piasharn | Notes from the Closet

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.)

A few friends I've made invited me to a party of sorts. It started at the local gay bar where two of them work, and when the place closed for the night (morning... it was around two a.m.) we headed over to their apartment.

I think almost everyone there was either gay or bi. This is somewhat important to note, because I've always felt more comfortable around queers. ("Birds of a feather flock together" and all that jazz.) I enjoyed myself imensely and finally stumbled home at about 6:30 in the morning.

I woke up with just enough time to clean up and get to work at 4:30 p.m. where one of the other servers asked me if I was sick. There's been a bug going around, and some of the other employees were feeling run down. With a lopsided grin, I informed her that I was perfectly healthy, just slightly hung-over.

So of course, she asked me if I had fun, and what did I do that kept me out so late? After giving her a brief rundown, I laughed and commented, "There's nothing quite like getting drunk and playing truth-or-dare with a bunch of flaming queens."

I had mentioned having gay friends before, and she never took the matter further. However, this time she asked that inevitable question: "Are you gay?"

I... froze up, although I'm not sure if the terror I felt was visible on my face. Before I could figure out if I could trust her, I heard myself saying, "No."

Why do I have to make such a big deal out of this? Why does anyone, for that matter? Why do we care so much about something so trivial?

"It is better to be hated for who you are than loved for who you are not."

But I don't like being hated. It's one of those emotions that hangs in the air and makes me sick to my stomach. So I once again compromised my ideals for my own comfort. I've failed once again.

Telling classmates and teachers doesn't bother me nearly as much. Perhaps because I know that I'll only see them for the semester. Perhaps because I didn't know any of them before that moment.

Admitting it online... was a lot harder at first than I thought. I did get to know a lot of you before I was out of the closet, and part of me was certain that once I admitted it in a LJ entry, I would find my 'friend of' list empty by the next day. (Hey, it wouldn't be the first time someone abandoned me because I came out to him/her.)

I still haven't told my family, and you have no idea how guilty I feel about that. I want to. Every time I try to, though, the words stick in my throat and a wave of anxiety overtakes me. Oh, I know they suspect... my sister asked me outright one day. (And while I wasn't able to bring myself to lie to her, I didn't acknowledge it either.) My parents have hinted at the subject to me on more than one occasion.

But I can't get it out, and I hate myself for it.