There is caffeine in my system. This means that my fingers are not only twitching with their usual anticipation as they hover over the keyboard, but trembling with uncontrollable enthusiasm. The blood is coursing, and I can feel my heart pounding against my chest, begging to be splattered across the pretty white paper that is its true home.

I am constantly assessing and challenging my beliefs. Do you really believe in the Christian God? Do you actually enjoy listening to Pink Floyd? Do you treat your twin sister with the same respect she treats you with?

These questions all have something in common: I eventually figure out their answers. (I do; “Comfortably Numb” is one of my favorite songs; probably not.) But in the summer before my junior year, a question arose that I could not discover the answer to through my traditional process of cogitative writing. After desperately attempting to piece the answer together for six months, and experiencing what I can only describe as disheartening writer’s block, I became so infuriated by my own flustered thoughts that I decided it was time to gain an objective point of view. So I informed my therapist of two months of my seemingly impossible question:

“Is it possible that I could be gay?”

I didn’t even know what “gay” was until I was 12. It’s not that I grew up in a sheltered environment or had strict religious parents; the subject just never came up. It wasn’t until five years ago that I learned something existed in addition to the sexuality I perceived as mine and everyone else’s.

Over the next 14 months, my interpretation of what it meant to “be gay” fluctuated from Okay, this isn’t so bad to Why does it have to be me who’s different from all my friends? to I hate this uncontrollable part of myself; I don’t want to live if this is what I am. I spent five months of my junior year contemplating suicide and eventually acting upon these irrational thoughts.

But I survived. I survived, and I finally realized there had to be a reason why. I concluded that I had to come to terms with my identity or else my life would forever be dissatisfying. I searched for local LGBT youth groups online and eventually found a home at the Rainbow Community Center. Every Thursday and Friday after school, I met with people who were just like me: different, but not truly different at all. Slowly but surely, my perspective changed.

I no longer cringe at the mental image of myself holding another woman’s hand in public. I no longer strive to be just like everyone else. I no longer think death is a solution.

Through this excruciating but rewarding revelation, I am now positive that I have the courage to tackle any obstacle with strength and persistence. I hold the ability to not change my morals or my personality but to alter my outlook and attitude.

And now, as my fingers settle down and the trembling ceases, I feel a controlled enthusiasm. The blood is still coursing, but not with the same restlessness. The beating in my chest is slower and calmer. I ask myself, “Is it possible that you could be okay with being gay?”

And, finally, the answer is yes.