A little shake up from what I have been posting about recently, but in honor of National Coming Out Day yesterday I thought I would share my truth.
I haven’t thought about this in years. It’s been 9 years since I came out to my friends and maybe 6 since I came out publicly. I was 16 when I came out to my closest friends, it was the scariest thing I have ever felt that I had to do. Let me back up a little bit, I’ll tell you about my first coming out, not the nice pretty one I had when I was 16.
I first tried to come out to my parents when I was about 12. They told me no. Quite literally they both told me that no I wasn’t gay, I just hadn’t met the right person yet and I wasn’t able to make that decision so young. Let me explain something from a psychology background. Sexual orientation and gender identity or innate, you are born that way. You don’t choose anything. The only thing you decide or choose to do is share your truth. When I was 12 I didn’t have that understanding yet, DOMA was still a thing, LGBTQ hate crimes, not being able to marry, being cast aside, increased suicides amongst LGBTQ teens, and a whole host of other things that made LGBTQ persons seconds class citizens. I buried who I was, for years I pretended that I was someone I’m not. My parents didn’t kick me out, they didn’t tell me they didn’t love me, all in all my first coming out was not as bad as it could have been, but it still wasn’t what I needed. At 12 I had no understanding of psychology, I had no really understanding of biology, I had no really understanding of what it was that I was deciding to share other than it was my truth.
At 14 while living my lie, I did what any girl trying to be straight does; I got a boyfriend. Actually I had 3 in total until I came out. What I leave out is that I was sexually assaulted during this time period. That’s only important because while I was being treated for the PTSD that followed, many of the doctors tried to claim that I wasn’t gay. No they tried to claim that my assault made me think that I was, but I was really straight. Keep in mind I’ve understood that I was different since I was a little girl trying to fit in with all the boys.
At 16 I told my closest friends, they could not have cared less, only joking as long as I wasn’t interested in them, they still loved me for who I was then. I didn’t tell my parents this time. At 16 I was being harassed by schoolmates, I almost moved to a new part of the states because of it. I missed over 100 days of school between my junior and senior year, I still graduated an honors student, with IB certificates in 3 classes, as a varsity athlete. I was fortunate.
At 19 I had my first girlfriend, my father said that I might still find a nice man to settle down with. My mother went to pride that year.
At 25 I got engaged to the woman I loved more than anything in this world. My mother still goes to pride, my father joined her this year and helped coordinate an area wide group to march under his company’s banner. My aunt agreed to officiate the wedding, my dad was to give me away, my cousins were to be my best men, my mother in law helped us plan the whole thing. I bought us a honeymoon to Mexico, with plans for a second one to go to Harry Potter World, we picked a venue, color scheme, music and were working on menus. On July 8, 2018 we celebrated two years together, with plans to marry on March 1, 2019.
At 25 my fiancée died.
I never came out to my parents again officially after age 12. I think they and my whole family have finally come to the conclusion that as long as I am happy they are happy. I’ve never brought it up again. If they knew their rejection still crept into my mind they would hate themselves.
I don’t blame my parents. Looking back I think part of them reacted out of fear. That doesn’t excuse their behavior, but it explains it. Their actions since then work to smooth it over. They prove every day that they love and support me.
I really, really have nothing to say. My mind is numb and I’m running on empty. Emotionless. It sucks because to even go to my home away from home, to my happy place, literally called Happys, I had to go back to wearing a patch, find my anxiety medicine, you know the fun one that makes me black out, and get fucking obliterated just to be able to stand it. Sure I got to play laser tag, throw some darts, hear my southern accent reveal itself, and push another girl up against her car and hear her moan into my mouth as I kissed her for the first time, but I felt nothing. Not in the sense that for her I felt nothing, although I could honestly care less, she is nice, fun, easy to hang out with, but I got nothing, so I guess for her I romantically feel nothing. It’s okay it happens. Like I said #singlelife and living it out. I made plans to go to Florida in March to play wing woman-why I don’t know, drunk me thought it would be a good idea-drunk me thought a lot of things would be a good idea last night. Clearly, since I woke up this morning having texted two of my ever favorite exes to be around. Don’t get me wrong, one of them I love til death, she’s the one I turn to when shit goes down-when I looked into the future with my most recent ex, I couldn’t picture her standing next to me and helping me get over the ever pending death of my grandmother. To me that says a lot. Like yeah I would have married her and done that shit, she was great, but even my subconscious was telling me that when things got hard she wasn’t the one that I was going to count on to help me stay together or even put myself back together. Why I texted either of them last night, I couldn’t tell you. Why I still have her phone number in my mind, no fucking clue, why my drunk self could even type it in, I can’t fathom. So I kissed a girl, and I can’t really remember it. I literally had to blow my mind out to even want to take it that far. Sure she is, well I don’t even know, sometimes it’s just nice to kiss someone I guess.
You know how when you read certain things like fanfic? Especially about the supernatural ones, like vampires can just turn their feelings on and off? I can do something similar. Like not to the point where I become savage and ruthless, okay maybe I become ruthless, I’ve heard being shut out by me is fairly brutal, but like I just literally don’t feel anything, don’t give two flying fucks about anything. I can be emotionless and it is simultaneously the most amazing and terrifying thing I can experience. It’s amazing because of how freeing it can be to escape feelings, but terrifying because I am no longer me. To be perceived as normal becomes a strain and then they no longer believe I am fine, the cracks in my armor are visible.
