From my earliest memories, I have loved anything that made me different. I was the girl among my siblings at home. I wore skirts or my brother’s hand-me-downs even though people made fun of me. I loved classical music, I played the piano, I loved reading Canadian novels, I loved being homeschooled. And I loved boys.
I didn’t love them because I was “suppose” to. I simply did. I wanted to be around them, talk to them, be friends with them. I rarely encountered a female I cared to spend any time with, though there were a few. I fell for boys. They made my heart race, made my brain lock into place, made me feel comfortable.
I was in my teens when I heard the word “homosexual”, and decided to look it up in the encyclopedia. It was so informative! I learned about what it was, what “transgender” was, and even “bisexual”. Being well practiced at over thinking at a young age, I wondered if I would be a lesbian when I grew up. The idea intrigued me. That would be so different! I didn’t know any lesbians at all, so how awesomely unique would that be?! Keep in mind, this was the 1980’s, there was virtually no public information about these things, there was no internet, and I asked exactly zero questions of anyone about the topic. I merely thought it would be cool to be a lesbian when I grew up. Made sense to me.
I promptly forgot about all that. College and work and boys happened. I had one experience with a woman in my 20’s and I wasn’t intrigued, so I assumed I wasn’t gay and moved on. Like raw oysters, I tried it, didn’t care about it – it wasn’t negative, I merely didn’t care – and I moved on. Or so I thought.
After my second divorce, a couple friends would make lesbian jokes in my direction, and they bothered me. At first, I thought it was because it was untrue, but other untrue jokes never hurt me. It could have been because the jokes weren’t funny, which was true; they were tired and boring as jokes go. But that wasn’t it.
So why did the gay jokes directed at me hurt so much? I was confident in my sexuality. By the time I was an adult, I had learned that it’s in your DNA, not your level of openmindedness. But it hurt, and more than it should have.
Until I remembered that day with the encyclopedia. I had really thought that I could grow up to be gay. Realizing I wasn’t gay wasn’t enough to erase that idea, apparently. I needed to realize something deeper about my silly brain: I was disappointed in myself for NOT being gay. That I would never realize that youthful desire to be as different as possible. That I WASN’T born that way.
So, dear friends who read my blog, if you’re nervous to come out as gay, please do so. For me. I can never be the lesbian of my dreams. I’ll still fall short of being as abnormal as possible. I still love men, and that’s okay. I was born that way. I’m disappointed in myself. But this annual Coming Out Day, be as gay as possible. For cis little me.