This is one of the most difficult stories I have ever had tell. And I often have to tell it.
Because people often usually ask me how I came out. (Even on dates, if you can believe it!)
The reasons why coming out was so difficult was because of the timing of events and my fear of the outcome. The reason I am telling you, though, is incredibly simple. If this helps one person, then it was worth it. I survived being gay and closeted for 22 years and so can you.
Now ... you may not be gay. You may not know you're gay, or bisexual, or confused, or what have you. Or you may know you're gay. OR you could be a big ol' straight-ie.
Either way, what you must know is: every story is different. This is mine. But every story is hard for any person with any secret. We can all relate to secrets. And my biggest secret was about to come out.
And my secret put me in a place called the closet.
First of all, "the closet?" The CLOSET? What am I? A dress shirt? I don't think so.
I didn't like the term. I wasn't really comfortable with anything about being gay. "I wasn't gay," I thought. Gay people were flamboyant and went to clubs and wore tank tops. I don't like tank tops!
But, slowly, the feelings were becoming more and more obvious. I liked men. It just was a part of me. I liked movies. I liked blueberries. I liked being with friends. And I also just happened to like men. You couldn't change it. It would be like asking me to stop liking blueberries. Blueberries make a bad analogy - but you get the idea. We are all born with a set of interests and likes and no one can change those.
One of the hardest things was not being able to show or express this interest, but faking an interest in women - well, that was much harder. One thing people people say about me is: I'm pretty transparent. And if you need more proof: well... how about the playful title of this blog? "I am so gay." So, yes ... it was pretty difficult to hide my interest in men.
The ... saddest ... part of this secret I have to say was: most people already knew!!! Which made the "secret," in hindsight, all the more painful. I don't begrudge anyone for not reaching out and telling me they knew, but I wish someone had. I didn't really feel like I was ever safe. Honestly. For 22 years, did I ever really breathe and feel safe? Nope. I always worried. Worried about hate, worried about being disowned, worried about being kicked out of the house, no where to go and worried about never being loved. All I ever felt was worry. What would happen to me?
It eventually became a heavy weight in my life. I couldn't be really happy in a way or have careless fun. What if I slipped up? What if I looked too long at a guy when we all went to the beach? What if I laughed at a joke a girl said about a guy?
This weight eventually forced me in a sense to gain weight in college. A lot more weight than one should. The secret was literally and figuratively weighing on me! When I graduated, I felt a little more freedom, even though I still lived at home. The day to day pressure of being around my 5 straight male roommates was at least gone. But, there was this pressure to find a job (a real job - not working at the mall) and the pressure to lose some weight.
I was a big fan of Diet Coke and Subway that summer. You guessed it! Affordable dieting! And it made that guy Jared lose some weight, so what the hell? And I did lose some weight. So, thanks, major food chain and major soda conglomerate! You were probably not 100% healthy, but it wasn't like I was trying those cigarettes and bulimia all the kids were talking about! (I'm no doctor, but none of these options seem really ideal. This is a funny blog, so keep that in mind. At the very least, you should probably come running with me, though. It's healthy and it's ... like ... TOTES fun!)
Where was I? Oh yeah! While some pressures were reduced, I had the added pressure of living at home with my parents and being a 22 year old horny male, which I tried to bury. I wanted to be a good son and be especially good for my parents.
A little back story on my parents. They had their rough moments in life and, fundamentally speaking, are the best, most honest and decent people I know (aside from that awesome Jesus guy). So, I always felt the urge to make them proud and be good. So, I never did really lie to them or act badly or drink or whatever.
But, I did lie. I had lied all my life in a sense. But, then I really lied. Boy, did I lie. What happened? Well, some work friends from the mall asked me out after work. They were going to a gay bar, a little dive called the Grotto. It was a bit of a small dance bar/club and it wasn't an amazing scene, but it was the most fun I had in years.
It was an awakening. And I stayed out until it was four in the morning. I don't even think in college I stayed out that late. (Sad, party of one? No! I'm a good boy, remember? Ok...yea...sad, party of one.)
Anyways, I had the most fun of my life that night. I talked with guys. I danced with guys. I laughed with guys. It was a lot of fun. And my parents freaked out. "What the hell were you doing out 'til 4 in the morning?," my Dad oh-so-quietly asked. "There is NOTHING to do at FOUR in the MORNING," he whispered.
My Dad was not subtle. He was angry. He was ... concerned. (Need more proof? Keep reading the blog. Over time, you will learn my parents are nothing if not always concerned. Need even more proof?? Ok, well - for example - they didn't have an ATM/debit card until 2010. This is ALL true!)
The point is: I then had to lie to my parents to make them feel safe. They didn't 100% buy the story, but they loved me and trusted me, and the story I told wasn't too ridiculous in hindsight. It was roughly along the line of ... "I lost track of time" ... and "the gang all went back to So-and-So's house."
It ate me up inside, though. I had never really lied to my parents in such a deliberate, pointed, and outlandish way. I pretty much always told the truth or had always given them a close version of the truth. NO parent needs to know the ENTIRE truth. For instance, every father when he meets his future son-in-law knows, "this guy will be having sex with my daughter." But no one says it!
It always makes me laugh, though, when parents are excited for grandchildren. "Um... you know that guy in the corner did that to your daughter, right?," I say to no one.
So, yes, there is simply a version of the truth to tell. You tell your parents most of the truth! That's what good kids do. But, I was a bad kid that Saturday morning.
It was Saturday, September 8th. And it ate me up inside. I had to go back to work at the mall. My Dad was a little unwilling to let me have the car again to go to work, but he knew money for his kid was a good thing, so he allowed it. I worked and came home that night. No late night for me.
