I’m Married, I’m Bi, and I’m Cracking Open the Closet Door

It took a long time to realize I’m bisexual, and even longer still to accept it. To this day, well into my thirties, I still have not openly acknowledged that fact to many of those closest to me.

Growing up we all struggle with questions related to who we are, and what we will become. But for myself, and those of you like me, we struggled with a more fundamental question: What am I?

That is a hard question to answer. It’s a question loaded with the risk of rejection, stigma, and in some cases even physical violence; the answer influenced by society’s expectations and our internal fears.

Throughout my teenage years, I took an interest in girls. I was no different than my male peers in this respect. At the same time, I knew I wasn’t like my male peers. I took an interest in boys too, although at the time I wished desperately I didn’t.

I was terrified of these feelings. I live in the South where evangelical Christianity dominates viewpoints on morality. My upbringing was in a hyper-masculine military household and I routinely heard homophobic slurs growing up. As a teenager, my aunt came out as a lesbian in her late 40s. Always the black sheep of the family, she was cast even further aside. “I just don’t have the same type of love for her as I do for your mother,” my grandfather confided in me. The implication was clear: being a homosexual — or anything like it — was bad.

My family’s potential reaction wasn’t the only thing that terrified me. I remember hearing stories about LGBTQ men subjected to physical violence simply because of who they were. “That’s gay” was a favorite slur of kids in my high school; meaning whatever was “gay” was stupid and undesirable.

I did not want to be gay, and I didn’t necessarily feel I was gay. I found women attractive, after all. But I kept noticing guys too, and the question of whether I was gay always nagged in the back of my mind.

I met openly gay friends in college for the first time in my life. I never told them about my own questions and feelings on sexuality. They persuaded me to go to a gay bar as their “straight” friend to hang out. I had many reservations: What if I got caught? What if people thought I was gay?

During my first visit I remember standing in the bar watching a drag show and the performer must have seen the fear on my face, because they came up to me, caressed my cheek, and said, “We won’t hurt you, honey.” It wasn’t them I was worried about — it was the people outside those walls.

It was around this time that I came to understand what the term bisexual meant. The term felt right. It felt like my truth. After years of questioning what I was, and whether it was wrong, I felt I had found a community where I did not have to be afraid of being myself. In the walls of that bar, I felt like I didn’t have to hide behind society’s expectations of what I was supposed to be. I felt like I was ready to open the closet door, and step out into the broader world as a bisexual man.

Then I took my hand off the door knob. “There’s no such thing as a bisexual,” a gay friend said once. “They’re either confused or greedy.” The words cut deep. I began to question again what I was, and whether I would be accepted for it by anyone.

It was not until much later, after I had graduated college and began graduate school that I came to terms with identifying myself as a bisexual man. It wasn’t an epiphany moment or a statement I made to myself in the mirror — it was just something over time that I grew to understand as true. It was something that could no longer be influenced by the expectation that we all must pick a side when it comes to who we are attracted to. No, I was not confused. I was not greedy. I was simply attracted to both men and women. It was the way I was made.

I am very privileged. I am a white male with a good education. I live in a nice home and drive a nice car. I make a good salary. Most of all, I am fortunate and privileged in that I met my soul mate in college.

My soulmate — my spouse — is a woman. I have never had to worry about “coming out,” or facing the rejection experienced by so many in the LGBTQ+ community, because everyone I encounter assumes I am straight. I’ve been married to my wife for over a decade, and we now have a wonderful child together.

Before we were married, I worked up the courage to say out loud who I am to my significant other. I debated long and hard before doing so. Would she understand? Would she leave me? If so, how would I explain what happened to our friends and family?

She accepted me for who I am, without question. I am extremely lucky, as so many are less fortunate. But rarely do we speak of it, or acknowledge it. My sexuality is a fact we know, but don’t draw attention to. For over a decade, that has been okay with me. I knew who I was. The person most important to me in life knew who I was. I had found my partner in life, and I didn’t have to worry about it anymore.

Recently, it has begun to bother me. Sometimes it feels like I never told her at all. It feels like I’m still in the closet; and, in most respects I am. She is one of the very few people I have told.

The past few weeks I’ve started coming out to my closest friends. I don’t know why I did it, it just felt right. Maybe I’m tired of hiding my true self from those who I care about. Maybe I just wanted someone to be aware of…well, the real me.

More importantly, my four year old has been talking a lot recently about “when I’m grown up.” And that has me thinking a lot about when he grows up. What if he struggles with the same questions I did? Can I credibly give him advice and guide him if I haven’t even acknowledged my own truth out loud to more than a couple people? Can I tell him with a straight face it’s okay to be himself if at the same time I’m not being myself?

I don’t know at this point if I’ll ever be ready to come out to my family, or most of my colleagues and acquaintances. I have no intention of posting this on Facebook where most of them follow me. I write under a pseudonym, so only those few in-person friends of mine that follow my writing will know my real name. I have always been more comfortable expressing myself in writing, and for something like this putting it out there into the vast Internet where mainly strangers will read it feels the most comfortable. It’s the right first step for me.

To be clear: I don’t deny who I am, but I’m not necessarily ready to pick up a loud speaker and shout it at every person I know either. Although in my lifetime the LGBTQ+ community has made significant strides toward acceptance and equality, there is still so much hate in the world and rejection of us simply for being who we are, including from within the LGBTQ+ community itself for bisexuals.

I’m sure there are those that will repeat all the stigmas associated with bisexuals when they read this: He’s just confused. He’s a closeted gay. He’s a self-hating gay. Let them say it, because I know none of it is true. There are also those who will say I’m a coward for not coming out to my family and others more openly. To some extent, that is true.

My closet door is cracked, and that’s where I want it at the moment. Those who want to look inside can see me for me. Those who want to pass by and continue to make assumptions are free to do so as well for the time being.

My hope for those reading this who are like me is that you realize you are not alone. That it’s okay to be you, and to live your life on your own terms regardless of what you feel others may expect of you. Ultimately, it matters only that we are comfortable with who we are as individuals and live our lives how we wish to live them. If 2020 has taught us anything, it's that our time is too short not to.