Coming Out Burn Out
Writing prompt - What came first, the trans or the queer?
TW: Genitalia mentioned. Also, in this post, I am discussing the ways that coming out can go both wonderfully right and horribly wrong. If you’ve had a terrible coming out experience, you might consider practicing some self-care, clicking away from this, and doing something soothing instead, unless you want to confront some of that here. If you need a place to share a short, long, positive, negative, or “I haven’t done this yet and am scared” story, I can guarantee you will receive at least one supportive response by commenting below.
We’ve all seen the horrific coming out gone wrong story in a movie, if we haven’t yet seen it in real life.
In the movies, and in the lives of many in our community, coming out is a dramatic moment. Perhaps there is screaming. Perhaps the queer protagonist is ejected from the home without any further discussion. Perhaps even worse things happen. In many movies, coming out is a one time event. You get it over with, things fall apart, and then you rebuild, if you survive.
This hasn’t been my experience.
It all started when my sibling shared their theory that all women are bisexual because “we” all love to stare at beautiful women in magazines. As a 14-year-old, I listened to everything my sibling said with rapt attention. They were the source of all wisdom. They had also taught me about a thing called penis envy, allowing me to laugh nervously along with them at such a ridiculous idea, while secretly thinking that Freud needed to get out of my head right this instant! Hahaha! Penis envy? Me? Never! Excuse me while I awkwardly change the subject…
I didn’t love feminine magazines at all, but still thought immediately that their theory on bisexuality must be true. After all, I had a soul-melting crush on every boy I’d recently had a vulnerable conversation with, while simultaneously being very much in love with two of my very close feminine friends at that moment. Instead of considering any of these emotions to be hinting that I might be a polyamorous, demisexual trans man, I thought…
Eureka! I’m bisexual! Just like all…women. I’m totally normal. I’m not half as weird and awkward as I feel.
So I waltzed right over to the nearest parent, who was busy ironing shirts at the moment, and announced with confident pubescent pride that I was bisexual.
“You’re just being difficult.”
That was it. No follow-up discussion. No ejection from the house. My first attempt at coming out was simply rejected and tossed aside.
It was as if the words had died on my tongue.
The next time I came out, I didn’t use any labels or any words to describe what or who I was. I used actions. I bought her dinner. I took her to the park. I grabbed her hand and lifted her up onto the giant rock to sit beside me. We talked for hours.
Everything felt romantic. We never discussed what was happening. We never kissed. I still felt like I had shared a vulnerable secret with her. I just didn’t know what the secret was. I also didn’t know that this had been my first heterosexual romantic experience. In my excitement, I thought I was having my first lesbian date.
Later that year, I kissed a boy and I liked it.
I went home and privately came out to myself as heterosexual. I would later learn that I had just had my first gay kiss.
Two years later, I came out to my best friend, without using any labels. This time, I just used an emotion. I came out as loving her in a whisper over the phone. She said it back. The next morning, she sent me a very sweet, romantic poem with a punch line that she had chosen the other guy. This was my second secret heterosexual moment. We stayed close as friends for nearly a decade after that.
Ten years later, I would try to come out to my parents as bisexual again in hopes of convincing both of them to vote against a local Constitutional Amendment that further affirmed what I had already long known to be true: I couldn’t legally marry a woman. I would later learn that I was probably sort of fighting for my right to marry either a man or a fellow enby, eventually, but that’s not what I thought was happening.
One parent argued politely until they reluctantly agreed that they would vote the way that I needed them to vote. The other parent, not so much. That last parent was the one who was going to tell me they felt “deceived” when they learned I had married a secretly feminine person, maybe five years later.
When I came out to my parents and sibling as the pansexual spouse of someone who now wore clothing matching their intrinsic gender, the immediate follow-up question was oddly whether we were seeing other people. Not wanting to lie, I acknowledged that we were polyamorous. Things got ugly. Then, they got quiet for a very long time. Then, they got ugly again. Then, they got quiet.
We unexpectedly got a holiday card in the mail including my wife’s correct name.
This support from my Aunt meant the world to us! The same Aunt unexpectedly sent a holiday card this year with my real name, too. She always just knows things.
We immediately stopped getting invited to any of the more public events involving our family. There were endless polite excuses for why we never made the guestlist for the children’s big birthday parties. “No family was allowed at the kid’s party this year. It was friends only.” The cake in my parents’ refrigerator told a different story, but we didn’t discuss.
Two years later, my sibling called and began listing our offenses.
I was assured that it had nothing to do with my wife being trans. A purse had once been moved from one chair to the other. A public display of affection a year ago that was perfectly fine before was retroactively no longer okay coming from an auncle. There had once been a grimace and a polite question in response to a blatantly transphobic comment made at the dinner table and that made my sibling very uncomfortable. Lots of little details added up to us not being able to see the children anymore.
The next day, I was at my parents’ house. The birthday child was unexpectedly there. The less supportive parent took me aside after hugs and I love you’s were exchanged and let me know that I’d be allowed to see the children again, if I got a divorce.
For years, off and on, I would get texted reminders that I was disloyal, alongside lots of other adjectives. The texts would inform me that I needed to get a divorce immediately.
We send the children gifts in the mail now. We include as many rainbows and as much glitter as possible. We sign every card with our real names. We hope we can see them again someday when they are old enough to make their own decisions.
About a year later, I came out as the pansexual spouse of a transgender person to a very conservative, religious boss at work.
I was absolutely certain I was about to get fired.
I brought a picture of my wife and explained that I was going to put it up in my cubicle.
She asked me if I was happy.
I said, “yes.”
“Well, then, I’m happy for you.”
That was it. The best coming-out stories are simple.
She would give me a “love wins” coffee mug as a going-away present, years later. My cubicle was covered in queer symbolism by the time I left that job with blue balloons and a desk full of sweet farewell cards and gifts.
Like with everything before, coming out as a trans man happens over and over with rapidly changing labels to clarify what I’ve learned about myself.
- It was an evolving response to the pronoun question.
- It was a picture sent to family with a pronoun badge pinned on my shirt.
- It was a simple email signature change at work that provoked questions nearly a year later.
- It’s happened again and again through texts asking if I had ever remembered to tell long-time friends my real name (many resulted in kind responses that I will never forget).
- It was two checked boxes on the US Census, resulting in several follow-up visits to clarify.
- It was a conversation had over and over on intake forms and with different doctors.
- It was in responses to old emails asking former employers for references with a new signature line at the bottom and a hope that they would understand without me having to explain.
- It was a casual aside mentioned during job interviews.
- It was a list of labels in response to a diversity question for funding purposes.
- It’s a choice to be made every time I accidentally pick up the phone to a telemarketer.
- It is something I will probably have to do unexpectedly hundreds of times as the phone rings or texts roll in or as the world opens back up.
If my list of coming out stories seems long, it’s because coming out has never been just one event for me.
It’s a daily decision to welcome people into my life, hoping they accept the invitation sooner or later.
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