Since 13 years old I always prayed for my day of death to arrive, as I had lost hope. There was nothing I liked about myself, I hated living with this big secret. I wished I could share it with someone, but I couldn’t do that. What would people say when they heard about my secret? I would be linked to every bad thing on the face of the earth!

As we grew up, the minds of other girls were taken up with boys, but I could only think of one person – Nobuhle. The love I had for her grew greater and greater. Nobuhle was my closest friend and I valued her more than anything. I knew I was different, but I kept on hiding that fact by doing everything that other girls were doing.

I had boyfriends, but I felt nothing for them, I didn’t love them. Nobuhle was always in my mind, every day of my life, but she did not have the feelings I had for her. She took me as a friend, showing no interest in me. I started feeling depressed when I discovered that this love of mine grew faster and would never be returned, as Nobuhle was the minister’s only daughter.

Nobuhle would never love me back. Knowing this, I hated myself more, and I cut my hand near the veins. I bled until I fainted, and only came to the next morning. I was so angry with myself that my attempt did not work. One afternoon I looked myself in the bathroom, and took all my mother’s pills and swallowed them. I saw the room becoming dark, and I was happy inside as I thought that my plan had finally succeeded.

“Oh, Zanele! Are you crazy?” It was my mother’s voice.

When I opened my eyes I found her next to me, her face was covered with tears. I was in hospital. A place where I could see injured people, a place where I was lying in white sheets that smelt of death.

“This is not the first time you have done this, my child!” said my mother, still visibly angry. “The doctor also confirmed that.”

How does this doctor know me? She doesn’t even know what I feel inside me, I thought to myself.

“Show me your wrists,” she said.

I was embarrassed to show my wrists. But because I was scared of her, I showed them. She saw the blade tracks on the veins that had left wide and deep scars. My heart sank as I watched my mother crying again.

“Why would you do this to yourself, Zanele? asked my mother, sadly. “Don’t you know you won’t be accepted or allowed by God in heaven?”

This God is the reason I attempted suicide.

In church, they always preached about people like me, that they wouldn’t be welcomed with warm hearts in heaven. I didn’t want to live with this unforgivable sin, as people at church call it. I thought it was better to end my life than be labelled a lesbian.

My mother kept begging me to say what was wrong with me.

“I am not the person you think I am.” I began to feel more at ease and safe. I carried on telling her, but I couldn’t look at her, so I turned my face away to the door.

“What do you mean, Zanele?” She walked around the bed to the side I was facing so that she could look me in the eyes.

The tears started falling uncontrollably down my cheeks. The truth was coming out, as if something inside me was pushing it from the bottom of my heart.

“I don’t know what I am, Mother.” Her gaze went straight to my heart. “I am not the person you think I am. I am different from other girls, Mom.”

“We are all different, my child. Just imagine how boring life would be if we were all the same.” I felt my mother’s love in those words. I didn’t know that my mother was different from people from her church. The way she talked now was as if she was not part of the people from church, as I hated the church so much.

“I am very different, Mother.”

She started to listen patiently, waiting for me to say what I meant.

“I am what the church says God does not forgive.” I thought of words I would use to make her understand. By her expressions, I could tell she did not have a clue what I was telling her. I just heard myself using the words, “Mother I am a les…”

Tell us: Why is it so important for society to be accepting of everyone?