Kaitlyn
I’m having a much harder time writing about this than I thought I would. When I was in high school, I dated a girl for the first time, but it was long-distance and the only people who knew about it were my friends who lived where she did and two of my guy friends from school to whom I felt I had to explain myself when one of them asked me out and I said I wasn’t interested. So until I got to college, I had only ever come out to friends because of a sort of guilty necessity — either they had seen me with my girl and asked what was up, or they were curious why I didn’t like a boy who liked me. It wasn’t anybody’s fault (no one had ever made me feel unsafe or anything like that) but I only had uncomfortable memories associated with coming out.
But then I moved a thousand miles away from anyone I’d ever known, into a dorm full of people who seemed (on the outside) so cool and fearless. I wanted to be like them, one of them. So I got to school, and I was out. I didn’t come out. I just was. During my very first residential college meeting, I responded to the costume theme “what you wish you did this summer” by dressing up as Megan Fox. I talked about my ex-girlfriend and my current girl-crush and I went to Rainbow Alliance events and I hosted a kissing booth radio show for charity where I kissed my two best friends live on the air while jokingly apologizing to my (new, long-distance) girlfriend. And that’s actually how I accidentally came out to my ex-boyfriend from high school, who was listening, who then told the rest of our circle, none of whom knew how to react.
Over the next few weeks, I had a few fun conversations with people via text or phone. My parents had moved to a new state, but I was going back to my high school town to visit during winter break, so I decided to take a big leap and add “interested in: women” to my Facebook profile to make sure everybody who needed to know would see. I answered everyone’s questions about “how long?” and “are you sure?” and “did anybody know?” and felt like a total asshole the entire time, for reasons I’m sure I still haven’t really worked through.
…until I got to college, I had only ever come out to friends because of a sort of guilty necessity.
In the end, nobody really freaked out or was that upset. Most of them just didn’t understand. A few of them felt hurt that I hadn’t shared, confused why I thought they wouldn’t accept me when they’d spent the last year of high school showing me how great they thought I was. But that’s why it was so scary, right? I went to high school in the South, and the two or three out kids I knew at school were harassed and teased mercilessly for it. Girls were accused of faking it for attention; the one guy was just sort of ostracized. I worried that I’d put all this effort in to get people to like me — watching new tv shows, listening to new music, changing my hair and clothes, dating someone — and that if I revealed this big secret, they’d dismiss me like those other kids they hadn’t even tried to get to know. I was terrified that they only liked me because of those things I was trying to be. It never occurred to me that they might just find me likable because I was me.
Meanwhile, I was still at college, surrounded by amazing, welcoming, warm people, most of whom thought I was this out-and-proud lesbian who would never hide who she was. It was really surreal, because while I felt lucky to be in that place, a huge part of me was still this terrified teenager who wasn’t sure how to “be gay” or who wouldn’t have really blamed anybody who didn’t want to be friends with me because I was. I was in the best possible place in the world to love myself, but I still couldn’t bring myself to do it. Sometimes I still struggle with it, to be honest. But I do know that once I told my friends, the circle of love only widened. People who loved the parts of me they knew were by-and-large happy to welcome a new part that made me complete.
Heather
It took me a long, long, loooooong time to come out to myself, and I felt so much better after I finally did it that I started blurting out “I’m a lesbian” and “Hey, I’m a lesbian” and “This probably won’t come as a shock or anything, but I’m totally a lesbian” to every single friend in my life almost immediately. Every time I said it, no matter how people reacted to it, I felt like I was throwing off another brick on the massive self-hating shrine of shame I’d built on top of my psyche over the years. My friends’ reactions didn’t always make me feel good — I grew up in rural north Georgia in the clutches of the Baptist church, after all — but I didn’t care because I just kept feeling more and more free every time I came out to a new group of buddies.
Every time I said it, no matter how people reacted to it, I felt like I was throwing off another brick on the massive self-hating shrine of shame I’d built on top of my psyche over the years.
I think, generally speaking, people mostly care about other folks’ stories only inasmuch as they intersect with/affect their own personal stories, so most of my friends reacted with shrugs and hugs, because the only thing that changed about me is I started dating girls. I lost a few friends who were convinced I’d left the path of righteousness and was consorting with the devil. I lost a few friends who couldn’t get past the fact that I’d been struggling with something so big and for so long without sharing it with them.
