I suppose I should give myself a break, really. I tend to forget that coming out is a process filled with ups and downs, forward leaps and hesitations. I have read that it is a lifelong process that one encounters trouble with on a regular basis. Truth be told, I am much farther than many of my counterparts, those women who, for one reason or another, hid or walked oblivious to the truth.
One year is gone. One year since I left the hell I had called home and left behind the long nights filled with fear and self-revulsion. One year since I was chased through my own home, kept awake long nights by a tormentor who demanded what I could not give. One year since I felt the part of a whore, felt used, or felt like there was something broken inside of me that might never be fixed. I have come far in just over a year.
There are so many aspects to this journey that make no sense and cannot be related well to those that did not in some part accompany me on this road. There are some parts that even those involved either do not understand or refuse to accept. I have begun to learn how to live with that. There will be those who, even in their love for me, refuse to understand the steps that brought me to this place. They don’t understand to power of fear, the grip that feeling out of place can have on you, or the insidious things that can accompany the concept of “normal”. They do not understand what it is like to have aspects of your life come at you in a tone of discord. To be standing in a room full of married women and wonder if they all felt like something was missing, and to eternally feel out of place with them. To wonder if you should speak up and say what you really feel…after the first ten odd looks from strangers at your attitude toward the opposite sex, you tend to just stay quiet. To watch woman couples together with an air of fascination that bordered on the uncomfortable. To fall in love with your best friend, only to be used as some sort of stand-in until the right guy came along. To wonder if you are going crazy.
There are others like me, I know there are. There are also those who like to dabble, and those create their own problems. I am up against them in some way when it becomes apparent I am a lesbian with an ex-husband. There is an immediate wariness from those women who have never touched a man or have so rarely as to be more virginal than your average nineteen-year-old. It is ironic that the straight women who find this out also cast a suspicious eye upon me; they , too, have trouble reconciling the two facts together. And as I tend to relate certain stories only to those close to me, the mystery tends to remain. The blanket statement “I was never really into it” is an understatement; I was a trained monkey who did what I did very well (never had a relationship end for bad sex) but received nothing in return. Absolutely nothing. And in the morning, if I was lucky, the revulsion and self-recrimination would pass quickly, hopefully before I finished breakfast. When it became too much to bear, I would move on—searching in the wrong direction for what I might never have found had I not moved in just the right direction in the right time.
It’s funny how little we realize we impact other people. I had been around lesbians for years and never felt truly attracted to any of them—most that I knew were outcasts and weirdos or hippies. I was even in the Gay/Straight alliance o-campus at the tender age of twenty. I still didn’t realize what I was doing there. The fascination manifested itself in this way; a way to be close to what I didn’t know I needed. Apparently the subconscious wanted a safety net and I let it have one. And so I continued on…
I fell in love with a straight girl a year and a half later. She was my world for a moment, and again my subconscious refused to spit the truth out. I either went into such a denial as to not even recall a moment when I outed myself really, but I do recall a conversation that skated so close as to be so. When my halted, heart-racing conversation ended with a withdrawal of the person I was pining for, I too withdrew, back to safety and all things accepted as “normal”. I forgot her kiss, forgot all of the things I watched in fascination—her eyes, her hands, and the way her nose looked like a pixie’s. She was a bright light, and in her rejection, I went back to what was safe and easy…and utterly miserable.
This time my escape was blocked by pregnancy. I wished so desperately to leave that I shut down everything I was; by the time my condition was discovered I had already begun the separation process from my then-boyfriend. This event hooked a noose around my neck and pulled me back to the side of a person that would perhaps cause the most damage. He would, however, lead to my ultimate outing. I suppose I should thank him for the trauma that made me finally look at myself for what I was. He was helped by a very nice girl that sat down across from me one day at the lunch table and gave me silent acknowledgement that I was gay at the same time I recognized that while she didn’t broadcast it, she too was gay. At the time I was only suspicious about myself. Having really never consummated the act with a girl, I didn’t feel qualified to answer the question truthfully and with confidence. Instead, I merely tiptoed and kept my eyes open. And I began plans to sever the bond of matrimony once and for all.