It’s time to put on a new patch. Or maybe just say fuck it and start smoking again. No that’s the unemotional part of me talking, telling me that I don’t give a shit about myself. I do give a shit, I care about living and I no longer wish to die, I no longer wish to escape this world, I long to live in it, to experience all of its beauty and even its ugliness. There is the other part of me, the side that constantly tries to rear its ugly head that says to just live on the edge, do you, whatever it is just do it. Maybe some sleep is what I need, maybe even to lay off the alcohol and PRN meds, and keep up with the patch.
Things are always better in the morning.
Until the next time I decide to pull my head out of my ass and write down how I am feeling and what I’m thinking.
Here is me pretending I’m Justin Bieber last night.
Every once in a while I look back through my photos, I like to see some of the memories I have let myself forget, I like to see the physical progress I have made. If you’ve been following along with my story since I got out of the hospital in December you may have a rough timeline of my life prior to it. I make it a habit to not get on the scale, it makes me sad, but it also encourages negative behavior on my part-I have a hard time eating as it is, knowing and being unhappy with my weight does not help anything. I’m gonna guess that back in October I weighed conservatively somewhere around 180/185. Today I watched a video that my ex and I made on our way to go hiking back in November I think. No wander I was always more comfortable in over sized clothing. Looking back at it and then seeing myself in the mirror I can’t believe how much of a change I have made. I mean I knew that my muscle definition was getting back to normal, but my face is just so much more hollow and not in a bad way. My eyes are also finally clear which is huge.
So it has been almost 2 weeks since I smoked my last cigarette and like 3 days since I last put a patch on. I’ve gotten over the cravings and the withdrawal period and honestly I couldn’t be happier. I’ve decided to replace those 45 or so minutes I would spend smoking per day and I’ve started working out instead. For anyone who knows me you know I fucking hate to run. Well I’m running. I hate every minute of it, but I’m actually learning to look forward to my run every day. It’s 15 minutes that I can take and just go, I can push myself past what I thought I could handle. I’m learning more about myself while running than I ever did in therapy. Sure it’s a different self exploration, but it’s important none the less. So for now that’s where I am at this week.
Today, today took many unexpected turns. I woke up hating myself this morning, well not me I guess, but more the way I looked. I take a lot of pride in how I dress and the rest of my appearance-my current hair situation is a nightmare-so although a button down or t shirt with a pair of joggers and whatever shoes match would normally suffice, it just wasn’t going. I tried on every combination of burgundy I could, burgundy plaid with jeans (I returned the plaid later on in the day) normal plaid with jeans, joggers and actual khakis, it just wasn’t working for whatever reason. Okay. You know what we all have those days. They happen and you just have to role with ’em.
I’ve gotten rather horrible at being still for longer than probably 5 minutes at this point. I think the hospital hangover is gone and I have just enough to take the edge off, but it’s like standing on the edge of a cliff. I’m all good, moving at normal pace, but its pushing a certain limit and it needs to quit. This was all too evident tonight. I came back home for work-I go back on Monday-we had a get together, ice skating, laser tag, listening to a pussy song and swiping through each other’s tinders and her accounts. It ended in hysterics which was glorious in itself. It may have just been that I was happy to see my friends, happy to see the people who care about me, and finally be home where I am comfortable. I was too hype. One of the guys got a selfie stick for secret Santa, my selfie file grew exponentially. I was happy. I was safe again. I was home. I was and am where I belong and I don’t want to leave this.
I think I find a certain comfort in the thought of moving back home. It’s safe, it’s intelligent, but it’s not my place anymore. I don’t belong there. I don’t fit in there, I just don’t mesh. I have so much history there, but that’s not the problem. The problem is I’ve outgrown it. It’s the land of opportunity and endless jobs, but it’s not the land of my opportunities. In the end though, I just don’t want to be there. It’s great to visit, it’s perfect to make my parents feel better about me, but it’s not great for me, not anymore. I’ve made a home for myself, it’s unstable and it’s not a place I can sleep at night by any means. But it’s a home, it’s my friends and family and by extension my work. They make this place my home, where as my parents are no longer able to fully provide it. It’s not saying they are inadequate at making me feel safe and loved etc. but I just don’t feel it there.
Maybe I’m short sighted and am missing the positive aspects of what they are trying to do by moving me there. To me though it’s hindering my ability to grow, develop and most of all get better. Taking me home right now isn’t teaching me anything, it isn’t helping me. Maybe it helps short term, but these past 4 days were enough for me to see how much I missed my actual home and the life I have built for myself. It’s not much, but it’s mine and I’m fucking proud of it. Don’t take that away from me. Let me do what I’m doing. Let me keep part of my life, let me stay, let me keep one of my jobs. Stop making choices for me and let me decide my fate separate from your thoughts and feelings. I will tell you my choices: I will stay here, I will quit one job, and I will just continue to live where ive made myself comfortable. No it’s not perfect, but it will work for me. It will do for now. It will do until I can see something better. I have time. I’m young, I’m good at what I do, I’m smart and wait, I’m happy-don’t fucks with it.