In my early twenties I was not yet out of the closet; in fact, I was still praying to God every night and day to give me guidance to change the feelings I had of attraction towards men.

I was walking home one night along a dimly lit area, a short-cut, when I heard a rapid barrage of illiterate expletives beginning with 'F.' I was mortified, more by the thought that someone thought that I was gay and might tell someone I knew, than by what I knew was about to happen.

I was attacked by a group of men who decided I was homosexual. They beat me to the ground, screaming, "pray to God for forgiveness faggot." As they beat me, they informed me how they were "doing God's work", to "rid the world of fucking faggots."

Knocked to the ground, I was punched and kicked until a rock thrown on my head ended my awareness. I awoke in a pool of my own blood and in despair I cursed God, not for the brutality of the attack but for its failure. I wished I were dead. I cried out in anger at God for not having let me die and end the self-loathing I felt because of my same-sex feelings. I could think of no way to explain what had happened to me to the people I knew without, I believed, exposing myself as 'gay' (I hadn't accepted it myself yet). I hobbled home.

One look in the mirror and I knew I had to seek help; skeletal teeth grinned menacingly through a gaping hole in my chin and cheek, I needed stitches. Somehow, I made my way to the hospital where I received over seventy stitches to my face and was treated for a concussion, a broken nose and cracked ribs. My left ear remained blue and purple for some weeks after the incident and I still carry the scars on my face. The hospital also provided my excuse: "What happened to you? Were you mugged?" The questions came too fast for my woozy mind to respond, I just nodded.

The hospital staff wanted to call the police once they got me back together, but I refused, saying that I hadn't seen the people who did it. I felt powerless and alone with nowhere to turn; queer positive images are not everywhere, even though queers are.

I was too afraid to tell the police that I could identify the individuals involved, lest they discover my 'shameful' secret; besides, 'society' had taught me that these men were justified in their hatred and violence . . . I left these men to continue their 'crusade against perversion.' I am still haunted by the thought of how many other unsuspecting young people like myself, queer or not, were bashed by this same group.