When I Came Out

When I came out, I was in the back of the car with my parents driving because I didn’t want to see the looks on their faces out of fear. It was an unjustified fear.

When I came out to my mom, she said she’d had a feeling since I was four years old. I told her she might have clued me in at some point. We laughed, cried, hugged, and were okay. A few years later, after I’d divorced my wife and had been in a relationship with my (now) husband, she said, “I like him so much better than your ex-wife.” Her last words, on her deathbed, were to him and me: “You guys are a godsend.”

When I came out to my family, over the phone, my dad said he still loved me. My brother said, “Good, more p**sy for me!”

When I came out to my dad he told me he was sad, because “lesbians are alcoholics more often.” I found this ironic coming from an alcoholic from a family of alcoholics. He’s become supportive since then, and I’ve added my own Gay Family to my biological one, for times when I want to be with (not-alcoholic) people who accept and understand.

When I came out, my mom was confused because she thought I’d already done so, in a hypothetical conversation TWO YEARS EARLIER when a classmate had come out and been rejected by his parents. Now she is helping me and my partner pick out our wedding dresses.

When I came out to my mom it was only because I’d just been released from the hospital and I was high on painkillers. She held my hand as she drove me home.

When I came out, my ex-wife couldn’t stop laughing.

When I came out to my parents at 17, my mother said, “Oh, we’ve always known that.”

When I came out at the age of 36, I would regularly catch myself giggling at how silly it had been that I hadn’t done it sooner.

When I came out in the ’80s, I thought I would finally have some place to belong. Turns out I wasn’t the right kind of gay, either. I’m still alone, without a tribe.