Within a month of filing for divorce I was beginning to open the closet door to see what was on the other side. I knew on some level but feared that I was wrong. I had traveled through life with this constant question mark above my head, the threat of never knowing and the terror that I was really just crazy and needed meds. So I took my burden and left behind all that was familiar, determined to settle for nothing less than the truth. Anything else was to be avoided at all cost. I would be alone the rest of my life if necessary. I was prepared for that.
In doing so, I ended up in a set of ridiculously-coincidental circumstances that have forever changed my life. There are a few people, though, without whose help I would not be where I am today. Some of them I have thanked for their parts. Some I have not. I have thanked Angie posthumously for outing me in our first conversation. Nobody had ever been so bold as to ask my orientation…I felt that if I was straight I should be able to say so. I could not. So be default I admitted I was not. She became my first confidant I the lesbian world.
But I have not, for instance, thank Shannon and Sean for their acceptance. Thank god for my cousin’s sense of humor, which caused her to explode into hysterical laughter when I told her I thought I was gay. And her husband’s rather crude camaraderie in thinking I’d now watch girl porn with him. (Off-base but well intentioned). She was my doorway to the rest of my father’s family; in her humorous acceptance of me she opened a path and set the precedent for me to love myself for the first time in my life.
And then I made a mistake. Sort of. In hindsight I see the necessity of my actions; I doubt my girlfriend would agree. I feel I had to make my circle complete, however, and test my theory. I did not know what it was at the time that made me act recklessly and sleep with a man again. It was perhaps a combination of the growing awareness of the attraction I held for a close friend, the need for closure with an old ex…I am glad I did, though, as this means that I ended my straight life on a good note with a good person that I had few bad memories of, and most of them were external forces and not the two of us. And by doing so, I proved to myself (still without having a sexual encounter with a woman) that I was never to go back. It didn’t matter the man or the emotions involved, the good memories or the amount of booze. I could not be complete in a heterosexual relationship. It was all or nothing.
So I ended where I began and in doing so somehow washed away the stain of five years of hell that closed a path of self-destruction that had come to its end. It is a place I will never be again. No longer will I degrade myself to kill the pain that comes with uncertainty, lack of self-confidence, and the desire to somehow die emotionally.
And that is where she comes in. My she. In her I found all that I was looking for and more. The very first time she kissed me I was lost, feeling more aware of another human being’s movements than I ever have in my life. Her presence made my skin raise in goosebumps and made me bolder than I ever thought I could be. I somehow trusted her implicitly and suspended all of my inhibitions and awkwardness and just be. I count it among the best moments of my life—the moment I realized that all of my doubts were simply gone. The question mark that--now that I look back upon it—defined so much of my life was gone forever. I had truly thought myself a heartless monster, a cold-hearted bitch that destroyed people’s lives just by touching them. That doubt was thoroughly banished from my existence. I was free.
In that moment I somehow forgave myself of many heinous and grievous mistakes. I was able to—perhaps not justify, but understand—the process and pain that I went through. I realized also that there was no higher price to pay than to live a lie, be that lie subconscious, unintended and tragic. It is a lie that has no place in my life anymore.
I found myself changing. I walked differently. I felt differently about myself. I was sexually bold, satisfied, and confident. I was trusting, curious, and utterly lacking in what I call the “Whore Syndrome”—that insidious feeling that sex is merely a vehicle to power, a way for someone else to use you or you to use them, accompanying the morning after an encounter. It was dead. I had nowhere to hide from my partner; she watched me in a way that I had never seen before. There was no faking, no checking out, and absolutely no way to conceal my emotions or the evasions that had allowed me to survive in the past. The beauty of it is that I didn’t need any of these things anymore.
