A Helping Hand With The Closet Door
Anguish and Peace in Coming Out to a Parent
Before completing high school, I came out of the closet to one member of my family. Just one. Close friends knew I was gay, and I had known for some time. It would have been nice to share that with my entire family, to let them all know who I really was. You can believe I would have, had I not been terrified of being tossed out on my ass.
I could have chosen one of my brothers, who not only were of the same generation but could have appreciated the sexual oppression of our household. They seemed more like strangers I happened to live with than comrades, though, so it didn’t happen that way.
I also could have chosen Mom. The love she felt was obvious, if not outwardly shown, and how can a mother not accept her children for who they are? Right? But Catholic undertones and her generally sheltered existence scared me too much. What if love vanished and she started spouting churchy mumbo jumbo about me going to hell?
Life as a closeted gay teenager was a nightmare. On a good day, my vibe was like a dead Duracel. Whether or not they had been aware of my tortured state, my parents must have at least recognized I was capable of some very heavy-duty mood swings.