It’s Pride Month, and my heart hasn’t been in it, which is fine and life. Some years, things hold less weight in our hearts or minds than other years, and that’s okay. But I need to care a little bit because I am le gay, and I can’t not. So here I am, forcing myself to Pride for the last eleven days, and I’m starting in the most uncomfortable way I can.
Being proud of literally anyone I know is so easy for me. Like… have you seen people? Pretty incredible. Okay, less so for white dudes. I’m so proud of my people for just being them. To the point I could explode with how incredible and strong I know they are.
How do I do that? How do I give myself even a modicum of grace I give everyone else? What have I done deserving enough of pride? Nothing. That is my visceral answer. That is what I truly believe to my core. I have done nothing nor am I worthy of being proud of myself. I know, logically, this is not true, but it feels true. My internal monologue can be boiled down to: feelings fighting logic. Feelings never win out against logic. Except when logic is trying to convince my feelings that I’m a good or decent human deserving… anything remotely on the cusp of kindness. Pride falls into this strange category of feeling based on logical analysis. Or it is, at least, for me.
Making myself create a list of reasons I’m proud feels like a form of self-harm; though, I know, it’s actually a good exercise in self-love, which is indicative that I love myself. I do not. I am solidly pretending that I love myself. Fake it til you make it. Going on 32 years, I’ve gotta have a breakthrough at some point in time. It’s not today, but over the course of 16 days—truly started this one a hot minutes ago—I came up with this list. I stretched. Maybe #12 should be: I’m really proud I finished this list and actually put it into the world.
Just a Pride photoshoot. Nothing to see.
I came out. Simultaneously the easiest and hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I am alive.
I got tattoos. I now have ten with appointments for two more this fall. They make me happy. They make my body feel like it belongs to me just a little bit. My tattoos are personal and public reclamation and declaration.
I don’t respond to my parents’ anymore.
I cut out toxicity. The people who made me feel anxious, less than, unworthy, undeserving, too much. I shut out the people who wouldn’t or couldn’t match me. Being in my life is an investment, just like I believe being in other people’s lives is an investment; so I’m not making shitty investments anymore.
My puppies are safe and loved. In 2020, I spent a lot of time, money, and emotion rescuing and raising a dog and her thirteen puppies. Every single one of them is safe, happy, loved, and thriving in their furever homes.
I’m chasing peace rather than chaos.
I’ve sought out friends who accept me as I am.
I keep going.
I’m trying really hard.
I’m making an effort to be vulnerable with those who have earned it.
The very first Pride I ever went to was ten years ago in London, albeit accidentally. I haven’t been to one since. I have celebrated every single Pride month in some way for twelve years—a year before I came out as pansexual.
“Can’t Even Think Straight” True Facts
I’ve never really been to Pride. As an extreme introvert with zero gay friends in Houston, I haven’t had anyone make me go or go with me. As soon as my life included people, straight but supportive people, who would happily accompany me to Pride, the pandemic hit, and Pride was canceled for two years; though, I put on my own Pride Parade, dressing up my six dogs in 2020.
The pandemic put stress on the seams of my life that I had been so desperately mending as they tore until I couldn’t do it anymore. I let every seam pop, and my life is just a jumble of fabric and thread at this point. Eventually, I’ll figure out how to sew it all back together, but I’m in the process of figuring out how I want the pieces to fit together because what was didn’t work.
Over the last two years, I have become more and more outspoken about being gay. I’ve never hidden this part of myself since coming out eleven years ago, but being in straight passing relationships made it a bit more complicated. And it is exhausting arguing with people over my own identity. Two years ago, I decided to stop letting exhaustion deter me from calling people on their heteronormativity. A conversation worth having for myself but also for every other queer person so maybe one day it no longer needs to be had. Six months ago, I came out as lesbian.
Gay, queer, lesbian. They’re all identities I happily wear.
Living my best gay life surrounded by a bunch of circles.