I love her, this girl that I met a year ago and didn't immediately like. She has washed me clean in some way I can never relate. I feel like I have come full circle, and in doing so have started anew. There are old patterns that call to me, but I largely ignore them. I am far more patient in this relationship than I ever have been. I am aware of her in a way I have never been aware of another save my own child. I trust her beyond anyone else in the world save D, and I would run a marathon if she asked it of me. She is the first person in the world I can see myself growing old with. I have always evaded that question been unable to see this situation. I now see it and feel it and desire it like I desire nothing else. She excites me, frustrates me, challenges me, brings peace to my life, and gives me the kind of joy that leaves me breathless and feeling like I could fly. She has taught me much in the short time I have known her.
I have come a long way in a little over a year. I should give myself a break when I hesitate over the word "girlfriend" amongst strangers. I do not, though. I, as one used to fitting the mold, know that I did not usually hesitate over the word "boyfriend". I did not feel it necessary to guage my audience before talking about someone. And since I have never felt this way about another person before, that distinction rubs. I would shout it from the rooftops if I could. I feel joy over it--why should someone be offended by it? More offensive is the sham marriage, the tragedy of a child born to an already-doomed household, and the loss of one of my good friends. So I am hard on myself for buying into the institution of fear that is associated with being gay amongst uncertain audiences. I have no wish to hide one of the most important people in my life. I am proud of her, proud to be with her, and utterly unconcerned as to who knows that.
Most of the time. I just pray that someday I am completely without fear. I hope someday everyone else is, too. For the most part, the simple mantra of "I have paid too much" works. I have paid a price; the price was in my daughter's blood, and I must make the most of the coin. Anything less is an insult to her and an unforgivable offense to an already tragic situation.
I am looking forward to what this life has to offer me; I am looking forward to domesticity with the woman I love, a small corner of peace, and the ability to grow. I am, I think, mostly happy. There is only one thing missing, and she will be here very, very soon....
One year. In one year I have found what lacked, what I want, and who I am. That's no mean accomplishment. I must learn to be forgiving of my small relapses and stumbles along the way...
One year is gone. One year since I left the hell I had called home and left behind the long nights filled with fear and self-revulsion. One year since I was chased through my own home, kept awake long nights by a tormentor who demanded what I could not give. One year since I felt the part of a whore, felt used, or felt like there was something broken inside of me that might never be fixed. I have come far in just over a year.
There are so many aspects to this journey that make no sense and cannot be related well to those that did not in some part accompany me on this road. There are some parts that even those involved either do not understand or refuse to accept. I have begun to learn how to live with that. There will be those who, even in their love for me, refuse to understand the steps that brought me to this place. They don’t understand to power of fear, the grip that feeling out of place can have on you, or the insidious things that can accompany the concept of “normal”. They do not understand what it is like to have aspects of your life come at you in a tone of discord. To be standing in a room full of married women and wonder if they all felt like something was missing, and to eternally feel out of place with them. To wonder if you should speak up and say what you really feel…after the first ten odd looks from strangers at your attitude toward the opposite sex, you tend to just stay quiet. To watch woman couples together with an air of fascination that bordered on the uncomfortable. To fall in love with your best friend, only to be used as some sort of stand-in until the right guy came along. To wonder if you are going crazy.
There are others like me, I know there are. There are also those who like to dabble, and those create their own problems. I am up against them in some way when it becomes apparent I am a lesbian with an ex-husband. There is an immediate wariness from those women who have never touched a man or have so rarely as to be more virginal than your average nineteen-year-old. It is ironic that the straight women who find this out also cast a suspicious eye upon me; they , too, have trouble reconciling the two facts together. And as I tend to relate certain stories only to those close to me, the mystery tends to remain. The blanket statement “I was never really into it” is an understatement; I was a trained monkey who did what I did very well (never had a relationship end for bad sex) but received nothing in return. Absolutely nothing. And in the morning, if I was lucky, the revulsion and self-recrimination would pass quickly, hopefully before I finished breakfast. When it became too much to bear, I would move on—searching in the wrong direction for what I might never have found had I not moved in just the right direction in the right time.
