Why I’m Not Out to My Relatives
When I first realized I’m a lesbian, I immediately started looking for a therapist. I knew I needed some guidance as I sorted all this out.
My insurance provided a membership to one of those therapy apps where I could have free sessions. So I got it all set up. And then I waited. And waited. And waited.
Finding an LGBTQ+ therapist isn’t all that easy — at least on this app. But I was stubborn. I didn’t just want someone who would work with gay people. I wanted a gay therapist. And it took months.
The people on the app kept sending me suggestions. They’d give me a name and I’d google it. But if they weren’t clearly queer, I wasn’t interested. The worst one was this woman who got her degree from a Bible college. Ummmm, no.
But finally, I got one. A lesbian therapist. I fired her 3 months later and here’s why:
She pressured me to come out to my family.
She called me a “shell of a person” and tried to guilt and shame me into telling my mom I’m gay. She told me my uber-religious mother would be totally fine with me being a lesbian. In fact, this therapist thought my mom would probably take it better than she took finding out I’m a democrat.
And yes, that was our last session.
I’ve always been an advice-follower, almost to the point of needing permission to do grown-up things. Growing up in a very demanding religion taught me I couldn’t trust myself. But I knew in my gut that telling my mom about my joyous, new self-discovery was a bad idea. A really bad idea.
I had loads of guilt about not coming out to her. And I’d heard so many people say how liberating it was to finally come out to their families. So I had thought about it… a lot.
I endlessly rehearsed the coming-out conversation I’d have with my homophobic mom. I’d try to figure out how I could convince her that I’m fine. I’d practice poking holes in her religious bigotry. I even downloaded a Bible study explaining to her why she’s wrong.
I can’t even calculate how much time and energy I devoted to preparing for that dreaded conversation. It was going to go badly. And there was nothing I could do about it.
I actually tested the waters a bit once. Over the summer, my mom had knee surgery. So the day before, I brought over some prepared food that she could easily heat up for lunch for the next several days.
I was getting ready to head to her house when I realized I was wearing a Pride shirt. My first instinct was to change. But I decided not to. (That was a big step for me). I was tired of hiding who I am so I chose not to change my shirt.
Plus, I thought it might be a reasonably safe way to figure out if she still thinks gay people are detestable. I wouldn’t have to admit anything. It was just a shirt after all.
I brought over the food. And we made small talk. But my mom didn’t say a word about my shirt. I know she noticed it. She monitors everything I wear. Maybe she didn’t know what it meant.
But while we were chatting with the tv on in the background, a commercial caught our attention. It featured a lesbian couple. Now, they weren’t making-out or anything. They were leaning over a laptop booking a vacation on a travel site.
My mom cringed and spewed some homophobic hatred:
“Ugh. TV has just gotten so HORRIBLE.”
And that removed all doubt.
It is not safe to come out to my mom. There is no chance that she will be affirming. I figure there are three potential outcomes:
I’ll be preached at, told I’m going to hell, and be subjected to some sort of religious intervention.
I’ll be bombarded with homophobic microaggressions every time I see her.
She’ll go so deep into denial that she’ll pretend I never told her, and then start trying to set me up on dates with men from her church.
As I stood up to leave her house that day she asked me, “do you ever date?”
Needless to say I was taken aback. Because I do. I date women. So I told her “yes”.
“Oh good…. I really hope you find a nice husband to take care of you someday.”
So, I’m not coming out to my mom, or my brother, or any of his adult kids. My life is none of their business. And I don’t owe any of them an explanation.
You see, coming out is for me. It’s liberating. And I get to choose. Knowing my sexuality and my story is a privilege. And I alone get to decide who qualifies. It all comes down to this:
I don’t owe anyone shit.
Say it with me.
We don’t owe anyone shit.
And that includes an explanation about who we are or how we live.