That day at work, though! Everyone was talking about me going out! How was it? You were the little dancer, Greg! Blah, blah, blah. Meanwhile, I confided into my coworker, who (for the sake of the blog) I will call Melissa because she looked liked my really good friend from high school named ... Melissa.
Melissa and I weren't close. But, I trusted her and liked her a lot because she was filling the void in my life from the real Melissa, who I coincidentally wasn't close to at that chapter in my life. She was calm and very logical and very thoughtful. She basically said that it seemed like I wanted to tell people and that I knew in my heart that I was gay, so if I felt I could do it - I should tell my parents. She understood why it hurt me to lie to my parents. (Again, I know you're all bad eggs, but I was a good kid. I like my parents, thank you very much! And so what if I still call them every Sunday?)
Melissa made sense, though. She essentially gave me the boot I needed and secretly had felt for some time. If my parents did, in fact, love me - then they would love ALL of me. Even the different stuff.
I needed a few days to process it all. This was heady stuff. I'm Gay. Wow. Yeah... I am. Ok. So what to do with that?
And... well, you know ... a few days pass. I was thinking about all a major decision, after all. And then what would happen? Wouldn't you know - September 11th! Yes, THE September 11th. Only the worst day in the modern history of our country. A day anyone alive will remember where they were and what happened to them. It made my problem seem small, but Jesus Christ - the world was ending!!! I ate my cereal, watching the Today show, and saw the second plane fly into the second tower. I shut off the TV in horror and just said, "get ready for work." This was when people thought we could put the fire out. The building surely would be fine.
I was driving to work when the plane hit the Pentagon. The announcers on the radio were in a panic. I was near Westover Air Force Base, and I saw a plane fly over me, and I scrunched down a little bit in the car to feel safer.
I was at the mall. NO customers were there. And I watched from the Radio Shack across the hall, as the first tower fell. Silence. No one said anything except, of course, the gasps.
My problem. Was nothing. Nothing. Compared to today.
That night, I spent with my parents in one room (and my parents never watch anything together in the same room, so this was big). And we watched it all over, and over, and over. From different angles, from New Jersey, from Brooklyn, from people running from the debris. From hell.
We knew nothing, but we knew it was terrorism. We all went to bed a bit tired, and a bit shaken. And I know we all hugged that night. I remember their hugs.
The next day was September 12th and I didn't go into work. The mall was closed. Life had stopped. I don't think anyone went to work that day. And maybe it was all that time together. And maybe it was hearing people on their cell phones calling their spouses, crying, saying good-bye, and hearing it on the nightly news. I know it was that. It was people saying their final, most important thing to the people they loved. In fact, it made my father look right at me and say, "And you are getting a cell phone this week. I don't care what it costs you." When people say those kind of things, you know you're loved.
So, on September 12th (a day I have never forgotten), I came out to my parents. This, to me, is my real coming out. Because they mattered more than any other person in my life still. What they thought about me defined how I would be as a gay man and, in some ways, it still does. Friends had known before. I confessed to my favorite aunt, too. But, my parents were the true firsts. They were my parents.
I came out because I had lied. And I came out because after the news, it was time to start living.
So, this is the day I came out.
9/11 was a Tuesday. My coming out was a Wednesday. The best part of all of this was after my coming out. By the end of the conversation, Dad merely said before he went to bed, very tired, "Well, I can't wait to see what happens on Thursday." HIS. EXACT. WORDS. It made me laugh then, and still does.
I can laugh, because - while not at all easy in any way - it turned out ok. I sat them both down in one room. And Mom knew something was up. Her eyes welled up a little. She confessed later that she thought I was going to say I was moving out. That - to my Mom - was the worst news she could hear. God bless, my mother.
I simply said. "There is something I have wanted to tell you. And it may be hard for you to hear, but it's who I am and I need to tell you. I'm Gay." I didn't draw it out, not that I remember. I led with the top story.
They asked thoughtful questions. Mom confessed (while crying a little) that people would blame her. And I, and this is when I really broke down sobbing, said the only thing people could blame her for is loving me so much.
It was heart wrenching. I'm sure in some ways, especially for my Dad, he felt like he lost a son. Over time, I think he looked at as gaining a daughter. My Dad has always been an affectionate and giving man to his kids. Over time, he became more kind and softer to me in a way that I think daughters experience with their dads. It was subtle, extremely subtle, but different from the way that Dads talk to their sons.
My Dad (I am sure) would argue with this. Because he said the night I came out, "I don't care if you are gay. You're my son. And you are part of me. I created you and you came from me. So I couldn't hate you because you are me." So, I know my Dad thinks of me in every way possible as his son. And he loves me more than he loves himself.
Dad got it all right away. The next morning, I was smiling over breakfast. Trying to be chipper and pretend like I didn't shake their entire world. Mom was supremely shell shocked. (She took over two and a half years!!! to come around and accepting it. You can deny it, Mom, but it's the truth. It took awhile.) So, Mom, over breakfast, looked like a good 1960s housewife. She was cooking and had the facial expression of the wind completely knocked out of her.
Dad, on the other hand, looked at me and talked. After breakfast, he rubbed my right shoulder and said, "you seem lighter. You always had this expression that the weight of the world was on you. And I never knew why. And now you don't. And I'm glad."
I love my father more than life itself. Mom, too, of course. Dad is simply far more expressive in the moment than Mom often is. They are just different that way. Mom will come at you in a different approach and shows her love by doing things for you. Dad will just come right at you and say it like it is. I like to think of myself as a balance, but I am probably more like my father in this way.
Dad's words meant EVERYTHING to me. It helped me grow from there. It helped me be free.
And that is how I came out.
And that is how I survived it all.
Thank you, Mom and Dad. (and thank you for reading this.)
Love
Greg
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