The walk down the hallway toward the stairs feels longer than it ever has. I should feel relieved. The ambiguity I’ve been carrying, the question of whether to tell them or not tell them that’s been hanging over me, is answered. I can’t tell them. Matt was right.
Dad called us “fragile,” as if it’s clear to all the world that my entire being is suddenly made of glass. Which, admittedly, is not far off from how it feels, stepping away from them right now. If I tell them and it goes the way I expect, if I have to face the rejection and the prayer and the loving concern … Shattering.
I can’t handle it. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Matt was right about a lot of things. I never thought coming out would be easy, but I thought it would be simple. A switch that flips. A terrifying, shining moment with a clear before and after. But it’s none of those things. It’s not a door that opens to let me through and closes behind me. It’s messy and imperfect.
Some people know about me. Matt. Alex. Patrick, and by extension, probably, the whole club. Sheila. Two anonymous paramedics. Matt’s dad. Matt’s doctor. A nurse or two.
And some people don’t. My teachers. Pastor Ryan and Pastor Carle. Dojang Master Klein. Mom and Dad.
That’s how it is for now. The fever dream of mythic, glorious out-ness will have to wait.
My legs carry me up the stairs, past my lonely, quiet room and into Sheila’s, which is lonelier and quieter still. I find myself on my knees. “Help me,” I whisper. I don’t know if it’s a call to my sister in the beyond, or a prayer to the God who may have forgotten me. I press my fingers into the carpet and let my cheeks stream with tears and my mind scream out its fears until I’m spent.