Let Me Out
BY SAMARA LILLIOJA
The third time has come and gone, along with the fourth, the fifth, and the rest after that. My closet door is shut and I’m no longer inside. I can walk with my head held high, knowing that I am loved for who I am. Who I think I am. Who I’ve told everyone I am.
I’m sitting in the car with Lauren, number three after Mo and my mum, about to drop her off after water polo practice. I can finally drive so I offer to give her a ride even though her house is only a five minute walk away from school. I get to her driveway and put the car in park. The doors unlock, but our conversation isn’t ceasing. “Lauren, you know I can’t choose between ‘Grey’s’ and ‘Scandal’. I just can’t.” “Well what about Ellen Pompeo and Kerry Washington?” Just bring it up. She’s accepted you once, she’ll do it again. You need to tell someone. “Nope. Can’t do it.” “Why am I not surprised? Well, anyway, I actually started liking this guy recently. I think he likes me back so that’s good. How about you? Looking at any girls that aren’t on TV?” This is your chance. You know how this scene goes. Count down from three, then just follow the script. 3...2...1 Really? You’ve done this before. It isn’t that hard. 3...2...1 You’ll regret it if you don’t. Remember that. 3...2...1 On our way to practice, Mo and I always listened to songs that no one else knew. Delta Goodrem was a favorite, so I wasn’t surprised when Mo’s ears perked up as “Innocent Eyes” started playing right as we turned out of my driveway. Usually we would both be laughing, singing along. That day I sat silently. The Friday before we had talked about it a little. She suspected that she had a closeted friend and explained to me exactly what her reaction would be if he came out: “I’m so proud of you.” “I know how hard that must’ve been.” “I’m glad you feel close enough to me that you can tell me these things.” Everything that I wanted to hear. We did a lot of soul-searching together, awake at 5:30 a.m., driving to a soul-sucking swim practice. It was Monday, Labor Day, actually. I fiddled with my hands while she was singing, or more performing, to the song playing. Do I tell her? You know how she’s gonna react. Might as well, right? Get the first one out of the way. “I have something to tell you.” Mo’s eyes widened and the performance halted immediately despite Delta still singing in the background. I tried to push through, but the words just stopped and there was a lot of stuttering and mumbling that could barely be heard over the soft lyrics. Her eyes were glued to my shifting ones as she tried to discern what I was thinking. I was reserving most of my energy for my hands as I discovered, after ruling out a few dozen options, that they were most comfortable rubbing my knees. I tried to tune out the music and focus on what I was going to say. Once my hands were situated, I knew I didn’t have much time left. I could barely hear the song over my racing heart. All I had to do was say it. 3...2...1 Ok that was just a test, this time for real. 3...2...1 Goddamn it just do it already. You have about thirty seconds before you’re out of time. Rip off the band-aid. 3...2...1 Everyone knows that there’s a closet. Well, a metaphorical one at least. But it’s accurate. I was confined by the label everyone assumed I wore. Straight. I couldn’t see out, no one could see in. Alone. No one knew that I was in this metaphorical closet. They all expected that I was just somewhere else in the house, like I was supposed to be. I mean why would I be in a closet in the first place? Closets are for clothes, not for people, silly. Yet there I sat, lights off, door closed, the darkness too blinding. It consumed me. As much as I tried to stop it, I eventually gave up and let the darkness take over. “I think... I think I might be gay.” I never said it with certainty, because to me, that meant I could eventually take it back. And I hadn’t said the ‘L’ word yet. I wasn’t ready to sew that label on. She nodded, and said exactly what I had hoped. “I’m so proud of you, I know how hard that must’ve been, but I’m glad you feel close enough to me that you can tell me these things.” It was the scene I had rehearsed in my head over and over again. My stepping out of the closet and into the light of the real world. And someone actually knew to learn their lines and follow my script. Once I got out of the car I felt light. I could appreciate the warmth of the sun on my skin as I finally took my first step out of the closet. This weight the size of a closet door had been lifted and I could be myself, even if it was only around her. I could feel my lungs inflate with ease. I didn’t have to hide who I was or who I liked. I got it over with. The first time. As we started walking into the building, I told her about my crushes and the butterflies in my stomach whenever a certain girl walked by. I had finally told someone and it felt so good. I liked having a label that fit me a