Today is the eleventh of October, which officially makes it National Coming Out Day. Coming out is one of the hardest things to do if you’re a person on the queer side of things, but it’s also one of the most liberating and worthwhile. When you’re closeted the prospect of coming out seems the be-all-and-end-all of life itself; whilst contemplating saying those words, there is the daunting realisation that you stand to lose everything if reactions don’t follow favourably – family, friends, respect, self-worth, happiness, love, and the general stability that you’ve known all your life. It’s a scary thing, and no-one can be blamed for putting it off or avoiding the issue.
However what I wish someone was there to tell me during that contemplation, is that in coming out you also stand to gain everything. For me that was the case; I became closer to my friends and family in finally sharing my formerly-secret-self, I gained new amazing beautiful friends, I had my horizons broadened, my eyes opened, my heart opened… and all for being me, I seemingly gained membership to the most exciting, welcoming and wonderful community of people I could have ever hoped to meet. It’s like being part of this really cool, secret club who all have something in common and have the best fun and get all the jokes on Will & Grace. It has been thoroughly life-nourishing and I wouldn’t change it for the world.
So, in honour of today, I’d like to share with you my coming out story. It’s not the most exciting or drama-filled, but to me it is perfect and important and mine.
Looking back on the scenario, it seems completely absurd that I was so nervous about it. The words I’d choked on nearly a decade ago I now fairly confidently bandy about with any old stranger I’ve been introduced to. I’m sure that to my former self, the idea of being so out and proud as I am now was equally as absurd. But nevertheless, nine years ago I was practically cacking my pants at the prospect of telling another person I was fancied girls. I’d known I had since forever – however as soon as I was able to put my finger on what it was that made me a little different, I also realised it was something I had to keep a secret for a while… But not forever. On a [carefully deliberated] whim I finally decided to come out, nominating a cold autumn afternoon for the deed. It had even been noted in my badly ‘coded’ diary – the truth was to be revealed at coffee during a Saturday trip to town (because everyone knows that at fourteen, going in to town at the weekend and having a hot beverage was the height of sophistication).
However, it turned out to be a less classy affair than what I had initially envisaged. After a long day of stalling and stuttering I found myself sitting in McDonalds car park, choking on my sentence whilst my best friend urgently searched my face for the next word.
“Ryan, I have to tell you something. I’m…”
The word would literally not leave my mouth. My chips were going cold but that was the last thing on my mind. I’d been trying to say it all day, but had spent all afternoon beating around the bush and acting a little odd. Seeing as though I was struggling to say the crucial bit, I decided to spell the absent word out on the ground using a stick I’d been nervously playing with. I paused, choosing to write ‘bi’ on the floor rather than ‘lesbian’. The two lettered, one worded syllable seemed a more straightforward option – almost like the quick ripping off of a plaster rather than the slow, creeping pain of ‘lesbian’. Lezzzz-beeee-ann. Bi was short and sharp, and it’d do the job more than adequately. In my moment of nervous self-doubt, I also thought it meant that if my hormones decided to change their mind I could take it all back and go back to being a boy-lover (!). It somehow felt safer to say. More normal.
Tentatively, and without making eye contact, I spelt it out in big, slow letters.
B. Was it too late to turn it in to a joke? I could write something else? But no Christina, don’t bottle it. Keep going. Next letter.
I.
I looked up, not quite knowing what to expect. He knew. Someone knew the secret I’d been keeping my whole life. What next?
Suddenly my brain was scrambled eggs and his familiar face turned in to a bunch of strange, unreadable features.
“Bi?” he said. “as in you fancy girls too?”
I nodded. The only thing I could’ve used my mouth for at that moment was vomiting with nervousness.
Eventually we talked about it. It was fine: he didn’t care and he wasn’t surprised – he had been harbouring suspicions for a while. In fact, he seemed bizarrely elated and totally welcoming of it. As he had his suspicions about my sexuality, I had some of his – and months after I’d come out to him he eventually did the same with me. I still can’t believe he made me wait that long to be honest – but whatever, he had to be ready for it and I only begrudge it him a tiny amount (kidding!). A little while after that, I exchanged the two letters of ‘bi’ for a better-fitting three: ‘gay’. After finally being able to talk about it a little more, it was a fairly easy thing to say that the peen was not for me.
Many, many late night MSN conversations later we had evolved in to two confident 15 year olds, secretly revelling in new experiences that heterosexual people perhaps take for granted – just little things like discussing crushes at school, or browsing myspace for attractive members of the same sex, or watching a film and being able to say ‘s/he’s hot’. It was a revelation. He was my partner in crime, the other member of my favourite and most exclusive gay club. I think at one point, we even made gay cards (I think I also genuinely panicked when someone told me I’d dropped mine). I am very proud to still call this wonderful man my best friend.
With our new-found taste for exploration we started to confidently yet naively charm our under-age selves in to the local gay bar. There, we found friends – people who were like us! – people who were a little different, people who we could flirt with. Some of these people had even heard of The L Word!! And then some of these people were girls I found sexually attractive, and it was OK because everyone there did and no-one cared if I got really drunk and ended up getting off with another woman. After a lifetime of feeling isolated, I was in heaven (I mean metaphorically and not the popular gay bar – that came a couple of years later). Being gay stopped being some terrifying thing that made me different and started being something incredible, somehow allowing me access to one of the kindest, coolest, most accepting group of people I never even knew existed.
At aged 16 I had my first kiss. She went to my school and I thought she was entirely lovely. I well fancied her and I knew she played rugby, so I was hoping that meant she may’ve also been of a gay persuasion. Luckily for my horrific stereotyping, she was – and she became my first girlfriend, albeit secretly. I was besotted with her; it wasn’t love but pure infatuation, and although it ended terribly and the whole affair still leaves me with a bitter-sweet taste in my mouth, I wouldn’t change anything. We lovingly but confusedly and nervously explored each other’s bodies, half clueless and half excited at what was happening. We secretly kissed in classrooms, held hands under the table, and did the things I had previously felt uneasy about doing with a boy. Within the space of a year I’d gone from an awkwardly closeted, slightly lonely young girl to, just… Me.
Another few months later, my parents knew. A while after that my extended family got in on the action. After that, it really became a non-thing; I announced it to my fellow students the night of my year 11 prom, and three months later when 6th Form had started it was a topic as casual as the weather. Whilst initially finding it a little uneasy letting new people know, I soon grew in to it. I soon grew in to myself. When the words now leave my mouth, they leave proud, smiling lips.
So just in case you weren’t aware: my name’s Christina, and I’m a proud homosexual. Happy National Coming Out Day everyone!