Sometimes I feel like my life has been nothing but doing hard things. Thirty-one years of just getting by, biding my time until the next tragedy creeps in. In my early twenties, I chose to walk away from a cushy corporate life to pursue a career in doing the hard things. I spend my time learning and writing about this life and this world of inequity, violence, and struggle. As someone who has chosen to always have the hard conversations, to stand up for what I believe is right, to never stay quiet, to not accept what is as what can be, my career and beliefs, though rooted in kindness, has alienated everyone in my life who do not believe in working to create a better world. We do not have to hold the same opinions or beliefs, but my people cannot actively cultivate ignorance, hate, violence, or worse ambivalence. So, I am well acquainted with watching people walk away.
My life has been a series of doing hard things, but coming out was the easiest thing I’ve ever done.
As someone whose life revolves around gender and racial equity and human sexuality, as a gay someone, I am well acquainted with the fears my community has when they come out, when we live our lives in the open. I know the privilege I have as a straight passing woman. A 5’10” woman who can hold her own in a fight against a man. A white woman. An American woman. A cis woman. A woman with an education and the words to tell my story and defend my actions and understand the consequences of my choices. I choose to come out at every opportunity. I chose to get very gay tattoos in very visible places. I choose to put rainbows on everything. I choose to call myself gay and lesbian and queer. I choose to be loud and proud because so many people never had the chance. So many live in fear because they are who they are.
My community has fought for the rights we have. We have died to be where we are today. Yet three days ago, I listened to a fifteen year old girl talk about her parents refusing to acknowledge her sexuality because she’s not straight, maybe bi, maybe lesbian. The fact a fifteen year old feels comfortable enough to call herself gay is such an amazing win, but the fight is not over. Especially if we look at what is playing out in the highest court of this nation and the repercussions of the decision and overturning of Roe v. Wade will have for women and my community.
Blue and yellow are my favorite colors, so yes for this wall.
Pride is a celebration. It’s a celebration of who we are. It’s a celebration I hold in my heart and life every fucking day because Pride isn’t a month, it is my life. It is the lives lost to violence and ignorance; the lives lost to hopelessness; the lives lost to a lack of health care; the lives lost fighting for equity. Pride is a remembrance of every person who has come before so that we can wear rainbows and dance in the street. Pride is honoring the pain that has led to joy and love and laughter. Pride is hope that the struggles and fights we continue to face will be alleviated for the queer people of tomorrow.
So yeah, I’ve made gay a huge part of my personality in the last two years. Because I’m fucking proud. I’m proud of my community. I’m proud of myself. I’m proud of who I am, and it has taken me thirty-one years of doing the hard things so that I could have this one easy thing.
I am gay. I am lesbian. I am here. I am loud. I am proud. I will be at Pride in Houston whether that is with my people or by myself. If you need people, I’ll be your people. Because I’m proud of you too. We’re not perfect, but gay is a synonym for happy, so here’s to a Gay Fucking Pride and celebrating exactly who we are because we are exceptional.
I recently took a trip to Denver, and while I was there, I decided to get two tattoos. I’ve kept them hidden on social media as they heal, and I wanted to show a few important people the finished product in person before announcing it to the world. So without further ado, these are my new tattoos.
Two concentric circles in the Pride Flag and Lesbian Flag colors.I think I’m really funny.
If you can’t tell by the ink, I’m gay. Both hold meaning, one more than the other. My journey to being a lesbian has been long, varied, and quite the story, and I wanted to get something to commemorate that while also acting as a reminder to be boldly myself always.
A few years ago, I knew I wanted to get a gay tattoo because I’ve been out of the closet for over a decade now. As I do, I take my time to mull all the infinite options over. I thought I wanted a rainbow ear cuff. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that was not actually what I wanted. It didn’t give me the “yes, that’s what I need” factor. So, I turned to a Pinterest search. Rainbow dots, flowers, hearts, etc. Not my thing. I decided I wanted to put whatever it would be just above the inside of my right elbow. I saw a line with gradient rainbow colors. I liked that, but… why the fuck would I want anything straight tattooed on my body?? The answer: I do not.
