There is a scene in Yes, Daddy that I think about every once in a while. Jonah, the main character, is on the beach with a man who is holding him captive in his house compound nearby. While they walk, Jonah sees an old friend from work. The friend is with another guy who Jonah learns is his boyfriend. In that moment, Jonah is trapped in his life psychologically, physically, and financially, in contrast to his friend who is free, authentic, and enjoying what appears to be a mature, healthy, romantic relationship. They are on the same beach, but they are not the same. Jonah was trained to be controlled, through religion, he was trained to give up agency, he was trained to look for a savior. He had chosen to leave the city and ignore this friend – he had actively sought out the man that had taken his freedom away. Throughout the book, you realize that Jonah doesn’t get to do the normal “boyfriend thing,” he doesn’t get to just enjoy his life. Those things are a fantasy. They are like a movie he is watching. It is impossible to climb into the screen and join them. He can’t even be sure that he would be happy and satisfied there if he could.
I remember almost every interaction I ever had with a gay person (or someone I perceived to be gay) while I was in the closet. In high school I remember a student that I didn’t know looking at me in a way while I showered (in my bathing suit) after swim practice one night. I remember the younger brother of a classmate talking to me in the hallway near the auditorium and poking his finger into my chest in a way that made me feel uncomfortable. I remember a phone call with a guy who had moved to Tyler after Hurricane Katrina – he said, “you’re mine and will always be mine,” or something like that – while I talked to him on my cell phone under the taxidermied cougar outside the school gym one evening during a basketball game. All of these moments basically freaked me out. For all of them I remember exactly where I was, what I was looking at, what was around me, the time of day, etc.
After high school, I remember two guys at J. Crew that I shopped near for a moment over 10 years ago. I remember a guy in an a Capella group in college slapping my butt, the stranger that dropped his number on my table at a coffee shop a week before my wedding. I remember inhabiting gay spaces, a gay sports bar in DC, a gay bar in Charlottesville. I saw gay wedding announcements, watched innumerable YouTube videos of guys dancing so freely that I cried.
In all of these moments, what was so unsettling was that I felt like I was being seen. I felt like I was being pulled into reality – like they were actually kind of waking me up from my disassociation. As I came out of the closet, it followed me. The fear, the self-criticism, the willingness to give it all away, the lack of faith that happiness is something truly accessible to me. As I entered relationships, entered new spaces, even physically connected, I felt like there was always this layer of cellophane between me and that world. It had a shimmer. Inhabiting gay homes was sometimes even uncomfortable. I was often so dissociated I didn’t realize all the feelings I was feeling and definitely not relaxed enough to acknowledge it in the moment. Even as I was being warmly welcomed I felt like I didn’t really belong, not just in their home, but in their reality.
I can’t say exactly why I felt these ways. I’ve given myself permission to not always know (or try to know) why some things are the way they are. But it is important to recognize the way these feelings affected my relationships, especially connections early on. I spent so much time in awe – like those stereotypical orphans in old movies watching a family eat a meal. It was overwhelming to be face-to-face with a life that I had denied myself, that was denied to me, that to an extent I didn’t even know existed.
One unfortunate aspect of repression is that I sometimes forgot other people were struggling as much as I was, even the ones who had come out of the closet. Early on, gay life seemed so desirable and gave me so much energy that I couldn’t even imagine why someone out of the closet would be unhappy. Repression inflated the sense of freedom I assumed they were experiencing. It also prevented me from realizing how hard they had worked to have the life they lived and how much energy it required to maintain it.
On the other hand, it’s also true that they were even more free and uninhibited than I realized. Grief has come to me in waves over the last few years as I have realized how much I gave up by staying in the closet: the places, events, organizations, friendships, and experiences I denied myself. It’s stereotypical to say that it was easier when I was in the closet and didn’t know how much I was missing out on. Although staying in the closet kept me safe and did preserve a small measure of inner peace, it was extremely fragile and very frequently unsettled. As much as I tried to avoid queer culture to preserve that inner peace, it was impossible to really maintain that distance. I regularly caught glimpses of articles, Instagram accounts, or people that reminded me of what I was missing out on. Over time, these moments all added up to a deep and secret sadness I carried for so long I nearly forgot about it. The more I have opened up my life the more I have grieved everything that I missed. Early on, I cried all the time as I let go of deep layers of pain, loneliness, and sadness. The grief has been a relief and a release. It has felt healing and life-giving. Grief comes with any loss and the greater the loss the greater the grief.
Coming out of the closet for me has been a little different from traditional grief because it is grieving something I never had in the first place – something I didn’t even fully comprehend. Seeing gay life in person is reckoning with its existence, it’s beauty, it’s sadness, it’s joy. Even though it seemed inaccessible, it was always just around the corner, it was even in the same room, at times. I could have taken one step, could have reached out to touch it, could have changed course with just a few simple words. But I didn’t. I had been taught to be afraid, taught to perform. So, instead, I froze, I cried in secret, laughed in secret, constructed a world just for me where I tried to feel safe and happy. My life in the closet was “real,” but I was not fully participating in it so it’s also true that it wasn’t really “mine.” The majority/straight world was also an experience that didn’t fully belong to me. It’s crazy how something can be both boring and stressful at the same time. Many friendships were born during those years that gave me life, many memories gave me joy, but much of it also gives me sadness and all of it feels like a bit of a dream.
As I have come out and taken steps to live honestly I’ve had the funny realization that my life is now a fantasy too. I’ve been to gay events and destinations, I’ve read books, watched movies, made friends across the country, found and lost love, found pleasure and joy. Although they feel fleeting to me still, these moments are becoming less the exception, and more secure, more predictable, more comfortable. I have found a measure of freedom that is outside the grasp of many people. There are some who aren’t even free within themselves. Others may feel like they have invested so much time and energy into their closeted life they would be giving up too much to let it all go. They might break under the weight of their grief if they opened that door – at least for a time it might feel impossible. But holding on to that life requires constant attention and effort that seems to never provide anything in return. And many of the things that seem impossible actually become the most natural thing we have ever done.
Highways and Hallowed Halls 