But most of my coming out conversations with my friends were all:
“I’m pretty sure, like between 99 and 100 percent sure, that I’m gay.”
“Dude, awesome. Thank you for telling me. Can I buy you a beer?”
I got a lot of free beers for coming out, which was the second best part after finally getting to feel whole.
Gabby
The first person I came out to was my friend, Christina. We were fourteen, watching my brother play Little League baseball. We took a walk to the store and in that five minutes, I blurted out that I liked girls and was in love with Angelina Jolie. (This was way before Brad and their gang of Jolie-Pitts. This was the year of Gia.)
She stared at me, grabbed me by the shoulders, and told me she liked girls too.
We were both so fucking relieved. Finally, someone to gush over hot girls with and talk about gay stuff and how to come out to our parents. We were from the same neighborhood, went to the same elementary school, both Latinas and then we had this other major thing connecting us.
She stared at me, grabbed me by the shoulders, and told me she liked girls too.
We were inseparable for almost a year until she told me she loved me. I couldn’t handle it so I shunned her, went back into the closet. We didn’t speak for almost three years.
I didn’t start coming out to people again until I was seventeen. I was desperately in love with a boy and a girl. Shit was complicated and friends were safe places to drop secrets and receive hugs.
I called Christina and begged her to forgive me. I told her how sorry I was and what an asshole I was and that I’d do anything to make it up to her and oh, please could we be friends, again? Of course, she forgave me. She’d forgiven me before I even asked for her forgiveness. We made plans to chill and talked about my love triangle.
When I finally let go of that boy and that girl, and fell in love with someone new, I only felt safe telling friends. I was 19, in college, and feeling myself. Everyone was cool, weird, and no one even blinked about gayness. I found a thriving, supportive, and fun group of friends. I didn’t need to have any major coming out moments with them because we were all trying to figure ourselves out.
I even made trips to visit Christina at her college in upstate NY. Damn, that girl could party.
Eighteen years, that’s how long it’s been since Christina and I came out to each other during that Little League game. This past August was the third anniversary of her passing and all of it is still so very fresh. I’m thankful that she was the first person I came out to. She prepared me for all of you.
Audrey
I don’t connect strongly with the concept of coming out, because I never really felt like I was “in.” I spent 22 years having no idea that the feelings I had for girls meant I was bisexual. I wasn’t fighting to keep my feelings a secret because I didn’t understand them well enough to articulate them to myself, let alone anyone else. When I finally said the words “I am queer” out loud, it was like I grew wings. Within 36 hours I met the girl who quickly became my first girlfriend. I introduced her to all my friends in Austin — everyone was happy for me, and no one was surprised. I got more bold about referring to myself as bisexual and queer in relevant conversations and felt more confident claiming those identities each time. Only a few people asked me for more information, and their questions came from well-meaning curiosity. I encountered a few bisexuality-deniers, but none among my close friends.
I got more bold about referring to myself as bisexual and queer in relevant conversations and felt more confident claiming those identities each time.
When I moved to Nicaragua last June, I was terrified that I would have to go inside a closet I had never been in before. I was very timid about telling my new friends about my sexuality or my ex-girlfriend because I didn’t know how to bring it up in a place that is, on average, far more conservative than Austin. However, I quickly found myself in a fabulous progressive social group of Nicaraguans and other foreigners. Many of my best friends here are queer men and women, and my personal and political connection to my queerness has grown and blossomed so much here. The country as a whole is not receptive to LGBTQ identities – I’m not out at all at work, for example — but I got lucky and found spaces where I can spew glitter out of my ears.
As a bisexual person, I realize the coming out process will be continual and lifelong, even and especially when I’m in monogamous relationships that indicate to most people that I must be either straight or a lesbian. Instead of finding that intimidating or annoying, I hope I can approach it with a spirit of joy. Several friends have told me that my positivity about my bisexuality and queerness gave them the courage to came out, which is a huge honor that far outweighs the pain of the moments of rejection and fear I’ve experienced. When I wrote about my journey for Autostraddle and shared the piece around, I got tons of messages from old friends and acquaintances about the piece, and a lot of folks called me brave for coming out. But I hadn’t thought of it as a coming out essay. I simply wanted to state who I am and tell my story, and I feel blessed that story has had almost universally positive reception.