Circles are hugely symbolic in literature, nature, life, myth, etc. There’s no beginning or end. It made a lot of sense to have a rainbow circle. Pride! As I thought on it more, why stop at one circle and just the pride colors? I could have two concentric circles with the inner circle made up of the lesbian flag colors. I’m a genius. The moment the idea came to me, I had that feeling I always get when I know something is right. It doesn’t come often, but when it does, I pursue it with everything I’ve got.
I love the idea of concentric circles for this one because I am a lesbian—the inner circle—belonging to a larger community—the outer circle—of beautifully unique people living their authentic lives. I don’t want to hide that, and I no longer can since I have it tattooed on my left forearm.
Why is it not just above the inside of my right elbow ? Well, there’s some unintentional yet deeply meaningful overlap. One of my closest friends and someone I love with all my heart has two concentric circles in that exact spot. Though my tattoo is colorful and much bigger, I wasn’t about to have an exceptionally similar tattoo in the same exact spot as one of my people. The reason she got her tattoo was in honor of her dog, Nigel, who passed away after prolonged illness in March. He wasn’t my dog, but I loved him as much as my own babies. I was a huge part of his last few months, and my life revolved around my friend and him as she tried everything to get him better. But he passed far too soon, and it broke me wide open.
They make me happy.
Her tattoo was in the shape of his dog tag. So though I came up with the idea for my tattoo completely separately, the added meaning made it even more poignant for me. I will carry Nigel’s memory with me forever. I don’t need a tattoo to remember him, but his memory is subtly etched on my skin the way he not so subtly carved a choco-taco lab shaped spot in my heart. He really was just the best boy. The thing is, his memory will always be intertwined with his mom because I wouldn’t have gotten to know him without her. She came into my life when I had no idea I needed her and quickly became one of my favoritest people for more reasons than I can enumerate. She is also gay and well that’s a much longer story, but she has inspired, challenged, and helped me reclaim some very integral parts of who I am in the short time we have known each other, and I expect it’s only going to get better. As a writer and advocate, I know the importance of people and connection, and I believe in honoring those who impact our lives. I could probably write a piece about how influential she is, but you know an accidental matching-ish tattoo works. As a survivor, I don’t let many people in, but when I met her, I had the same feeling I had with three other people who would go on to be fundamentally impactful on my life. I knew from the first time we hung out that she would be immensely important in my life, and she has. Again the tattoo’s connection was absolutely incidental, but I love layered meaning.
After I realized why the idea of concentric circles felt so familiar, it then felt odd but not odd enough that I didn’t do. There were lots of discussions had on if I should scrap the idea completely, but I chose to keep the idea and change the location. Because at the end of the day, it also just made it feel more right. Weird but right. So very on brand for me. Luckily she’s weird too and doesn’t hate it. Or she’s lying to me because it’s a fucking tattoo and not going anywhere so she had to accept it either way. But she is the one who took these pictures, so there’s that. Lucky her, she made me look cute, so she’s found herself a new job: my personal photographer.
I will show this one of for years to come.
ga(y)me on Fun fact, I am very competitive. It manifests in subtle ways, but if it can be a competition, it will be a competition. I’m also cocky as fuck. Especially when I shouldn’t be. If I’m atrocious at something “Game on, bitch.” I have been saying “game on” since high school. Staring down the starting o-line in a fun game of tackle football in college? Game on. You want me to try water skiing for the eighteenth time, knowing full well I will not get up. Game on. Help you tile your bathroom having zero experience? Game on. Rescue a dog and tend to her thirteen puppies? Game on. Want to play a game of Scrabble? Sure. Let’s have a trivia night. Sounds nice. If I’m good at something, you won’t know until I have wiped the floor clean of your loser sweat. With a smile, obviously: I’m not an asshole.