little better than my previous one had. I didn’t realize at the time that once the label is sewn on, you don’t get to change it without ripping it off and tearing little pieces out with it. Everyone knows that there’s a monster in the closet. Well, maybe it was under the bed or behind the bookcase, but my monster is in the closet. My monster doesn’t have sharp teeth, a menacing smile, or cat-eyes. My monster has nothing, is nothing—the complete lack of everything. Pitch black. My monster is a state of being. When he shows up, I am not happy. I am not angry. I am not even sad. My monster scares me more than that. When he shows up, I just am. He leaves me numb, void of anything. He reaches inside and pulls, pulls until there’s nothing left. Nothing but darkness. The next time came two weeks later. Whenever we had family dinners, my mum would find a way to tell us all that she would love us no matter what because she figured that at least one of her children needed to hear it. I have to give her credit there. Turns out she was reassuring three out of the four kids who had hit puberty. So I knew that even if everything went wrong with this conversation, I would still have a roof over my head and breakfast in the morning. I paced outside her bedroom door waiting for her conference call to finish. I tried to listen to see if the conversation had stopped yet. “No, send Jeff to China... present the new design... good with the Hong Kong branch.” You can do this. You need to do this. You’ll tell her, she’ll still love you, and everything will be okay. Just tell her. The sound of the door opening scared me and I saw my mum walk through. “I need to talk to you.” “Okay, come on in.” Her eyes showed that she was worried no matter how hard her voice tried to conceal it. We walked into her room and sat on her bed, or in my case sat, got up, readjusted, sat back down, crossed my legs, uncrossed them, got up, readjusted, and then sat on her bed. She looked on, her worried eyes studying me intensely, wondering what I had to say that was making me act like this. I stared out her window at the backyard. The trees in a perfect line, all surrounded by blue hydrangeas and some yellow flower I couldn’t name. I kept my eyes focused on the greens, blues, and yellows as I was trying to first come up with the words and then force them through my gritted teeth. 3...2...1 Just like the first time. You can do it. 3...2...1 She’s your best friend. She’s your mother. It’ll be ok. 3...2...1 “Mum, I think I might be gay.” Everyone knows that there’s a closet, but that’s not the end of it. I thought things would be over after I finally stepped out of the closet and away from the monster inside. But—the thing is—I stepped into a box. A box with ‘gay’ sewn onto the side in huge rainbow letters. A box that I have to stay in. If I want to leave this box, I have to find another one. It doesn’t matter if I don’t perfectly fit, I can just squeeze until I do. At first, I didn’t care. I was too happy to finally be out of the closet and away from the monster to care that the box I was in, the label that I was wearing, didn’t quite feel right. I could feel the box squeezing me but I brushed it off, arguing that it was new, it was a change, and all change is uncomfortable at first. Of course I didn’t like it when people gave me this new label when I’d grown so accustomed to the old one. Maybe if I started using it too, it’d be more natural. It wasn’t. It was something I regretted after each time I said it. Each time I had to explain to someone that no, I did not have a boyfriend and would not anytime soon. “Why?” they would always ask. Well, because the box I’m in doesn’t really allow that. Can’t you read the sign? “Girls Only.” “Oh, um, I’m gay.” And just like that I feel the box labelled ‘gay’ squeeze tighter. Yes, I may switch boxes, although that is frowned upon, but to not be in a box would be absurd. If society can’t identify me by my box, then what will define me? My personality? Please. My values? Obviously not. I need to squeeze into this uncomfortable box to make the people around me more comfortable because that’s what really matters. She was unaware of the many rehearsals that she had missed and had therefore not learned her lines. This threw me off guard when I suddenly had to answer unscripted questions. “How long have you known?” “What makes you so sure?” “Are you sure?” I kept looking at the greens, blues, and yellows of my backyard so that she couldn’t see the resentment in my eyes. Am I sure? Don’t you think I know myself? It’s not a phase! I know myself. I do. I’m sure. I think. I’ve spent long enough convincing myself that I’m sure. I finally came out because I wasn’t going to go back on my word. I don’t need you questioning my sexuality now, too. But that “are you sure?” lingered in the back of my mind, sometimes making itself known to me, but usually just lurking without recognition. It reminded me all too much