My Coming Out Story

I have yet to write about this as anything other than fiction. The only time I've ever, in fact, was a short story I wrote in 2008 when it was happening.

It was my first year of college at a school I didn't want to attend; my parents couldn't co-sign the loans necessary for me to attend my school of choice. Columbia College Chicago was calling my name... not Western Michigan University. I often wonder how this story would have unfolded had I been in another state, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

I was seventeen, closeted, and mainly taking writing or theater classes. There was a single 8:00 AM Philosophy 101 class on my schedule that I never attended. So, unfortunately, due to my relentless insomnia at the time and penchant for sleeping in, it would be a few more years before I discovered the depth of that interest. You can picture it, though, right? The type, I mean. The theater type. And for any theater people reading this, I say this with the utmost love and respect, but you know we're a type.

I had been in a relationship for a while (about a year) with someone three years younger than me. We met in the theater and carried on mostly secretly; I wasn't out to anyone but my closest friends. She was, but her family didn't accept it. You can perhaps sense where this story is headed. It wasn't long after my classes started that our relationship was revealed to her mother, who occasionally went through her phone to make sure she wasn't talking to her ex-girlfriend or any other dangerous lesbians.

I turned eighteen in October, near the end of my first semester. Her mother pressed charges against me within a few weeks of my birthday. It was a long, drawn-out process, one that included police harassment, interviews, job loss, and a great deal of stress. By the end of March, it was apparent to me that I was going to be arrested, and I needed to tell my family what was going on. I had been afraid to, you see? Because it meant I had to tell them I was gay. Not because she was three years younger. Not because I was going to jail. I mean, that last part didn't help, but I was primarily focused on whether or not they would disown me for being a lesbian.

My family was pretty Christian. They're not necessarily organized about it since my mother died, but they're still devout nonetheless. My dad doesn't go to church anymore, but it was very different when I was growing up. We went to church every Sunday, bible study on Wednesdays, and my father was ordained. Things like the pilot episode of Will and Grace left my mother in fits. She thought it was about a couple, like Dharma and Greg. She didn't watch the commercials for it very closely. I say this to give a bit of context as to how I had developed this fear that I might be disowned. Homosexuality was an abomination, although we were a "hate the sin and not the sinner" household. We were to pray for those we knew to be gay, which was mostly a lesbian couple in our town who owned a rock shop I liked to go to and Ellen DeGenerous. And, as is usually the case in hyper-religious households, appearances were incredibly important. Having a lesbian for a daughter didn't look good in a small town back then. Maybe it still doesn't; I suppose I'm out of touch with that area of Michigan and couldn't say for sure.

I called my brother for backup on April 1st, 2009. Now, we aren't particularly close, never have been, but he has always defended me when I needed it. I figured he would be a good ally, even if he wasn't a great friend. I wasn't wrong, but he did think it was an April Fool's prank for the first several minutes of our phone call. He told me to tell them when I got home from school for the summer. The semester would be over soon, so I didn't have long to wait. He said he would be there with me for the conversation. He even offered to tell them for me, but I knew it was something I had to do myself.

When I finally sat my parents down and told them that I was gay, things had progressed on the legal front, and I was now telling them that I had to turn myself in to the police along with my sexuality. "Two bombs," as my mother would refer to the event later.

My brother confirmed my claims and assured them it wasn't a joke and that he had thought the same thing. My father remained silent while my mother shook her head and stared at the floor. Eventually, she uttered a single phrase, "No, you're not." I went to bed without discussing with them further.

I turned myself in and went to jail, was processed and put in the system, sat there for a day, and did my best not to cry while I waited to get bailed out—$ 10,000. My parents found a bail bondsman and paid the standard 10%.

A plea deal was the way out of this gruesome situation. I faced thirty years in prison had I gone to trial. I was terrified. So I pled guilty and took four months of house arrest, three years of probation, and no criminal record.

That is only part of the story, though. It gets better when I talk about where I am today. This story is more about the person I have become and how this trauma has shaped me. I'm not here to say that these "Romeo and Juliet romances," as the judge referred to them, aren't problematic. I'm not here to say anything about them at all, really, other than I had one. It wasn't pretty, and I grew from it.

What I learned was invaluable: That my family supports me no matter the circumstances. That they will hold me accountable and love me through whatever bullshit I pull. Most importantly, I learned that I can survive anything. No amount of fear, anxiety, or danger will keep me from living the life I know I should be living. My resilience has saved my life; nobody else can say that about me.

I cradle that younger, more traumatized self in my meditations and imaginings, comfort them, and lull them to rest.

"Your work is done. I'll take it from here."