It’s Pride Month and nearly a year has passed since my essay, “How Not To Be Seen: Unlearning Invisibility,” was first published here on Haute Macabre. So lately I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting on that particular piece of writing which, to my surprise and subsequent joy, ended up helping more people than myself alone. I find it hard to believe that it has only been one year. In some ways it feels so much longer than that. Day-to-day life has simply been busy, to be sure, but I think it’s also because my life is richer for being more open and honest, for feeling more visible, less burdened, more comfortable in my own skin, for feeling seen and supported.
It might surprise some to learn that one of the best things that’s happened over the last year is that I’ve grown even closer to B, my cis male primary partner. He’s been my best friend for decades and we’ve been partners for…well, it’ll be 17 years this December. One of the things I tried to express in my essay was that coming out and living life as honestly as possible has been challenging for both of us. But we were willing to put our hearts on the line and put in the emotional work, even when it sometimes seemed endless. One year later, I can say with confidence that we’ve both learned even more about ourselves, each other, and about us as a couple and we’re stronger, more vulnerable, and closer for it. I’m even more grateful for B’s presence, his steadfast love, and his unwavering support. In case anyone is wondering, I’m no less queer now than I was this time last year, but, for as much as I’ve struggled to be seen and understood, I’ve also learned that B is a vital part of that visibility, not independent of it or complementary to it. Yes, it’s complicated, but that’s okay.
This isn’t meant to imply that the past year has been all ups and no downs, far from it. There’s been both love and loss. Hearts afire, heartache, and heartbreak. But, truth be told, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve learned so much. I’m still learning. I imagine I always will be. That’s okay too. That’s more than okay.
But the most important thing that came of sharing that essay – besides the wealth of support I received from people I already knew and people I didn’t know until they reached out – was that it turned out to be much bigger than myself, a discovery which also helped me feel less isolated and despairing. Shortly after the essay was posted I began hearing from people who felt that, to one extent or another, my words had voiced their own experiences, desires, and worries, their own internal conflict, and the pains of invisible existence. I received such intensely moving and candid messages, e-mails, and letters that, as its anniversary approaches, I want to share the essay here again (you’ll find it below), in hopes that it’ll reach more people who might benefit from the cathartic paragraphs I loosed onto the internets one year ago. If you’re one of those people and you’d like to talk with me about your own situation, please do. I want you to feel seen and heard, valid and loved.
A few months ago Sam invited the staff writers to pen some personal pieces for Haute Macabre. I’ve since considered writing about a variety of subjects that interest me, but there’s something else, something much more personal that’s been on my mind for a very long time and this suddenly seemed like a singular opportunity to put it out into the world. So thank you, Sam, for inviting me to do some serious gut-spilling and intention-outing with this essay. And thank you, whoever takes the time to read this all the way through. (tw: sexual assault and abuse)
“In her novel Regeneration, Pat Barker writes of a doctor who “knew only too well how often the early stages of change or cure may mimic deterioration. Cut a chrysalis open, and you will find a rotting caterpillar. What you will never find is that mythical creature, half caterpillar, half butterfly, a fit emblem of the human soul, for those whose cast of mind leads them to seek such emblems. No, the process of transformation consists almost entirely of decay.” But the butterfly is so fit an emblem of the human soul that its name in Greek is psyche, the word for soul. We have not much language to appreciate this phase of decay, this withdrawal, this era of ending that must precede beginning. Nor of the violence of the metamorphosis, which is often spoken of as though it were as graceful as a flower blooming.” —Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost
In a few moments it’ll officially be my birthday. I’m home alone, sipping bourbon, and re-watching Only Lovers Left Alive. It’s both Pride month and the month in which I turn 40, but I don’t feel like celebrating. That’s because it’s Pride month and I’m about to turn 40 and I feel as though, with the exception of a few precious people and despite what it says in my bio at the bottom of this page, my everyday life is more or less lived in the closet. It’s a closet built of my own silence and other people’s assumptions, but closets of convenience are no less suffocating. So how did I get here?
Like many queer kids, I was a late bloomer. I knew from very early on that I wasn’t straight and that it felt like the most natural thing in the world, but I had no vocabulary for it. When I look back on my childhood and adolescence, there were an abundance of wonderful queer influences in my life – writers, actors, artists, musicians – that I didn’t appreciate specifically for their queerness at the time, but I believe had an impact all the same. Speaking of Only Lovers Left Alive, I’m by no means the first person to declare a profound crush on beguiling, inspiring, gender-fluid Tilda Swinton, who’s had me in her thrall since I first saw Orlando in my teens, which was also how I discovered Virginia Woolf. I’m doubly glad about these queer presences because I didn’t have any queer personal contacts until I was nearly out of high school. If any of my friends at the time were somehow queer, they weren’t out (not that I’m blaming anyone for that). I had no gay relatives or gay family friends (again, not that I knew of). I was also introverted, melancholy, and often lost in my own head, which probably didn’t help matters.
