It was a Sunday morning and I was literally pushing eggs around my plate. My mind was overcrowded with thoughts of what I would say, what she would say. Do I just blurt it out? Do I assume she already knows and has just been waiting for me to feel comfortable enough to tell her? How will she react? What will she say? What will she do?
I mustered up the courage and started a conversation with my mom about one of my cousins and her roommate. “Do you think she and Janet are more than just friends?" I asked. “I mean, do you think they might be a couple?”
“I don’t think so, but I guess I don’t really know,” my mom replied. “I never really thought about it.”
“Never thought about it?” I asked, shocked. “She’s always had roommates and best friends. She hasn’t had a boyfriend in about twenty years and never so much as mentioned any guy she was dating. I thought everyone just assumed she was a lesbian.”
I could tell I caught my mom off guard and that she was probably wondering where this topic of conversation was coming from and where it was going. She humored me, though, and we continued the discussion about my cousin’s mysterious dating life for a bit.
Thinking about it now, I realize what I was trying to do. People say there’s comfort in numbers. I was trying to find a way not to be the only one. I didn’t want to be the sole lesbian in the family. I didn’t want to be different. And I certainly didn’t want to disappoint my mom. I figured that if she thought my cousin was a lesbian and loved her just the same, she’d be just as comfortable with her actual daughter being a lesbian and love me just the same. I was trying to feel her out and, in a way, convince her that this was more common than she might have thought and that it was perfectly normal and acceptable.
I found myself starting to question my mom hypothetically: “Well, what if you did find out she was a lesbian—would you think differently of her? What do you think of gay people in general? Do you hate them? Have you ever known anyone gay?" The more questions I asked, the more nervous I became. It wasn’t because of my mom’s answers, though. It was because I knew I was getting closer and closer to telling her the truth. I learned that my mom didn’t really know anybody who was gay, but that she didn’t hate gay people and wouldn’t turn her back on a relative that was gay.
I took a deep breath and before I could even start to speak, the tears started to fall. Somehow, I was able to eventually find my words and I told my mom my secret. I could see she immediately understood where all the preceding random questions had come from, but I could also see the surprise and concern on her face. It was clear that, even though I thought it was obvious, she had no idea that I, her one and only daughter, was a lesbian. And I could see that she was unprepared for how upset I was. I guess this wasn’t exactly the Sunday breakfast conversation she was expecting.
Through the tears, I explained to my mom that I had always known I was different and that I just couldn’t help it. When she questioned why I had previously dated guys and had boyfriends, one of whom I was in a relationship with for more than five years, I told her that I had thought maybe I was bisexual. Deep down I knew that wasn’t the case, but I didn’t know how else to justify my past relationships. I really did care about John, that boyfriend of five years, when we dated. I was attracted to him, and even thought I was in love with him. But at some point, I realized I was masking my true self. I wanted to love him, or any guy for that matter. I was trying to be the person that everyone thought I was, the person everyone expected me to be. I was trying to do what was "normal"—find a great guy, marry him, and have children together. I tried. I just couldn’t do it. I wasn’t in love with a man—never had been, never would be. I was lying to myself. I was lying to boyfriends. But most of all, I was lying to my mother, the one person in the world who was always completely honest with me, always on my side, and always there for me—the one person in the world who I would never want to hurt, trouble, or disappoint.
My mom just listened. In a way, she was speechless. I, on the other hand, felt compelled to just keep speaking, to keep explaining. I needed my mother to understand why I hadn’t told her the truth and I was finally being as open and honest as I possibly could. I told her how much she meant to me and that I never wanted to hurt her. I told her I was afraid that since she was religious and we went to church together every week, she’d think differently of me and not approve, maybe even think I was a bad Catholic or just a complete fraud. I defended myself, even though she didn’t question me. I told her that I knew God made me this way and still loved me. I explained how painful it had been, how unhappy I was, and how I couldn’t change my feelings, no matter how hard I tried. I confessed how I struggled with it since I was a child and I tried to suppress my feelings.
