From the Inside of an Iron Maiden
by Ash Whiteside
North Carolina State University
Ash Whiteside is a first year at NC State University, with a projected graduation in 2026. She is majoring in English with a concentration in Creative Writing. She has a passion for writing works of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction that are vulnerable, touching on topics such as mental illness, relationships, and queerness.
Shame is a feeling I know, perhaps better than any other. It trickles down my spine when I catch myself staring for too long. It trembles in my fingertips when they accidentally brush against a hand, or an arm. It beats in my heart when I utter the word, “she”.
I’m telling myself, as I type this, that I sound ridiculous. I should be proud, right? The term “pride” is now frequently paired with rainbows and queerness and unapologetic love. The 21st century has been more accepting, understanding, and loving to gayness than any era that came before it. With the entire world seemingly coming together to embrace people like me in a big, warm, welcoming hug, I shouldn’t feel ashamed. I shouldn’t feel ashamed to say a girl is beautiful, to wear socks with little rainbows on them, or to write an essay about a piece of who I am.
But shame is a feeling I know. Perhaps better than any other.
Self hatred is taught. Maybe not in a classroom with flash cards or a projector, but taught nonetheless. We learn to hate our bodies when adults look at their own with disgust. We realize we should despise our smiles when we see the perfect pearly whites decorating every magazine cover. My self hatred, which had begun years and years prior, solidified on New Year’s Eve. The year was 2019. The end of a decade was less than an hour away and I felt a gnawing need to unburden myself. I had never been one to hold my tongue. At least, not when I didn’t want to. My mind that night was on a boy. Andrew was my former boyfriend, dumped by me on two separate occasions and never truly given a reason. Though I had no feelings of romantic nature for this boy, I held a heart full of platonic love for him. In my eyes, the only chance for rekindling lay in complete, brutal honesty. So, after months of not speaking, I sent him a text. It read, simply, “Hey. Can I call you?” After a reluctant agreement, His name lit up on my vibrating phone. I released the breath I’d been holding, and pressed the green button.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
We sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment, before I pulled myself together.
“Okay, here’s the thing, “ I began shakily, “You know how I ended things, and it was kind of out of nowhere? It was actually because I realized that I’m like… I’m gay.”
There was another, longer, far more uncomfortable silence. Followed by a simple, “Okay.”
It wasn’t exactly the words that hurt so badly. I knew him. I knew the weight of his silences, of his tone of voice. Everything he didn’t say to me that night was far louder than what he did. Before this moment I had never told anyone. Not with certainty, at least. I had said, “I think I might be,” or something of the sort. This was the rawest and realest I had ever been, and I felt nothing but regret and humiliation. I woke up the next morning to a new day, a new year, and a new me. This new me was not free. She was not full of hope, or promise. She was empty, and broken. She wished, more than anything in the cosmos, that she could just be normal.
The singular, pathetic comfort that I took in knowing I was something I hated, was that nobody knew. The girls I sat with in French class didn’t know. My followers on Instagram were none the wiser. Even my family had no idea. So, when I saw I was getting a call from a boy I had barely known in middle school, I took comfort in the fact that he would never come to know my dark, terrible secret. I knew him as Anthony, but I believe his high school friends called him “Tony”. I answered the call, more out of pure curiosity than anything.
“Hey!” He chimed immediately, “It’s been a while! How are you?”
I made simple small talk with him for a couple minutes, looking for my moment to gracefully bow out of the conversation. When a lull came, I almost took the opportunity to make up a call from my mom, or a chore that I had to get done. Before I had the chance, he casually mentioned, “Hey, I heard you’re gay now.”
I couldn’t hear if he followed that statement with a question, or congratulations. I felt my entire body run cold.
“Who told you that?” I managed to utter. I already knew what was about to come out of his mouth, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Of course it had been my ex-boyfriend. This call had come only a couple months after New Year’s Eve, and I hadn’t heard from Andrew since. I came to find out that Anthony was far from the only person he had told. Almost everyone who I had befriended from twelve to fourteen now knew. They knew what my own parents didn’t. They knew what even I somedays pretended not to know. I was mortified. My one shred of comfort and dignity had been ripped from me unapologetically. Did these people mention it to their parents? Their siblings? Their other friends? Any stranger on the street could have access to the part of myself I was most desperate to keep concealed. I felt that the luxury of safety I had once known was gone, and that was something no amount of hiding could ever bring back.
The iron maiden is a torture device. It consists of an iron wardrobe, and an interior lined with spikes. The concept is that a person enters the maiden and the doors are closed behind them, causing the spikes to puncture all across their body. This puts them through agonizing pain before killing them. While there is speculation as to when and if this historical device was actually used, its description creates an image in the mind vivid enough to see it as real regardless. This is as good of a comparison as any to how it feels to hide who I am. The “closet” is not a cozy little room filled with sweaters. It is cold, and dark, and unforgiving. It is torture. Being in the closet hurts every second you stay there. And sometimes, even once the doors are opened, and you are able to pull your body off of the spikes and onto the ground, that is when you finally bleed out. Sometimes it's the escape that kills you.
I am pulling iron spikes out of my body day after day. Once the wounds heal, there are always fresh ones to follow. Nevertheless, I have not bled out yet. Every simple act of authenticity I am able to muster is a step out of the fog of shame that I have always called home. I know that our world is one filled with love and acceptance. There is a place here for my whole self to exist and to thrive, if I can only decide that I deserve to.