 30% of teen suicides were related to sexual orientation—the feeling that my government would rather have dead teenagers than have to implement programs to help gay teens. The idea that our government or our culture would seemingly prefer that gay teens kill themselves than that they be allowed to grow up to be gay adults makes me cry, and makes me angry. I recognize that this is not the prevailing attitude of America, but it seems to still be a prominent enough of one to frighten me.

I was not bullied growing up; I was “the strange kid” not “the gay kid.” However, I had created a story for my life that involved me never being accepted or happy and I considered suicide many times. I used to slice my fingers in an attempt to condition myself for the pain of when I finally did the cut that would matter. I never actually attempted suicide, but I put myself at risk frequently—because it did not matter whether I lived or died. I recently received a message from a friend from H.S. who remembers my suicidal thoughts and thanked me for still being here. He reminded me that I once crossed a highway by climbing along the outside of the fencing on the overpass—after all, what sort of life could a gay guy have anyway?

My partner was bullied. He was tormented and driven into the closet around the age of 12 when kids threw stones and shot BB guns at him upon finding out that he and another neighbor boy were engaging in sex together. I see the damage that period did to him still. The damage those kids did to him back then is a part of my life today.

All of this was welling up in me the night I was riding home from the office. My partner was in Florida visiting friends and family and I went home to an empty house with these feelings. I went out to the bar that night, but I didn’t talk to anyone about what I was feeling; the bar did not feel like the right place. When my partner got back to Houston we talked about the suicides and the “It Gets Better Project.” This was the first time that I was able to express my feelings. I realized that the pain of growing up gay in what felt like a hostile world (I came out during the Regan administration) came rushing back to me. It was as if I was being re-traumatized by these kids’ suicides. I doubt I am the only one who felt that way.

I suspect that many gay and lesbian (and bi and transgendered) adults who have been hearing about the recent publicized spate of gay-related suicides have been re-experiencing that sensation of living in a hostile world that we were able to (at least partially) escape in adulthood. Even those of us for whom it has gotten better can still feel the pain of when we were younger. We may not feel justified in our own pain—after all, our lives did get better—instead we focus our feelings on the kids who killed themselves and the kids that continue to suffer. I certainly think that the kids today deserve our concern and attention, but I think we may need to remember to take care of ourselves as well when these memories rise.

I think doing an “It Gets Better” video is a great way to engage in the catharsis of this pain. It can help remind us that our lives have and do get better. But simply sharing your story with loved ones can also be helpful. I think it is important that we tell each other of our experiences—either of the past or of our current reactions to what is going on—and validate each other. Parallel to these suicides the courts appear to be dealing DOMA and DADT fatal blows; we may need to remind ourselves as adults, that, yes, things do get better.