And then I dropped the other bombshell, as I explained how my close friend, Jamie, was more than just my friend—that she had been my girlfriend for a few years. My mom was stunned, to say the least. I knew Jamie and I certainly didn’t act like we were together in public, but I guess we didn’t “look” like lesbians either. I couldn’t really read my mom’s face and since she didn’t say very much, it was hard to gauge what she was thinking about my big news. She hugged me. She wiped away my tears. And she told me she loved me—that I was her only daughter and she’d always love me no matter what.
When I went up to my room, it felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my chest. I was finally able to breathe a sigh of relief. The one person I cared about and loved more than anyone or anything else in the world was my mother. She was the only person who had an opinion that I cared about because she was more than just my mom—she was my best friend. As relieved as I felt for having finally disclosed my secret to her, I couldn’t help the overwhelming new fear I was beginning to experience. I asked myself, “Did I just break my mother’s heart?” And, again, the tears began to fall.
I spent the rest of that afternoon mostly in my bedroom, just taking a couple of trips down to the kitchen where my mom spent most of that day sitting at the table reading local newspapers. I guess I was trying to make my presence known, see if anything changed or felt different, see if my mom seemed angry or sad. Everything was pretty normal. I made small talk and asked random questions about meaningless topics, just to engage in conversation with my mom. She was quieter than usual, and my mind continued to stir with questions and worried thoughts.
A while later, I accompanied my mom on a walk to the neighborhood park, as per her usual Sunday tradition. It was the quietest walk we ever took together, and I was hoping she’d say something to assure me that everything was really okay. I sensed that she was just not herself, her lack of conversation making me anxious. I finally just came out and asked her what she was thinking and how she was feeling about what I had shared with her a few hours earlier. I asked if she was mad at me, if she felt like I let her down, if she was upset with me. Her answer was brief and to the point. She wasn’t mad, but she was upset and she was disappointed. But she quickly clarified…”It’s not because of what you said, not because you’re gay. I’m upset that you hid this from me all this time—that I had no idea. I’m surprised and disappointed that you didn’t think you could tell me—that you didn’t feel comfortable enough to ever talk to me about this. That’s why I’m quiet. I’m trying to understand why you would ever think you couldn’t talk to me." I felt as if my mom was trying to hold back some tears herself. I had done the one thing I didn’t want to do—I had made my mom unhappy. I had made her question the strength of our relationship and my trust in her. I guess I had broken her heart in a way after all. I couldn’t believe I never thought of that myself. I had always been so consumed with my secret, how it affected me, how I had to struggle with being different. At that moment, I realized that I had been so selfish because I had only worried about how telling my secret would affect what other people thought of me. I had never actually taken the time to think about how keeping my secret could actually hurt someone else.
I felt terrible, but I knew I had made the right decision, and the truth is, I wish I would have told my mother sooner. It tortured me inside to have kept that secret to myself, but especially to have kept it from her. I understood even more so why she had been so surprised. I had always told my mother practically everything. She knew she was my mother first, but that she was also my best friend who meant the world to me and who I confided in repeatedly. Another thing was also confirmed at that moment: my mother was the only person in the entire world who I cared about what she thought of me. If anyone else wanted to judge me or question me, it wouldn’t matter. They’d have to deal with their own insecurities and opinions. All that mattered to me was what my mother thought. Her love and approval were priceless to me. As we continued to talk, I knew with confidence that my mother loved and supported me, no matter what.
It was February 3, 2008 and I was thirty-two years old on that life-changing Sunday. I had actually been having problems with my girlfriend and I had a feeling that the relationship was going to end soon. She didn’t like that I was “in the closet,” so I guess that was part of the reason I finally decided to tell my mom. I had been with my girlfriend just over three years, but as far as everyone knew, she was just a really close friend who happened to live in another state. I assumed if I told my mom the truth, my girlfriend would see I was fully invested in our relationship and we’d stay together. I was right—sort of, at least. She was very happy and very proud of me, and we did stay together—but for only about two more months. In fact, she broke up with me right around the time I was going to have a week’s vacation. I ended up going on a road trip with my mom that week, sad and sulking, my mind consumed with thoughts about the break-up and wondering what life would have in store for me.
Thank God for my mother. It had only been about two months since I had come out to her, but I was so glad I had. I couldn’t imagine having had to go through a secret break-up from a secret relationship all by myself. My mother was supportive, understanding, and one hundred percent there for me, as only a mother who is also a best friend could be.