I don’t recall hearing overtly homophobic rhetoric from anyone close to me as a child. But I remember lots of little things, like kids in school making homophobic jokes, laughing and reciting sing-song chants on the playground like “Lez be friends so we can walk homo together.” I doubt they really understood what they were saying, not at that age. They just thought it was funny. But these sorts of things made it clear to me that certain people were considered “other”, that girls crushed on boys and boys crushed on girls and eventually they’d all grow up and get married and have kids and it was all very, very heteronormative.
Come adolescence I knew I was queer, but still lacked a vocabulary for it. I knew what turned my head and captivated me, but hadn’t the first idea what to do about it or have anyone in whom I felt I could confide about such things. Everyone else seemed to be getting along as well or poorly as can be expected in their teenage years, because let’s not forget that adolescence is rough for everyone. I developed crushes on girls and boys my age (in retrospect, the boys tended to be pretty and delicate of feature), but I didn’t date anyone until college. The internet was a nascent thing during my teens. Life was pre-Facebook, pre-Instagram, pre-Tumblr, etc. I appreciate and sometimes actively envy the access adolescents now have to information, support resources, and potential friends, both near and far. It’s a pointless exercise, but I can’t help wondering if I would’ve figured myself out much earlier if I’d had the access to such things when I was a teen.
College finally introduced me to all sorts of openly queer people. I made new friends and met people I fancied and sometimes they fancied me back, fancy that! Unfortunately, college also brought an abusive relationship with a man and later I was raped by another. I told no one about either of these things at the time and eventually dropped out of college and got a job. I dated women and men and, a couple years later, I was assaulted again, this time by a woman. The world closed a little more each time I experienced this sort of harm, perhaps even more so because I didn’t reach out to others for help. Instead I did what I’d always done and tried to keep going in spite of things, but life became increasingly tricky to navigate. Self-loathing increased, self-esteem shrank, and who I was became less important than simply keeping my head above water.
Over time life gradually calmed down and stabilized. I moved out to Seattle in my mid-twenties, having wanted to live in the PNW since I was a teen. There I formed a deep, healthy, loving relationship with a warm and kind-hearted cis man with whom I’d been friends since college and who is now my husband (I’ll call him B). I also landed a great job for a singular company which grew into the position I love today.
So much of my 20s were varying degrees of difficult and personally unstable. By the time I reached 30 it was clear to me that I needed outside help to deal with various things I’d never actually addressed. Counseling was a life-saving source of support and guidance, helping me face and work through events and issues from my past, letting go of destructive coping mechanisms I’d developed over the intervening years, and learning how to accept, rebuild, and love myself.
But what never came up (nor did I bring up) in therapy or in conversations with my closest friends or even with B, perhaps because it was simply still higher up yet on my personal hierarchy of needs, were my sexual identity and relationship needs. This isn’t meant to imply that B wasn’t aware of my sexual history. We’d discussed it years ago and I’d described myself as what felt accurate at the time: as someone whose attractions to people didn’t concern gender, but individuals. I think that was genuinely was true for a period and remains true with regards to B, but I also can’t help but look back and consider the pressures of heteronormativity and relationship conventions, and how it was easier for me, especially while I was broken and unstable, to default to social norms. Regardless, sexuality is a spectrum, everyone has different relationship needs, and people also grow and change throughout their lives, myself included.
It was only once I finally began to feel okay with myself that I became increasingly aware of both a growing absence in my life and and sense of invisibility. Somewhere along the way of struggling to keep from completely falling apart I’d lost my sense of queerness, and the prospect of facing this felt like the scariest thing yet. Now I found myself married (albeit happily) to a man and thus presenting for all intents and purposes as a heterosexual woman. I’m in my 30s and have a loving partner who is also my best friend. I love my job. I love where I live. Life should be great. I repeatedly told myself it was too late and felt too selfish to even be considering such things. I was lucky to have as much as I did. I should’ve realized and said something to B years ago. I’d missed my window. And at the time, in the midst of all these worries and rationalizations, I didn’t even stop to consider the heteronormative privilege I experience passing as straight. Instead I’d swallow my concerns and longings, shove it all down and ignore it in hopes of forgetting about it, because thinking about it, let alone talking about it, felt pointless.
But as time passes it becomes impossible to ignore that it’s not pointless, that it’s not okay to feel like this, increasingly not okay on many levels. It affects my general well-being, my day-to-day life. It affects the quality of my relationship with B. I lose interest in my hobbies. The idea of spending time with friends feels exhausting because it means keeping up the appearance that I feel fine. Exchanging everyday pleasantries makes me scream and sob inside. I feel hollow interacting with a world that assumes I’m straight, that I’m not a member of the LGBTQ+ community, but an ally. I lose sleep at night wondering if I’ll ever even kiss another woman again and preoccupied by the profound despair such thoughts bring. I silently seethe while sitting through conversations with friends or family that disturb or offend me and feel mute because, before I can address an offending topic, I’d have to start potentially awkward conversations about myself in order to discuss said topic without seeming like someone getting offended on behalf of someone else. It all feels so complicated and messy. So much of this is my fault. I know this. I’m a natural introvert with an intense dislike of confrontation. I don’t want to make people I care about feel uncomfortable and I’m scared of alienating people in my life by sharing information I’ve been sitting on for so long it now feels like an old, increasingly dangerous bomb that only I know about, that only I can see.
