The Cruelty of the Gay World: Why Pain Breeds Pain

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The other day, I saw on Telegram that a guy from St. Petersburg—someone I’d gone on a few dates with—was celebrating his birthday. And suddenly, I was transported back in time. I saw his smile again, our walks through Petrogradka, those awkward conversations that already held a glimmer of hope.

And the teddy bear—the one I put in my suitcase for some reason back then and took with me when I emigrated. I still can’t bring myself to part with it. It’s as if this bear preserves a piece of that naive belief that we might have had a shared “future” together.

It wasn't because he was a bad person. It was because I didn't know what I wanted. I ran away—from intimacy, from responsibility, from having to be honest. And I left silence in my wake.

This isn't an isolated case. Sometimes I'd come across nice guys—calm, attentive, and not playing games. And I could just push away. To disappear. To fall silent. But to remain close to those who did it hurts. The ones where there was more anxiety than tenderness. A paradox I didn't want to acknowledge for a long time.

And at some point, I thought: “Actually, I often—” ignored. They didn't answer me either. They left me hanging too in limbo. And maybe some strange mechanism kicked in somewhere deep inside me: if this is happening to me, then maybe I can do it too.

I even asked Chat-GPT, why this is happening at all. The answer turned out to be simpler than I expected: Pain begets pain. When you're hurt, you want to get that feeling back control. Even if it means hurting someone else. It doesn't have to be on purpose. Sometimes it's just a way to avoid feeling weak.

That sounds unpleasant. But to be honest, there's something to it.

I've only been living in Spain for a year, so I wouldn't presume to judge the local scene, but sometimes it seems like it works the same way. Apps, fleeting interest, quick replacements. It's as if no one owes anyone anything.

But the hardest part is admitting that you yourself are part of this chains.

I’m not just someone who was hurt. I’ve hurt others, too. Not out of malice. Not because I wanted to cause harm. But because I was afraid of being vulnerable. It's easier to just disappear than to say, "I'm scared," "I'm not ready," or "I don't understand how I feel."

The teddy bear by my bed is a reminder of that—a reminder that I once chose silence instead of talking. And maybe I hurt someone just as much as I was once hurt.

Cruelty the gay community — It's not just about "bad" people. It's about us. About fear, which we mask with coldness. About the habit of being the first to shut ourselves off. About a chain reaction where everyone thinks they’re just protecting themselves.

There's only one question: Can it be broken?.

I don't know the perfect answer. But I suppose it all starts with something simple—don't disappear if you can explain yourself. Don't stay silent if you can tell the truth. And don't repeat someone else's pain just because it once became your own.