My Lesbian Coming Out Story

October is LGBT History Month. Because our individual and collective histories are each so important I'm taking the opportunity to get reflective and share a bit of history about me - and my coming out story.

To begin I need to fill you in on the circumstances of my life before I was openly gay. Imagine if you will a small, Colorado mountain town. It was here that I grew up, went to church, took ballet lessons, and curled my hair each day at 6:30 am before I had to catch the bus for school. There were approximately two black kids, and a couple of Asian students who were all the adopted children of affluent white parents in my graduating class of 360 students.

I knew one lesbian; she was overweight and forty-five. She would sometimes fill in for the minister at my church but my parents would negatively mumble the word lesbian in the car on the way home after the service. Maybe it was something I learned from them or maybe it was my infatuation with being perceived as beautiful that made me yell "Lesbian!" and switch off the radio every time a Melissa Etheridge song played. I believed, much like some mothers who hear that their daughter is gay, that lesbians are women who've given up on men because they don't think they're attractive. The association I made between general unattractiveness and lesbianism was so strong that it was almost fact. A new girl at school who had acne, a short haircut, and several extra pounds equaled lesbian, it was as easy as that. I was a stick-thin ballerina with beautiful hair and a pretty face, there was no way I could be a lesbian.

Fast forward three years after high school and you would find me in New York City. I was working at a restaurant on Sullivan Street and hardly getting by with a few modelling gigs in between. I was depressed and lost because my dream of being the next Katharine Hepburn wasn't really working out. I was poor as hell, and even though I had balked at romantic relationships, children and monogamy in the past I was suddenly wondering what it was all about.

I decided it was about time I lost my virginity to the sandwich chef who was in love with me. I loved who he was and saw his potential, but I wasn't in love with him and I treated him horribly. He was the first one to sweetly suggest to me that maybe I was a lesbian.

As is my usual routine when I can't find the answers alone, I went to the library and picked up a book. I was careful to choose one that wouldn't embarrass me on the subway and found "The Girls: Sappho Goes to Hollywood" by Diana McLellan. I went home, and after reading the first chapter in the apartment I shared with my roommate in Park Slope, I had to shut my bedroom door. I was flushed, and a great surge of electricity was flip-flopping inside of me. I was certain that what I was feeling was manifesting itself in my physical appearance and I was scared. I was reading about these gorgeous, glamorous women like Greta Garbo, Marlene Deitrich, and Tallulah Bankhead intertwining their thin silken legs, kissing, touching, and forming real romantic relationships with one another.  I never understood the term "turned on" until then, but I understood it suddenly as a dangerous and exhilarating thing.

After I read that book every woman was a lesbian to me. Hours were spent staring down teachers, bartenders, and relative strangers. I would lose my nerve the second they looked back but I wonder how many hours were spent staring at half closed lashes, perfectly plucked brow lines, collar bones and when feeling particularly brave - cleavage. My inner lesbian was in full blossom, but I was terrified. How could I tell my friends that I thought I was a lesbian? I mentioned my fear to a relative stranger who responded with "Well, why wouldn't you love women? They're soft, they smell good and they're beautiful." Instead of coming out, I moved.

A few years later I was in San Francisco and still hadn't told anyone that I was a lesbian. My excuse was that I had never been to bed with a woman so what did I really know? San Francisco was where I would figure it all out, away from the judgement of home, and surrounded by other gays.

Two months after arriving in San Francisco I found myself in a wine bar with my gay friend Billy. We were singing show tunes and getting drunk. The owner of the bar seemed entertained by us and poured us free wine and dared us to ridiculousness. She was daring herself, hilarious, and beautiful. Suddenly she started talking about her "ex-girlfriend" and those words cut through my buzz like lightning. I looked up and she was staring at me. I stared back and I didn't look away. While Billy sang and danced obliviously around us, we continued that stare until it was clear what it meant, what we intended, and how badly we wanted it.

Lust turned to love quickly. It was a first for me and it was like being hit by a truck. I thought of nothing else but her and I, what we had done the night before, what we would do the night after, and into the future. I tried to rationalize what a successful business owner, thirteen years older, could possibly want with me, a struggling student. I ignored the improbability of our life together because I wanted to believe in the possibility more than anything. It didn't take long into our nearly year long relationship for the cracks to appear but I kept spending the night hoping she'd wake up and commit to be with me. She gave me so much, but not what I ultimately wanted from her and it crushed me. I didn't understand the inequities of love; why A. wants B. but B. wants C. I needed to talk to somebody, I needed my Mom. And that's how my coming out began.

I pushed aside my fears because I needed a hug. I needed to be told it would all be okay and the only way the people I loved could do that for me is if I told them the circumstances of my misery. I think because I was so overwhelmed by the turmoil of unrequited love that I hardly noticed their shock, silence, hesitation or unease before the moment they pushed their reactions aside and tried to console my broken heart.

In time my heart did heal, to the best of its ability. I was excited to fall in love again, and was finally free to really look for it. My friends and family asked me more questions in their struggle to understand how I came to be a lesbian, but for many my being a lesbian was the answer to a lot of things. I became truly happy, and proud. I was now a part of the human race that knew what it was like to fall in love, and what it was like to lose. I no longer had to trust a story in a book, I knew for myself and it didn't matter that it was with another woman. I was normal. Gradually I became more secure in who I was, and so did the people around me. We all had challenged and changed our perceptions and as a result became nicer people.

That was ten years ago. Now I'm out to everyone: my employers, co-workers, my ninety-six year old grandmother, my father's evangelical friends, my junior high school art teacher - really anyone who is a part of my life. I always feel a little tension the first time I tell someone that I'm gay, or first mention my wife, but after that it is always better. In the last ten years I have never had someone turn me away, stop talking to me, or ridicule me for being a lesbian. In my experience most people are excited to learn that I'm a lesbian, are interested to hear about my marriage, and relax around my sharing something personal. My being out has made my life so much easier, raised my self esteem and made me genuinely happy. It's also made other people feel comfortable enough to tell me about their sexuality, even if they're not out to their own families. Having an ally, or simply knowing someone else who is gay can be the best thing for someone struggling to find the answers to their own tough questions.

I know not everyone has as smooth of a reception to coming out as I have had, but I've never met anyone who regrets it. When you hide your sexuality you also hide the matters of the heart, your self confidence, and your potential. Silence only seems to make life easier, but I assure you it doesn't. It may feel like you're protecting the ones around you or yourself, but what you're really doing is denying positive growth and change. Everyone deserves to be happy. Everyone deserves love. Coming out makes it a lot easier to find both.