The moment I realized something had to give was the moment I threw up during the 2014 Golden Globes. I was 20 years old. I told my mom it was the pizza. I didn’t tell her it was because of Michelle Dockery.
The first time I wanted to kiss a boy I was three. The first time I wanted to kiss a girl I was 12. This presented some confusion, because by the age of 12 I had concocted some primitive, early-adolescent sexual fantasy involving Gerard Way, the lead singer of My Chemical Romance and eternal flame of my mall-goth heart. I was definitely, totally straight.
But one night I looked at one of my girlfriends, over for dinner on a school night, and felt something weird: a longing I had absolutely no context for. I stared at her mouth. I thought about kissing her.
Being the open book that I am, I voiced this general idea — the idea of liking girls in addition to liking boys — to the group of emo kids I hung out with at recess in seventh grade. They laughed. “The only people who say they’re bisexual are girls looking for attention and boys trying to hide that they’re gay,” was the dialogue of choice. I internalized this immediately; I had been told before that my moods and behaviors were just a cry for attention, and I trusted those people instead of trusting myself.
So, by the age of 20, I was at the point where I couldn’t look at a “Downton Abbey” actress without becoming physically ill. And I thought, while hunched over the toilet, hating myself: I can’t do this anymore.
Let me be clear: I have never been ready for anything in my life. Yet over and over again, I’ve found myself at a point where there is no other choice but to change. I was not ready to admit to myself that I was bisexual, but I was ready to stop denying it.
National Coming Out Day is this Sunday, and the reality for too many queer people on this planet is that it is not safe for them to come out publicly. The Supreme Court may have decided that same-sex marriage is a right across the nation, but that’s just same-sex marriage and that’s just our nation. Queer people have to hide everywhere, destroy their identity, beat up a part of who they are until it is crumpled and stashed away quietly where no one can see. We live in a world that hates, fears, distrusts the other. We do not practice compassion. We do not try to understand that which we do not know.
And then there are people like me, people who grew up in loving, accepting, liberal households, and still grew up to despise themselves. Being queer can be a struggle for anyone, anywhere, regardless of circumstance.
The notion of “coming out” is an inherently ridiculous idea — as if we queer people could ever just come out once. The reality is that we all have to come out, over and over and over again; as if there aren’t people in my life who I have to constantly remind that yes, I am bisexual and yes, that is valid.
I don’t subscribe to the “born this way” argument because I think it’s reductionist and essentialist, and it erases the inherently fluid nature of being a person. Because accepting that I am bisexual wasn’t just an acceptance of wanting to kiss girls; it was an acceptance of infinite possibilities. It was like every door and window in a dark, dusty house opening and letting the light in. No one can take that away from me. Bisexuality is erased everywhere, by both gay and straight people, but no one gets to tell me who I am. No one gets to tell me I’m just looking for attention.
So if you’re not ready to come out to those around you, or can’t, or don’t think you ever will be able to, I give you permission to come out to yourself. I give you permission to love yourself and accept yourself. I give you permission to cry, and grieve, and feel relief. I give you permission to not know where you stand on the gender or sexual orientation spectrum. Your identity is valid, your feelings are valid. You are valid.
I don’t throw up when I look at cute girls anymore. I stutter and make a fool of myself, sure. I’m just fine with that.