It’s funny how little we realize we impact other people. I had been around lesbians for years and never felt truly attracted to any of them—most that I knew were outcasts and weirdos or hippies. I was even in the Gay/Straight alliance o-campus at the tender age of twenty. I still didn’t realize what I was doing there. The fascination manifested itself in this way; a way to be close to what I didn’t know I needed. Apparently the subconscious wanted a safety net and I let it have one. And so I continued on…
I fell in love with a straight girl a year and a half later. She was my world for a moment, and again my subconscious refused to spit the truth out. I either went into such a denial as to not even recall a moment when I outed myself really, but I do recall a conversation that skated so close as to be so. When my halted, heart-racing conversation ended with a withdrawal of the person I was pining for, I too withdrew, back to safety and all things accepted as “normal”. I forgot her kiss, forgot all of the things I watched in fascination—her eyes, her hands, and the way her nose looked like a pixie’s. She was a bright light, and in her rejection, I went back to what was safe and easy…and utterly miserable.
This time my escape was blocked by pregnancy. I wished so desperately to leave that I shut down everything I was; by the time my condition was discovered I had already begun the separation process from my then-boyfriend. This event hooked a noose around my neck and pulled me back to the side of a person that would perhaps cause the most damage. He would, however, lead to my ultimate outing. I suppose I should thank him for the trauma that made me finally look at myself for what I was. He was helped by a very nice girl that sat down across from me one day at the lunch table and gave me silent acknowledgement that I was gay at the same time I recognized that while she didn’t broadcast it, she too was gay. At the time I was only suspicious about myself. Having really never consummated the act with a girl, I didn’t feel qualified to answer the question truthfully and with confidence. Instead, I merely tiptoed and kept my eyes open. And I began plans to sever the bond of matrimony once and for all.
Within a month of filing for divorce I was beginning to open the closet door to see what was on the other side. I knew on some level but feared that I was wrong. I had traveled through life with this constant question mark above my head, the threat of never knowing and the terror that I was really just crazy and needed meds. So I took my burden and left behind all that was familiar, determined to settle for nothing less than the truth. Anything else was to be avoided at all cost. I would be alone the rest of my life if necessary. I was prepared for that.
In doing so, I ended up in a set of ridiculously-coincidental circumstances that have forever changed my life. There are a few people, though, without whose help I would not be where I am today. Some of them I have thanked for their parts. Some I have not. I have thanked Angie posthumously for outing me in our first conversation. Nobody had ever been so bold as to ask my orientation…I felt that if I was straight I should be able to say so. I could not. So be default I admitted I was not. She became my first confidant I the lesbian world.
But I have not, for instance, thank Shannon and Sean for their acceptance. Thank god for my cousin’s sense of humor, which caused her to explode into hysterical laughter when I told her I thought I was gay. And her husband’s rather crude camaraderie in thinking I’d now watch girl porn with him. (Off-base but well intentioned). She was my doorway to the rest of my father’s family; in her humorous acceptance of me she opened a path and set the precedent for me to love myself for the first time in my life.
And then I made a mistake. Sort of. In hindsight I see the necessity of my actions; I doubt my girlfriend would agree. I feel I had to make my circle complete, however, and test my theory. I did not know what it was at the time that made me act recklessly and sleep with a man again. It was perhaps a combination of the growing awareness of the attraction I held for a close friend, the need for closure with an old ex…I am glad I did, though, as this means that I ended my straight life on a good note with a good person that I had few bad memories of, and most of them were external forces and not the two of us. And by doing so, I proved to myself (still without having a sexual encounter with a woman) that I was never to go back. It didn’t matter the man or the emotions involved, the good memories or the amount of booze. I could not be complete in a heterosexual relationship. It was all or nothing.
