Some years ago, I made a resolution of sorts. Not the New Year's variety that are made to be broken. Nor the type that one makes in a sudden moment of inspiration or heroism. It crept upon me slowly as I started on the necessary quest to discover who I really am. For most of my life, I had played a role so that people would like me, and I wouldn't end up alone.
Horribly cliche, I know.
Still, it became a vow of sorts that I would be true to myself. (Or at least those aspects of myself that I managed to salvage.) A majour part of that has been admitting to myself that I am gay... and that's a helluva lot harder than you might think it is. I don't walk around with the word 'DYKE' tattooed on my forehead, but when asked directly about my sexuality, I bite the bullet and tell the truth.
Most of the time, that is.
I failed again, and now I feel... I'm not sure. Dirty and frustrated and disappointed and disgusted. I should be able to admit to this. It's not as if homosexuality is bad. (And perhaps if I keep telling myself that, I'll believe it someday and all this self-loathing will go away.)
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