The torment of keeping a secret to myself came at a very obvious cost. Over the years, my mental health deteriorated. I felt more isolated than ever. Unable to talk about my feelings, for months I struggled to eat, sank into depression and often contemplated suicide. This downward spiral continued until, one day, I blurted out a question about homosexuality to my mum – "What do I do if I think I like girls? Where do I fit in?" Now in my early teens, I expected an honest answer. For the first time, my mum and I tried to communicate on a topic which was taboo in our house. It was my first attempt to come clean about how I felt. I point-blank told my mum I had feelings for girls and, of course, she normalised it. Brushing it aside as mere friendship, she said we acknowledge the attractiveness of the same sex, "so it’s probably nothing more than that." After that, I realised there was little use in trying to seek comfort from my parents. They didn’t understand my mental health issues, let alone my sexuality struggles. My mum might be first-generation British-Asian, but she wasn’t able to see that depression was more than heightened sadness – an issue that has continued to plague me. She refused to acknowledge my feelings for the sake of honour, culture and religion. She refused to see me for who I really was.