I was in a sleep-deprived, depression induced, anxious state of mania when I said “Game on.” Wait… gayyyyme on. I was so excited about my pun, I called my best friend in Denver and told her I would be getting that tattooed on my right finger when I came to visit. I do not feel the need to explain why that finger. If you know, you know. She said, “Let’s sleep on it, and revisit.” Yeah okay. Game on. I knew it was happening. It happened. I did it. She was hesitant until the tattoo gun hit my finger, and then she was like… well, okay.
I would be lying just a little bit if I said I didn’t get it as a huge flirt because I really fucking did. I know this shit is adorably cocky and competitive. It’s also a pun. It’s also gay. It’s also funny. Every person I show giggles and quickly follows it up with “That is very RaeAnna.” It is. It’s such a dumb tattoo, and it makes me brilliantly happy. I show it off a lot. I am also really excited to explain what game on means to my great nieces and nephews. That’s all the meaning there is to this tattoo. I wanted it. It makes me happy. I did it.
Those are my tattoos. I love them very much.
Yay gay! I got them at Old Larimer Street Tattoo in Denver, Colorado from Johnny Campa, a fantastic artist and human!
May 8th marks the officiality of Dylan being a significant part of my life for six years. Where the fuck has time gone?
We have managed to stay us.
When we met, I was 25 to his 23. I was bartending to pay the bills until freelancing took off. He was figuring out what life looked like after the military. We chose to move cross-country four months into dating so he could follow his dreams of becoming a race car engine builder and designer. My job allowed me the flexibility to go with.
Today, I’m making my way through my 30s as a full-time freelance writer. Not only is Dylan a race car engine builder and designer, he’s teaching others to do the same. We own a house that we’ve filled with six rescue dogs. We are best friends, partners, and co-parents in this life we have made for ourselves.
There are few people who have had the impact he has on my life. He drives me absolutely insane. I can’t stand him, I love him, and I can’t imagine my life without him. Moving cross-country was a life altering decision. One that has allowed me to distance myself physically and emotionally from a past fraught with pain. He’s given me the security to chase dreams, travel, and figure out who I am. He’s held me through more anxiety/panic/PTSD attacks than I’d care to count. He listens to my endless fears of failure and mediocrity. He has watched me climb waterfalls; gotten up at the ass crack of dawn to see my smile as hot air balloons float over the mountains; held my hand through health issue after issue; raised eyebrows as I’ve danced around at 3:30 in the morning; taste tested many a new recipe; and so much more He’s been a rock through some really difficult years.
One of the things I admire and respect most about Dylan is his unrelenting respect and support as I figure out who the fuck I am.
When we started dating, I had been out of the closet as pansexual for five years. I wasn’t necessarily loud and proud, but I never let anyone call me straight. Over the course of four years, I would start embracing my sexuality more openly because I had someone who supported that journey. He took my pride pictures and high-fived me the first time I said I was gay. It took me a long time to even consider myself part of the LGBTQ+ community because I had always been in straight passing relationships, but Dylan pushed me to include myself because pansexual is valid no matter what kind of relationship I was in or had been in. Over the past two years, I have been coming into my identity more and more, searching out community and relationships I would never have before. Partially because I’m an introvert. Partially because I hate change. Partially because of so many other things.
So often when a person comes out, we lose people. Friends, family, partners. Especially partners. They don’t usually stay, let alone support the journey. That’s not my story. Dylan stayed. He continues to stay. He was the first person I told when I decided to start calling myself a lesbian. When I decided to get the rainbow and lesbian flag colors tattooed on myself, he was the first person I showed. I would not say it’s been easy for him nor should it be, but he has never wavered in his desire for me to be happily, authentically myself.
I am so incredibly lucky to co-exist with a man I have spent six years with, building a life and a family. We are not traditional by any loose definition of the word, but we’re figuring it out. The one thing we do know: We love each other deeply, support each other eternally, and will always be there for one another.
