During the course of a recent conversation with a significant someone in my life. This individual is not a significant other but a significant person in my life. She made mention of her viewing a recent cooking show in which the cook outed himself by having his boyfriend and several gay friends on his show. Show expressed great discern for his being gay and her inability to continue any enjoyment in watching his show any more.
She was able to relate this feeling to her brother and his friends. She said she loved but she just could not accept him for who he "chose" to be. I sat there in awe of her casual and clear expression. I sat heartbroken. I had thought she was making progress personally towards gay men and women. She seemed to slide back about fifty years all of a sudden.
I sat bewildered as if she had just used her pistol to shoot me in the heart as if this is what she always does on Saturday morning. I asked why she would say something like that. Her response was that she just couldn't change her way of thinking.
I have spent years coming to terms with who I am as a gay man and how it transpires much, if not all, of my life. I slumped. We had a funeral to attend later that afternoon and I thought, maybe we could make it a double funeral because I don't know if I can survive this bomb. I was just blown to smithereens. I know she and I should have had this talk years ago but I figured we didn't need to have the talk since EVERYONE else seemed to know. She apparently thinks it fine for a forty year old man to carry a distinctively femininely fashioned purse everywhere he goes. Not to mention it changes daily to match my outfits. Love! Love! Love! I love me a Vera Bradley bag. Brings me such joy. I have grown accustomed to the stares. I welcome the opportunity to tell someone why I love my purse and where they could buy their own instead of making eyes for mine.
I regressed so fast into my pre-coming out depression. I bought a pack of cigarettes and a new orange lighter. That was my favorite uncle's favorite color. Following the funeral I went home and found solace in a darkened slumber. I refused to even attend the repass. There seemed to be a great throng of mourners and mingling became a challenging burden I did not need to face. Sigh.
The next morning I went to Church for Sunday services. I still couldn't shake the funk. Everyone asked what was wrong. I put on my brave face and went on with the day so as to avoid the truth. But those words of disgust and rejection would not cease from resounding in my head! Those words of disgust and rejection unearthed the really dark past that I buried and believed gone. I am not that same little boy. But life seemed a little less precious after hearing those words. Life seemed a little less worth living after hearing those words. Life just seemed a little less after hearing those words. I guess I am that same little boy. Fearful of bullies, rejection and disgust. Oh my!
I remain in a state of active confusion. I remain alive, but in a state of confusion. I am at the cross roads again. I submitted a coming out poem for publication in a university arts magazine. If it is chosen to be published, all will be revealed.