of the nightmare I had when I was eight. In it, I came home from college and had realized I was gay. When I told my mum, she promptly kicked me out. It was the first time I was afraid that maybe I wasn’t straight like I was supposed to be. This question sat in the back of my mind, a small kernel of fear that hid under stress from school and thoughts about friends but slowly started infecting its surroundings until everything was fear. Everything led back to this one question. This doubt. Was I sure? I escaped the monster in my closet only to find myself facing another one. This one’s the feeling in my stomach when I get called on and don’t know the answer. Well, he’s kind of like that. He makes my brain run and run until it’s too tired to stop thinking about what box and label fits me best and when I can’t figure that out, he makes my stomach drop and hit the floor with a thump loud enough to scare me and wake my brain up to start everything over again. And, like his brother, he makes me wish I had been lucky enough to not have been thrown in that closet in the first place. “Lauren, what would you do if I dated a boy?” “I’d be surprised because if I recall correctly, that’s not your thing.” I hear a small chuckle escape her mouth. It’s a joke, but it still stings, reminding me of the sign that very clearly says “Girls Only.” But I can’t blame her. Lauren was the third person I told to use that label and I’ve been telling her about all of my latest actress crushes since. I look away and focus on the lights of her living room barely illuminating the path to her front door. “Do you have a certain someone in mind?” I hesitate at first, but eventually I give in and tell her about my crushes and the butterflies in my stomach whenever a certain boy walks by. “He’s easy to talk to and we discuss the serious issues like gun rights and whether dipping fries in ice cream is genius or disgusting. We concluded that we’re both geniuses. He’s cute and athletic and I didn’t realize that he was as smart as he is until this year. I told you I liked him back in freshman year, remember?” “Honestly, I can only remember the girls that you’ve liked.” Another joke. Another sting. “Well I think that I did actually like him. And I think I do again.” I’m not going to pursue it though, I make sure she knows that. I’m not ready to tell other people that maybe I like a boy. What will they say? I’m supposed to like girls, so will people accept me if I tell them I like both? Will people not believe me like the first time around? “Don’t joke about that stuff. Some people actually have to come out to their friends.” This isn’t a joke. None of it is a joke. Or will it be like when I had to ask Lauren to explain it to someone else? “She just laughed at me. I don’t think it was to be mean. She just doesn’t believe me. Can you tell her that I’m serious? That I’m gay?” I don’t want to go through that process again. An agonizing conversation with my mother where I’m questioned, having to pull aside a friend at a party to tell them in a safe place, my dad asking if I had been bullied after telling all of my friends. It was hard enough the first time. I don’t want to do it again. So I can’t pursue him even if I want to. And I kinda want to. But my box is holding me back. I just want out of the damn box. I want the label off without having to explain myself, without anyone getting offended. Let’s leave the closets and labels for clothes, the boxes for shoes and first grade art projects. I don’t want people to remind me of the label so solidly stitched to my sexuality when I say, “oh, he’s cute.” I want to have the option of maybe, possibly dating this guy or another in the future without someone being offended that I have tarnished the name of gay women everywhere. She sits there processing it all, both of our blank stares focusing on the driveway in front of us. “Well, if you like him, do you think that you’re bisexual?” It’s not that simple. I get it. To her, if I like boys and girls, that’s my label and it is that simple. But I want to be more than a label that limits my love life. A) Gay- I can only like girls. B) Straight- I can only like boys. C) Bisexual- I’m confused and will eventually pick A) or B) Where’s D) none of the above? I am more than a label that she or anyone else needs to put on me to make it easier for them. “Maybe. But I haven’t really worked through it all yet.” With a nod, she opens her door and walks into the light of her living room. I make sure she walks into her house before driving away. I want it all gone. I want my label off, I want my box collapsed, and I want to take a goddamn sledgehammer to the closet door that tormented me for so many years. I want peace. Peace of mind when it comes to any of my dating or explaining my dating to other people, and I want for people to stop needing a definitive answer when it comes to who I like and who I want to date because the truth is, I just don’t know. |