I think I started to figure out that I was gay in middle school.

All of my friends suddenly caught the “boy-crazy hormones,” but I was immune. I distinctly remember my “Eureka” moment of exactly feeling defined as a "Grade A" lesbian. I was so upset and terrified of the ramifications of such an identity that I immediately transformed into the only thing more terrifying than a gay person: a Republican.

I hope this at least paints a funny picture: a pre-teen closeted case wandering around spouting off “Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve” nonsense while clad in camouflage cargo pants. Fast forward a couple of years and several self-realizations and I finally garnered up enough chutzpah to burst through the door of my metaphorical closet.

Telling my friends was easy. Telling my mother was not.

After the dust of my “new” sexual identity had settled, my parents were angry with me. They were angry with me for choosing to be so different. They immediately cut me off from the source of gay role models. They ceased allowing me to leave the house, and I was grounded indefinitely. However, that was the least of the punishment to come.

I was first encouraged to meet with the leaders of my small group at church. They were united with my parents and the author of Does God Hate Homosexuals? (spoiler alert: the answer is yes) in their quest to manipulate the gay right back to the devil. Where it "belonged." However, as a particularly stubborn woman, I could not be discouraged from my strong-held belief that being gay was not a sin.

That was when my parents brought out the big guns: one-on-one counseling sessions with the youth pastor. I can honestly tell you, of all of the events of my young life, I have never felt emotional turmoil like I did in that “therapy” session. The pastor’s particular tactic of "praying away my gay away" was to berate me for just over an hour on how prideful, arrogant, selfish, manipulative and evil I was as a person. Then, with tears pouring down my face and an appropriate level of shame hanging over me, the pastor finally began to indoctrinate me with her ideas of the sin of homosexuality.

It was not until finally, around the strangled sobs coming from my throat, I proclaimed I would never be in a relationship with a woman that the barrage of insults and self-righteousness ceased. Then, she gave me a hug, said a quick "congratulations" on my “breakthrough” and sent me home.

It wasn’t until much later that I learned that there was a name for this treatment. It’s a practice commonly referred to as conversion therapy. Conversion therapy performed by a licensed psychologist is actually illegal in several states, and has been recognized as an international human right’s concern by the world health organization.

For those who have experienced similar “therapy,” I’m sorry for the emotional turmoil you’ve been delivered.