Coming Out Is Hard To Do

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedRepeating Rainbow PatternHow many timeshave I projectedthose words?How many timeshas the reality of me beenerased from history?Where does the truth go,when bondsby it are broken?How many loveshave been forged,consummatedwordlessly left todie without oxygen?Life needs lovethe fires of realityto be stokeduncontrollably blazinglike a star in thewide black galaxyMaybe I’m not the epitomeof humanity, grace, andperfect humilityI’ve gone the extra mileperformed my lifewithout malice or guileTelling my story boldlyGod and all hisprecious childrenevery blessed occasionbestowed upon melistening with akeen eye todetail and a plot hookto draw their sagging rainbowto safetyfull to burstingand ready to give wayI joined the joyousfinal day, my wordsfinally sticking in the airlike fine china clayI shape them, paint themfire them all in one goThe gleaming decorativesewing needlewith repeating word“undefinable”wrapped around itsmicroscopic widthin the perfectnON-BINary fonta representationof the enigma Inever managed toactually become

The above poem was originally posted for Coming Out Day, October 11, 2023.

As I was just sitting, sweating, panicked, in a literal closet, I started thinking, what would saying something like “I am Pan-sexual and Non-binary, and maybe even Autigender” if people are willing to consider that out loud do for my mental health? Especially since I am married and not planning on changing the way I live in any considerable manner.

I don’t know if it really will. I think for me so far, accepting these things has been about what is going in in my own head and coming to terms with the decisions I have made and will continue to make in life. As well as treating myself and talking to myself kinder. The fact that so far, of the very limited number of people with whom I’ve discussed this, none of them were surprised was the most disconcerting thing. I felt very self-conscious for a while like everyone had known my whole life but me.

Unlike some of the other things I have gone through, even if I may have expected no one would be happy about this, no one hid it from me. I essentially hid it from myself. When I told my mother, there was an almost non-reaction, which led to my belief that she had obviously known this or at least suspected it for years.

Before the revelation that I am autistic, which I absolutely feel has a huge impact on how I experience my gender, figuring this out was the biggest A Ha! moment in unraveling the many mysteries of my life. It helped me accept why I had such a hard time relating to other women and why an almost even number of my close friends my entire life have been male. Even in places and amongst social groups that considered it abnormal.

Boys typically hung out with boys, and girls typically hung out with girls except for planned and monitored excursions. Which there were plenty of. I didn’t grow up in a harem. I was just seen as strange, me being willing to call a boy my “best friend,” and it never changed; I never grew out of it as was always suggested.

My parents gave my brother and me a mostly even education in household tasks. Even though I mostly took to it, my brother learned to close up a seam and replace a button. Thankfully, he learned how to cook and do household chores because his first wife became ill with cancer and passed, and he was required to do so many domestic tasks that many husbands would have had no idea how to accomplish. I was always “handy” in other ways as well and went to work with my dad; I loved using any kind of tool and was sent up on roofs, helping tear off and shingle by the time I was around 10. So, it never seemed like I was doing anything but what was expected of me. I could do anything, so I did.

I had dress clothes and play clothes. I didn’t understand why all the girls made fun of my clothes, but looking back, my dress clothes were very feminine, and my play clothes were boy clothes. In fact, I frequently stole my brother’s clothes once he grew big enough for them to work out. I wore dress clothes to school often enough for the contrast to be noticeable.

By the time I was in High school, it was like black and white, but my entire world was a shady greyscale, so I just couldn’t see it. Half the time, I wore high heels and flouncy skirts, and the other half, I wore actual men’s pants, gym shorts, and ringer tee’s, other items of clothing I stole from my brother’s closet like button-downs, even ties. From my perspective, most of those weren’t “men’s” clothes they were everyone’s clothes. And I still hold to that perspective, to be honest, but it isn’t all about the clothes, is it?

I was flummoxed for the longest time, unable to wrap my head around what made people say the things I was doing were “gay” when I was doing the same things they were. There was one event I remember clearly from my time in Florida: I was on the beach with a group of people. I commented on how I thought a nearby pregnant woman looked beautiful in her bikini. Some other women had been quietly shaming her, essentially saying she should wear a one-piece suit when “in that state.” I will never forget the look of shock and horror on the entire group’s face when I stated this, including gasps and all.

I couldn’t understand why when old ladies said a pregnant woman was glowing, it was fine, but when I said it, a commotion instantly broke out. I finally came to the realization years later it wasn’t saying the words that “made me gay,” it was being gay, or apparently pansexual, that “made me gay,” and those statements, or the way I said it, that gave people a window into my psyche and allowed them to detect that truth about me. One, even I was unprepared to admit or unable to comprehend entirely. From my perspective, I was attracted to boys, so I couldn’t “be gay.” That wasn’t a judgment call; that was logic. There wasn’t really anything else talked about you were either one or the other.

I can safely say that without the support of my husband, I couldn’t have navigated this difficult and shocking stage of my life. As short-lived as the initial realizations are, the repercussions, all of the little memories suddenly contextualized, the memories suddenly dislodged in my case, have been the most stressful part. Especially since this happened directly preceding the unleashing of my most traumatic memories.

Well, in truth, it has taken eight years to come to the fullness of the realization I have arrived at now, which is still evolving. I have very slowly been coming to terms with each piece of the puzzle as it falls into place. Self-acceptance is a tough process for anyone, even when they have had supportive family and peers; I think we can agree it is even more difficult when you haven’t

Even the slightest perceived negative response when I was still figuring out I was Non-Binary sent me back inside my shell for months, but that was okay; I just needed a little more time. I needed to draw more of the feelings and truth up out of my heart and soul.

The most important and healthy thing I have been able to do for myself recently and from now on is to acknowledge who I really am and what has really happened to me. That is the only way I can keep moving forward and avoid getting stuck for lengthy periods of time or even getting thrown backward on my healing journey.

I don’t know that coming to terms with these aspects of myself is what allowed me to move forward with my recovery. I can only help to notice that this go-’round, I have actually dealt with each difficult subject/situation that has been coming up instead of my brain or any medication, pushing it deeper down. So I will keep putting in the work, processing, crying, and writing until I think I am through it because I am nothing, if not absolutely desperate, for the truth in every aspect of my life.

K.B. Silver