LJI S11 Wk16 - The Streisand Effect
Over 30 years have passed, but I still remember when I finally told my parents "I'm gay."
My first serious crush on a girl was when I was 16. Her name was Elisabeth, and she was a wild, free, hippie-dippie soul with a kinda-scary butch girlfriend and absolutely zero interest in me. But as soon as I met her, there was no unringing that bell.
Other crushes followed - Cris, Maggie, Kate - but I kept them to myself until college. Then, 300 miles from home and feeling the thrill of independence, I became increasinly political and increasingly out, during a time (the mid-80s) when it was neither cool nor safe to do so. I counseled other students, I spoke to a Psych 101 class, I organized the first Gay Awareness Day on my campus (back then "awareness" was about all we felt entitled to ask for - pride was a decade or so away).
I had a few boyfriends during this time, and told my parents all about them. I had a girlfriend or two as well, and told my parents nothing. When we chatted on the phone or I visited for holidays, I'd describe my life as busy with studies, and my part time jobs, and the eternal "misfit-trying-to-make-friends" thing. I told them about my ongoing roommate dramas, Friday night trips to the campus coffeehouse to hear music, and my fondness for shots with silly names like kamikaze and fuzzy nipples - never anything that would give them the impression I was anything other than a normal, garden-variety college girl.
Four years passed, I graduated and moved again. I missed some new friends I'd made senior year - one in particular. We kept in touch by phone and visits and ended up dating long-distance for a few months, and it was like a giant lightbulb had gone off in me. How could I ever have bothered with guys when there was THIS? I began describing myself as a lesbian instead of bi, and when that brief but pivotal relationship ended I went in search of the local gay bars.
There was a big dance club and a small bar where the women went to play pool and have a quiet beer. For the next year, including six months during which I lived with my father's family, I'd stop at the bar on my way home from work every night. I had a huge crush on the bartender, Sue, and the bar owner had a crush on me. I never paid a cent to drink in that place, though I didn't take advantage of it. I made some new friends there, of the "bar friends" variety; we'd go to the club on weekends and hang out at the small bar on weeknights. I dated someone for a while, but kept it casual because I knew I was moving back upstate. When my parents asked how I was, I told them stories about work.
I don't know why it was so important to keep this part of my life from my parents. They'd always been liberals. They had and have gay friends. They aren't the least bit homophobic. I just couldn't bring myself to say those words.
My job wasn't a good fit, and I kept missing my still-in-college friends, so I moved back and rented a tiny apartment that had previously been a garage. A one-car garage. I loved it but didn't spend much time there.
My social circle was something out of a sitcom. The house my friends lived in had three floors, five bedrooms, seven official residents, and a bunch of unofficial ones. There was always something cooking on the stove, always a beer up for grabs in the fridge, and always someone to talk to at any hour of the day or night. My ex, her roommate who was currently also her ex, the roommate's new girlfriend, and I would all spent the night in my-ex-and-her-ex's room together (I slept on the floor) after nights out at the women's bar in Rochester. I was underemployed and broke but very happy.
Happy and content. Contentment is powerful - it resists any stress or anxiety that try to interfere with it, and by nature I'm terrible at keeping my own secrets. I'm honest and open to a fault, and this lie of omission had now been gnawing at me for six years. My contentment said, "Tell them. It's time. Tell them and then you can relax and enjoy all this."
These were still the days of landline phones, and the one at my friends' house was in the entry hall, with a long cord. I paced back and forth, feeling my heart beat harder and faster as the phone rang in my mother's kitchen on the other end and was finally answered.
"Hi Mom, it's me. ... No, nothing's wrong. I just wanted to talk to you guys about something. ... Whew, this is really hard." I laughed a little. "I want you to know that I'm gay. I have been for a while."
"Yeah, we know that." She sounded both matter-of-fact and amused.
"You know?"
"Of course we know. We're your parents. We figured you'd tell us when you were ready."
"Oh. Ok, well... I guess that's it?"
"How's the new apartment? Are you still looking for a better job?"
We chatted for a few more minutes and said our usual I-love-yous and hung up, and I swore I'd never let myself get stressed out trying to keep a secret from them again.
Good thing not telling them I'm poly doesn't stress me out.