To the man who has allowed me the safety, freedom, and unconditional love to be myself exactly as I am: I will die loving you. You’re also a huge fucking pain in my ass, and I would not change a single thing about our journey. I’ll see you at home, gingey.
I am, but I’m not. Life is always an adventure and a bit of an uphill battle. Yet I find myself struggling even more than usual as things like health issues, insecurities of freelancing, home upheavals, desire, and the overall current chaotic status quo of life and the world are ever looming in the back and even foreground of daily existence. What a time to be alive.
The predictable New Year, New Me posts are running around the internet as we enter the third week of 2022. The usual ten year challenge is circulating with side by side pictures from 2012 and 2022 to show their glow ups. I may include my own, but I have not decided yet. Motivational posts are even more prevalent than usual in my feed, which is saying something considering the majority of women in my life are positive-look-how-far-you’ve-come-manifesting people. I am very much not that.
There are lots of motivational things that really grate my soul, but the current, and so far longest lasting, motivational mantra that makes me want to move to the wilderness and quit all human interaction is any and all renditions of the following variations on:
“Think about how proud your past self would be if they could see you now.” “Your past self would be so proud of you right now.” “There is a past version of you that is so proud of how far you have come.” “If the version of you from five years ago could see you right now, they’d be so proud.”
Gack! Absolute pukerific.
Maybe one day, I can get on board. But at thirty, knowing who I was at fifteen, twenty, twenty-five… hate to tell these motivational humans: Past me would be soooo disappointed. There are past me’s who would be angry with the woman writing this. Even twenty-nine year old me would be a bit confused by the choices I made over the last year. I don’t think these posts are directed at high achievers who were absolutely gutted by some unfortunate tragedies of existing. In my youth, I had high hopes, big dreams, and a certain lack of empathy for seeing how life exists in shades of grey. At fifteen, I knew exactly what I wanted for my future and fell prey to the belief that with enough hard work and dedication, success is guaranteed… Call me a cynic, but that’s just not how life and success (which is highly personal and not at all one size fits all) works; privilege, opportunity, education, health, society, connection, gender, race, a bit of luck are all important details the American Dream conveniently leaves out. I digress. At twenty, I saw the same future for myself but with a far greater understanding of life’s grey scale. At twenty-five, my envisioned future started aligning more with my actual passions and abilities rather than a future I decided to want based on what had been deemed worthy according to societal pressures and my own desire to stick it to men.
I decided to do a ten years later side-by-side. Kind of fun. 20 v. 30
Future I Wanted at 15-23 I wanted to have a power house career in the corporate world. Suits and heels. Sitting at a desk in a high rise with a view. Making so much money I could buy a Burberry purse and wear Louboutins—not everyday but, you know, have them in my closet. Sipping martinis at a swanky bar with my fellow powerful business lady friends after work. Going home to my quirky yet very classy one bedroom apartment and dog and settling into silk jammies and drinking wine on the couch as I read. Hopping on planes to go on adventures in five star hotels around the world. Maybe meet a person who likes the same things and never wants to get married or have children.
Future I Wanted at 25 Basically the same except change the corporate America bit to be a successful memoirist, freelance writer, and stand up comic with goals of being a writer for film and TV working mostly from my home office except when remarkably cool projects took me onsight somewhere. Also my swanky apartment would need to have a study because fuck working in an office.
Present I’m going to be far more transparent about my life as it is than I care to be, but I would be a terrible writer if I turned away from things that scare me.
At 23, I was on a path to make my future a reality. I ended up in a job that I was very good at which would lead to financial prosperity, in part because I was on track to make six figures before 25 combined with the fact my car was paid off and I had no debt. Burberry and red bottoms were almost tangible at 23. After two months, I realized I was fucking miserable. Being great at a job does not guarantee happiness. Before I turned 24, I knew I was going to walk out of the door because I was not a suit up for work kind of woman the way I had thought and hoped I was. I willingly and happily walked away from the future I had worked incredibly hard for to be poor and change the world… Okay be poor and try to change the world.
