Coming out happens differently for everyone. My journey started when I was seven years old. I was sitting in front of the TV watching Nick News with Linda Ellerbee. She was either interviewing Elton John or showing clips from one of his performances. I’m not sure. But what I remember most from that night—that seemingly innocuous night—was grappling with this deep-seated and terrifying realization that I was like him.
At the time, I didn’t have the vocabulary to express what that meant. I don’t think I’d ever heard the term “gay” let alone “lesbian” used once. In that moment, all I saw was a kindred spirit. Rather than relief or a sense of belonging, I felt crippling guilt and fear. I sat frozen, unsure of what to do. Did I say something to my parents? And if I did, what would I say? So, I did the only thing I knew how to do: shove it down into a nice little box and push that box into the farthest corner of my mind that I knew how to reach—the same spot where I’d neatly hidden every other remotely gay thought I’d had.
The Middle School Years
Five very awkward years later, I found myself in 7th grade, sitting at a hard and uncomfortable desk in a dark room that would be where I learned both New Mexico history and Spanish. The walls were decorated with posters of local landscapes and historic sites. But one poster stood out to me. It was a plain cream and sepia-tone series of portraits of James Baldwin, Willa Cather, Errol Flynn, Michelangelo, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Cole Porter, Eleanor Roosevelt, Bessie Smith, Walt Whitman, and Virginia Woolf. Along the top of it in big, bold letters was the saying, “Unfortunately, history has set the record a little too straight.”
All those feelings of insecurity came rushing back as soon as I read those words. I’d been taught by church and the society I grew up in that being gay was wrong. So, I responded by being belligerently straight. I wore shirts that proudly proclaimed me boy crazy, loudly talked about my so-called crushes, and found a kid willing to be my boyfriend. And I worked that charade to the bone.
But in 7th grade, kids are cruel. They started calling me fag, dyke, lezzie, queer, and each one felt like a stab wound. I sank into a depression and begged to switch schools. I did and things were okay for a while.
My new school had several out kids that, though I rarely talked to them, were kind. They were happy and unashamed to be seen with their boyfriends and girlfriends. But I was still scared. And I didn’t tell anyone. It was like holding my breath all day long.
Finally, I Started to Breathe
I stayed in the closet until I was 15. I came out to one of my close friends while we were at driver’s ed. During a break, she turned and asked me whether I liked boys, girls, or both. I lamely said, “For what? Like as friends?” If I feigned ignorance, maybe I’d throw her off.
She smiled softly and shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “To date.”
I started shaking so hard. I’d never admitted it to anyone. I remember this pressure building up in my chest like the only way I could deal with it, the only way to let it go was to admit something that I’d never told anyone else. Otherwise, that feeling would consume me.
“Girls,” I shouted into the near-silent room. Several people turned to look at me, startled and confused. The instructor chuckled and chose that point to end the break and start the lesson again.
My friend, for her part, simply nodded and whispered, “I like both.”
And just like that, it was out in the open. I was scared and felt completely naked. The walls I’d built up to reinforce some perceived level of straightness just came crashing down and I had no idea what to do. But now, someone knew my secret and she hadn’t judged me.
I gradually came out to other friends. And then my parents. And entered into another period of self-loathing again when my gayness wasn’t accepted. It was tough and I struggled more than I ever want anyone else to struggle.
As I grew older, I found friends like me. Sure, most of them were 20 years older, but they took me under their wing. They kept me from getting into the same trouble as the queer kids my age. They showed me creative outlets for my emotions and proved to me just by existing that being gay wasn’t something to be ashamed of. That other peoples’ reactions are just reflections of them. They had nothing to do with me. But most importantly, those friends made me feel like I belonged. I had a place in the world and it was up to me to use that place to help others.
The Journey Doesn’t End
What they didn’t prepare me for was the reality that coming out never really stops. I come out again and again with every new person I meet. With each conversation, coming out gets easier. That dealing with negative reactions gets easier. And the desire to help some 15-year-old kid that’s going through the same things I did only gets stronger.
It’s why I’m unapologetically gay and, most importantly, it’s why I write. I want that closeted high schooler to feel less alone. I want people of all ages to have access to stories they can identify with and learn from. I want them to know that being themselves—in whatever form that is—is a beautiful thing.
So, whether you’re out to everyone or just starting to come out to yourself, you’re not alone. You are far braver than others give you credit for. You matter.
Happy National Coming Out Day. Wherever you are in your journey, I’m here for you.