When my parents died, I left my beloved West Virginia--verdant, green West Virginia--and moved to the desert town of Merced on the other side of the country in California in part to get away from people who interacted with me as if my point of view and my thoughts and feelings were of no consequence. If I dared say anything to certain people, what I got back was “praise Jesus” or “give it to Jesus” or a Bible verse or a sermon. The implication always being that I already did or I should completely accept their beliefs. My individuality had no value whatsoever to these people. They didn’t even see me as an individual. I was either already part of their hive or I needed to be converted. All those big fake smiles and the forced and pretend positivity was suffocating and exhausting.

About a year after my head surgeries, my father, out of the blue, told me that he didn’t think I had thanked God for allowing me to survive. It dawned on me that he had hoped that episode in my life would compel me to accept his religious beliefs. I could have easily turned the tables on him and told him that after nearly losing me, it seems he would finally be prepared to accept me for who I am. I could have, but I didn’t.