My health is fucking shit. There were two years where I spent a lot of money seeing specialists trying to figure out how to get better. I gave up. There’s only so much “You’re fine” a person can hear when things are clearly not fine. I have spent months at a time stuck at home unable to leave because I’m debilitated. It’s hard to write or even find work when I’m so weak walking to the bathroom is almost impossible. I would be lying if I said there weren’t days where I would make a comfy nest of pillows and blankets in the bathroom with water and books because I was unable to go from couch to bathroom quick enough. Oh chronic illness. I’ve been enjoying a fairly tame period, so knock on wood, yay.
Financially… I hate life. I love my job. I would love my job more if I made money. I make money, but COVID fucked it all up. I was really on my way to doing quite well when COVID showed up. I had niched myself as a freelance writer for women, creatives, and travel. Three areas that were hit incredibly hard by COVID? Yes. When my clients’ lives are thrown for a loop, my income falters. I am not in a financial spot where I can support myself. I also have this really awful problem of letting people take advantage of me financially… To the point it has put me in a not great spot. Like actually really bad. Only took me thirty and a half years to get here, but I’m working on setting some firm boundaries, but I’m terrible at it. Upside, I know why I’m like this, but it’s a long story, and I don’t care to share.
Saying this always feels very self-indulgent, but it’s objectively not untrue. I was dealt a rough hand when it comes to life. Growing up in a house steeped in toxicity and abuse, I was not set up for success on a personal level; though it did push me to succeed academically so I could get the fuck out. Hey, did that at least. All of this was quickly followed by years of rape and abuse at the hands of men. I spent my twenties emotionally coming to terms and owning just how fucked up and unstable I am and then learning how to cope with it all. I’m stable, but I’m also a gigantic dumpster fire below the surface. My saving grace is my hyper self-awareness that lets me publicly own the fact I’m the homeless person riding in the back of the struggle bus so no one can shame me or leave me under the pretense of hiding it. I also need to add in my depression, PTSD, and occasionally crippling anxiety.
Also I have six dogs, own a house, and live in the United States with a man. I very much did not want to have a lot of dogs, own property, live in the U.S., or live with a man. These were things I very much wanted to avoid. Yet here I am.
The only reason I have been able to survive and live the life I lead as a young freelancer with serious health problems is because I’ve made exceptionally great decisions even under duress, I’m fantastic with money (when I make/have it and when I don’t), I took my clothes off in college and therefore have minimal debt. I chose a partner who gave me a place to collapse when my health was [is] poor and as my freelancing career took off and then stalled. I do not want to admit this, but I’m going to because I’m not the only human in this position. I hate being dependent on anyone ever for anything. Yet, I have had to be dependent on my best friend over the last five years for short and long periods of time. From picking me up from the bathroom floor to taking care of our mortgage, he has consistently been my partner. I hate, hate, hate that I’m financially dependent on him. It gives me so much anxiety. It keeps me up at night. It is the one thing I always wanted to avoid and successfully did for years. If you look at the future I wanted, it never included a partner or being dependent on anyone. I have deep seeded issues with avoiding dependence of any kind. If I’m not 100% completely independent, I feel like I’m failing. I like being the successful one, the one with money, the one who’s got it all figured out, but I am not that right now.
I like the way my life looks in pictures because it completely glosses over the fact I’m a disaster.
Boy, oh boy, do I feel like a failure. I stood in my kitchen an hour ago sobbing because I feel like I have done nothing and am a complete waste of oxygen. Hell, I can’t even support myself and my dogs without assistance. I am struggling mentally more than I have in a long time. I have not made a difference. I make shit for money. I’m exhausted, in pain, and a giant mess. I have failed in every sense to accomplish any of the things I wanted to accomplish. I am so mentally and emotionally depleted that for the last two years, the thought of writing anything meaningful makes me want to disappear. Actually the thought of disappearing makes me feel better.