So I ended where I began and in doing so somehow washed away the stain of five years of hell that closed a path of self-destruction that had come to its end. It is a place I will never be again. No longer will I degrade myself to kill the pain that comes with uncertainty, lack of self-confidence, and the desire to somehow die emotionally.
And that is where she comes in. My she. In her I found all that I was looking for and more. The very first time she kissed me I was lost, feeling more aware of another human being’s movements than I ever have in my life. Her presence made my skin raise in goosebumps and made me bolder than I ever thought I could be. I somehow trusted her implicitly and suspended all of my inhibitions and awkwardness and just be. I count it among the best moments of my life—the moment I realized that all of my doubts were simply gone. The question mark that--now that I look back upon it—defined so much of my life was gone forever. I had truly thought myself a heartless monster, a cold-hearted bitch that destroyed people’s lives just by touching them. That doubt was thoroughly banished from my existence. I was free.
In that moment I somehow forgave myself of many heinous and grievous mistakes. I was able to—perhaps not justify, but understand—the process and pain that I went through. I realized also that there was no higher price to pay than to live a lie, be that lie subconscious, unintended and tragic. It is a lie that has no place in my life anymore.
I found myself changing. I walked differently. I felt differently about myself. I was sexually bold, satisfied, and confident. I was trusting, curious, and utterly lacking in what I call the “Whore Syndrome”—that insidious feeling that sex is merely a vehicle to power, a way for someone else to use you or you to use them, accompanying the morning after an encounter. It was dead. I had nowhere to hide from my partner; she watched me in a way that I had never seen before. There was no faking, no checking out, and absolutely no way to conceal my emotions or the evasions that had allowed me to survive in the past. The beauty of it is that I didn’t need any of these things anymore.
I love her, this girl that I met a year ago and didn't immediately like. She has washed me clean in some way I can never relate. I feel like I have come full circle, and in doing so have started anew. There are old patterns that call to me, but I largely ignore them. I am far more patient in this relationship than I ever have been. I am aware of her in a way I have never been aware of another save my own child. I trust her beyond anyone else in the world save D, and I would run a marathon if she asked it of me. She is the first person in the world I can see myself growing old with. I have always evaded that question been unable to see this situation. I now see it and feel it and desire it like I desire nothing else. She excites me, frustrates me, challenges me, brings peace to my life, and gives me the kind of joy that leaves me breathless and feeling like I could fly. She has taught me much in the short time I have known her.
I have come a long way in a little over a year. I should give myself a break when I hesitate over the word "girlfriend" amongst strangers. I do not, though. I, as one used to fitting the mold, know that I did not usually hesitate over the word "boyfriend". I did not feel it necessary to guage my audience before talking about someone. And since I have never felt this way about another person before, that distinction rubs. I would shout it from the rooftops if I could. I feel joy over it--why should someone be offended by it? More offensive is the sham marriage, the tragedy of a child born to an already-doomed household, and the loss of one of my good friends. So I am hard on myself for buying into the institution of fear that is associated with being gay amongst uncertain audiences. I have no wish to hide one of the most important people in my life. I am proud of her, proud to be with her, and utterly unconcerned as to who knows that.
Most of the time. I just pray that someday I am completely without fear. I hope someday everyone else is, too. For the most part, the simple mantra of "I have paid too much" works. I have paid a price; the price was in my daughter's blood, and I must make the most of the coin. Anything less is an insult to her and an unforgivable offense to an already tragic situation.
I am looking forward to what this life has to offer me; I am looking forward to domesticity with the woman I love, a small corner of peace, and the ability to grow. I am, I think, mostly happy. There is only one thing missing, and she will be here very, very soon....
One year. In one year I have found what lacked, what I want, and who I am. That's no mean accomplishment. I must learn to be forgiving of my small relapses and stumbles along the way...
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