The two interior designers

I was around six years old when I realized I was queer. I haven’t entirely grasped the concept yet, but I knew I was different in some way. That terrified me. I can remember, clear as day, my lamentations about whether I can hide it or fix it somehow. The guilt was suffocating, my little heart racing with anxiety and paranoia because I was mortified over the prospect of anyone finding out. I was stuck and isolated with no one to confide in. I’m sure you’ve heard this exact story a million times before and I’m not here just to garner sympathy with it. What I want to talk about is a turning point in my process of growing up and it all started with two interior designers we hired to refurnish our apartment.

I must’ve been around eight at the time and my mother was looking for a big change. She has always been very passionate about buying new furniture, but this time she wanted to remodel every nook and cranny of our residence. But she couldn’t have possibly done it alone. She somehow got in touch with two women—both interior designers and eventually they started showing up at the apartment for consultations. Tall and thin with long blonde and brunette hair gracefully flowing against their sleek chic outfits. I glanced up at them in awe and pure amazement, carefully studying their composures. They were so intimidating, yet soft-spoken and charming. I was incredibly nervous, like any child probably would be, although I wonder if there was more to it than that. The subconscious need to act and look just like them swallowed me entirely and carried on with me as the months of planning passed. The room they designed for me was everything a little girl could ever dream of and my admiration for them was at its height. With every meeting I became more comfortable with them. I showed them my toys, my dog and shared my achievements from school as if I had known them forever. That feeling—joy, pride or whatever it was—of having people that were so wonderful actually care about me… I was hooked on it. However, at some point they stopped showing up at the doorstep, the guest coat rack was left cold and vacant and in some way, so was I. My mother told me she called of the deal, said it was too pricy for us. And that was it. Months passed and those two women started to slowly vanish from my memory. Until I overheard my parents talking about them. Something about getting married in New York City. The thought that the two of them were partners never even crossed my mind before and the heads of the household did not react to this finding particularly well. The words my father and mother spat were laced with unending contempt. My shamefulness got the best of me. A heavy feeling weighed me down and unease crept its way up my back. I knew for certain that if I wanted to live a respectful life, my feelings would have to be buried six feet underground, otherwise I was broken beyond repair. I mulled over this new concept—two women getting married, being happy and successful— over the next couple of days and I was overcome with a newfound sense of hope. Maybe I didn’t need to play pretend for the rest of my life, didn’t need to be ‘fixed’, didn’t need to keep letting shame chip away at my self-esteem. No longer was I consumed with self-loathing and for the first time ever, I felt free, unbound, and prospective for my future.

It’s been around nine years since this took place and I can confidently say I’ve made considerable progress in that time. I was able to come to terms with my identity and though it was rarely simple, those women and the impact they had on me was never something for me to overlook. I started dating a wonderful girl around half a year ago and I’ve never been happier. A part of me believes that maybe that would not be the case, if it weren’t for the two interior designers. Sometimes I wish I could just tell them about how they indirectly saved me…