When people tell me they’re jealous of my life, job, travels, whatever, my immediate thought is what the fuck is wrong with you? There is nothing to be jealous of. I should be a cautionary tale rather than inspire jealousy. My current life shituation makes my skin crawl.
Looking at my life in comparison to the things I wanted for myself five, ten, fifteen years ago… Well, I have absolutely failed. Achieved zero things. I think the only thing twenty year old me would be proud of is the fact I’m not dead. Although the fifteen and twenty-five year old me’s might be disappointed in that fact. Suicide has been a prevalent part of my life’s story. I am not dead. I am probably not even a failure.
Life is not black and white, it is all shades of grey. I’m thirty having achieved nothing that I want to. That’s okay. Thirty is not where life ends, though society leads us to believe it to be so. Maybe I have a long life ahead of me. Maybe I don’t. What I do know is that I’ve lived a hard life. I had to take a good chunk of time off from achieving things other than not dying and keeping the dogs alive. Putting myself back together was more of a priority than chasing bylines or writing books or advocating for change. I can’t do those things if I’m dying inside.
Future I Want Now My idea of success is vastly different than it was even five years ago. Part of that is because I’ve welcomed my gay identity with open arms and can embrace a future I never imagined for myself. I would love to be financially successful enough to buy a lighthouse in Scotland to write and relax and have a cute house in Houston’s Heights or Montrose neighborhood. But I’ll be content if I can take care of myself, my dogs, and travel here and there. More than anything, I’m chasing happiness. I want to be happy and surround myself with humans who challenge and inspire me. I want to fall in love and stay in love. I want to change the world and create a safe space for people to exist as they are. I want to laugh and cry and be vulnerable. I want to be a source of love and kindness and acceptance in the world. I want things that cannot be quantifiably measured.
My life is not where I want it to be. That goes for all past versions of myself and me as I write this. This is not the life I want for myself, but that doesn’t mean I’m disappointed in the life I’m living. I am old enough to know everything I have done and all the choices I’ve made were best given the circumstances. I’m doing what I have to as I figure out how to survive, get through, and maybe even have a future that doesn’t include an excess of poverty. I do not regret a single thing in my life. I am a culmination of everything I have experienced, and I don’t hate me. I like who I am. I’m even kind of proud of this woman. I’m still alive, and, for me, that’s an achievement. So I’m going to keep trying, being who I am, and I will get to a point where I’m proud of where I am.
I’m gay. This is the term I’m comfortable with. Queer works too. Labels make me uncomfortable, but I’m also a writer, so words make me comfortable. I want to express who I am with words, but also I hate being defined because the moment labels enter there’s connotation, expectation, stereotypes, and all that jazz.
I’m only getting started.
The labels for my sexual identity have shifted drastically over the years. The first label I ever tried on was gay. It’s also the most recent one I’ve been wearing. I never told anyone when I wrote “I think I’m gay” in my diary at twelve before burning it because privacy didn’t exist in my childhood home. In recent years, I’ve used pansexual because it feels inclusive of my past. I have only ever been in relationships with men. I’m not mad about it because those men have made me who I am today. For the good and the bad. Some of them literally saved my life. I am trauma bound to all men and yet one specific man for so many reasons. In my adulthood, I have had amazing taste in men. They are going to go on and be fantastic partners to hopefully equally incredible women. I’m not that woman. If I could be, I would. But I’m not. Those relationships didn’t work for a lot of reasons. Very valid reasons. Some incredibly painful reasons. Even if those relationships were perfect—not that there is such a thing—I would have left eventually.