On the verge of a tangible internal breaking point, I did finally confide in a couple close friends and, from there, worked up the courage to talk with B. It was terrifying and very emotional for both of us and didn’t get easier from there. There was relief at first, yes, but then began the long, steep learning curve as we set about navigating an entirely new phase of our relationship, one of ethical non-monogamy. For anyone considering such a thing themselves – coming out to your partner and opening your relationship – it’s a lot of hard work that requires constant open communication. But it’s completely worthwhile, I think, especially if you know your life is on the line. But, yes, it means lots of challenging conversations with your partner and working through all sorts of worries, insecurities, and other issues as they arise. For me it also means making sure B understands that, even though I’m a lot gayer now than when we began dating, I don’t love him any less or feel less romantically connected to him because he and our connection are just that special to me.
While this was tremendous personal progress and progress as a couple, aside from B and I each confiding in a couple close friends, the change in our relationship was kept a secret. There was to be no outward evidence so as not to invite potentially awkward questions, not because of shame, but because of convenience.
During this period I met a woman who she initially seemed wonderful in all sorts of ways and I felt swept off my feet, but ultimately it didn’t work out for us. I try to remind myself that most relationships don’t, regardless of things like sexuality or relationship philosophy. Perhaps, because things with B were then so delicate, and fraught, that new relationship was doomed from the start. I think that’s part of it. Sharply differing life circumstances were another. It turned out to be an impossible situation in myriad ways. I’m abbreviating and oversimplifying the entire thing for the sake of everyone’s privacy and the ache in my heart, but (also oversimplifying) I am forever grateful that it happened at all, because for so long I didn’t think anything even remotely of the sort would ever be possible for me.
I’d also like to add – not that this is news in the history of queer love – that one of the worst things ever is experiencing profound heartbreak and grieving the end of a relationship without being able to tell anyone about it because, once again, that means first having a host of other awkward conversations and you’re too sad and fragile to even begin to consider wanting to bother. So you go about the rest of your life as you’ve so often done, behaving as though everything is fine, when all you’re doing when you’re alone is crying. The. Worst.
What do you do when you finally come to fully appreciate who you are in your late 30s but your life is otherwise pretty much set? As as result of my relationship with B and because I present as very femme, there’s little outward evidence of who I know I am: a lesbian. Some might want classify me as bisexual or homoflexible because of my committed, romantic relationship with a cis man, but those labels don’t feel right to me. B and I love each other, he’s a vital part of my life, but he’s also something of an exception in my otherwise gay existence. I’ve gone through periods of fretting I’ll be told I’m somehow not queer enough to identify as I do, but I know down to my core that I’m a lesbian and I don’t care what anyone else thinks about this or that label or how my intimate relationships might be used to argue otherwise.
That being said, I don’t know what to do with these levels of invisibility. Both my straight and queer friends take it for granted that I’m straight, so when do I just…tell them I’m not? And to what end? Just so they know? So that I’m seen? Am I over-thinking this? It still feels selfish and self-important. Shouldn’t it be good enough that I finally know who I am? I’ve tried to tell myself as much time and again, but it never lasts long. I’ve also never found a good moment for such conversations. And it’s not that I’m worried my friends might be unsupportive either, at least not regarding my sexual identity. I know the concept of ethical non-monogamy is still quite a challenging concept for some, but my need to live a complete, honest, and open life is now so great, the idea of convenient discretion feels like a burden. But it simply doesn’t come up, nor do I bring it up. I stay quiet and grow increasingly sad and uncomfortable in my own life. And on those occasional really low, dark days, where I feel like my very being exists unexpressed, I begin to understand how some people reach a point where they’d simply rather not be at all, which is a horrible state of mind.
Then there’s the curious plight of the invisible femme. Not recognized as who you are. Unsure if you’re recognizing other queer women. Assuming you’re probably mistaken about them. Afraid to offend or upset anyone, because that makes rejection feel even scarier. I also worry about being rejected, seen as unavailable or outright undesirable simply because of my relationship status. Closed off and invisible like this, I don’t know how to meet new potential partners.
All of this is how I come to find myself writing such a rambling, emotional essay on my birthday, because at this point I just need to get it all out, like an owl pellet. Because I realize there are different sorts of invisible closets in life and I’m tired, starved, and heartsick from being inside any of them. Because perhaps there’s even one person out there in a similar situation who might read this and decide it’s not too late for them to be true to themselves so they won’t wait as long as I did. Because I want to be told it’s not too late for me either. Because I don’t want to feel mournful envy when I see women together. Because I don’t want to feel like a vital part of my identity is a secret I need to discretely tend to, unbeknownst to friends and family, because that’s not actually tending to anything. Because I know I have so much more love to give. Because I want to be seen and I want to be part of the community I’ve felt largely divorced from for much too long. Where are you, my queer, dark, witchy peers? We need to support each other.