There’s one man I truly imagined a future with. But it was one of those very hazy, hypothetical, willing it to happen imaginings. We talked about all of the possible futures we could have. Engagement, wedding, marriage, children, retirement. Amazing human. Just the best. It would have been an amazing adventure of a life. But even in the absolute height of being in love with him, something deep inside told me it wasn’t quite right. I always brushed it away because being in love doesn’t usually go hand in hand with rationality. I never gave voice to the internal unease. I never told him or anyone my feelings; I’m incredibly private to begin with, but if I said it out loud or even thought it, then it would be real. He and I would never end up together. At one point the idea of not being with him was soul crushing. The bond we shared because of trauma and just a decade of history has made it so hard to let go of that hazy imagining no matter how much I needed to for myself and him. There was a bigger reason I always knew it wouldn’t work. Even very recently, I didn’t want to confront it. I was trying to force false realities into truths, make my life fit his, and create hypothetical worlds where my gayness could exist in tandem with a straight life. I tried and tried and could never make myself see the house, the kids, the full life with him. So I said I didn’t want those things. Convinced myself I didn’t in the hopes that he wouldn’t want me. Because it was easier to completely cancel that future with him and everyone than admit the reality. I was pushing away my reality, my dreams, and ultimately my identity because I loved him so deeply, knowing it wouldn’t work in the furthest corners of my soul. In a way, I don’t. I don’t want those things…. with a man. But with a wife. It doesn’t feel like a terrifying trap.
Loud and proud member of the Alphabet Mafia.
This is not a reflection on him. He will be an amazing father and husband, but not with me. It is also not a reflection on how I feel about being gay. I am so proud to be gay. It is not an identity I have hid from, but it is an identity that has hid behind love, trauma, abuse, and survival. Now I exist in a safe and settled home where I can be all of the things that I am all at once.
I am so gay.
Writing has always been equal parts cathartic and painful. Finally writing these things down. Owning the fact that I don’t want a heterosexual future. I don’t want to marry a man. I don’t want to have children with a man. I don’t want to raise a family and grow old with a man. It is all so relieving to admit. Before it was: I don’t want to get married. I don’t want to have children. I don’t want to grow old with anyone. I have no fucking clue what the future has to hold. I may never have any of these things. But I know if I get married, have children, and grow old in a romantic relationship it will be with a woman. I may not actively pursue these things right now or ever, but oh my god, it feels like something I may actually want one day. As I type, I can actually feel my heart loosen its grip on the things it held on to so fiercely out of love, loyalty, and self-preservation.
Honestly, this is probably my favorite hand gesture. No shame.
One day, I will probably be comfortable with the label: lesbian. It’s accurate. Or at least the closest thing to accurate. (I would try dick again with Taron Egerton. He is a phenom and a gift to the world, but even him… I just don’t see it working out long term. Sorry Taron. I know there’s a real chance there. *eye roll*) I’ve been saying “No new dick.” for over a year. The truth is… no dick. I don’t want dick. I want a woman. Wearing lesbian on my sleeve feels like an erasure of the awesome men in my life, past, and ultimately the love I once had. Intellectually, this does not make any sense at all. I’m aware. There are lots of lesbians who once loved men, were in relationships with men, had children with men, so on and so forth. What makes sense and makes me comfortable do not always have to be in alignment. Acknowledging the dissonance right now works for me.
Identity is always shifting; although, I’m never shifting straight. That’s just a big nope. Ten years ago, I was telling people I was attracted to women. Five years ago, I was telling people I wasn’t straight while in a straight passing relationship. Three years ago, I was proudly pan. They’ve all tasted strange in my mouth and in my heart. A year and a half ago, I tried on queer, which I very much like. It’s been in the last year that I started using gay, which is short and sweet. I like it. I like the way it catches people off guard. I like the way it makes me feel. I like that it’s a synonym for happy. It may always be my preferred identifier; it may not. I know one day I will take on lesbian. Maybe next month. Maybe after I have 2.5 children and a white picket fence with a woman I have yet to meet. Maybe before I die completely alone. The future is all up in the air at this point in time.
