I don’t have a “coming out” story to my parents, but I might as well have one.
ᴾʰᵒᵗᵒ ᵇʸ ᴬˡᵉˣᵃⁿᵈᵉʳ ᴳʳᵉʸ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᴾᵉˣᵉˡˢ
They would not admit it, but when I asked the “What-if” question, they saw a closet and I was close to coming out of it. However, like religious and conservative Filipino households, they knew better, or at least their indoctrinated socialization of sexuality was the only thing they knew, and they had to do something before I was thrust into hell, but nothing sounded like incarceration when my mother said, “I know you. You’re not that.”
At that time, apart from being her serving daughter, an average student with two best friends, and a One Direction fan, she didn’t know a lot of things about me.
She didn’t know how I blush every time I saw my friend, whom I met unexpectedly at a school event where she was volunteering and I was one of the organizers. My mother didn’t know how I calculated the distance between my hands and hers so that it wasn’t too close but close enough.
ᴾʰᵒᵗᵒ ᵇʸ ᴬⁿⁿᵃ ˢʰᵛᵉᵗˢ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᴾᵉˣᵉˡˢ
Perhaps, I was not better than my mother because I didn’t acknowledge how much I liked her. For sure, thinking I’ve convinced myself that I felt friendly feelings, friends make you grin from ear to ear when you receive a text message, even in the middle of class, and you would excuse yourself to the comfort room just to walk her to her next class. "As a friend," you would dedicate an entire journal to poems, lyrics, and drawings that made you think of her. Unmistakably, cupid’s arrow hit me right through my heart, but it was snapped in half with my mother’s words, “She is taking advantage of you.”
It had been my life-long psychological trigger, to be taken advantage of.
It happened more than once when my innocence was toyed with adult games. It occurred when a former friend of mine used me as an emotional sponge. Even my own parents, whether unconsciously or consciously, had used my willful obedience to be their therapists, or crutches in disciplining their own kids. All my life I was treated like an object, easy to manipulate, and so my kindness became my greatest flaw. This was how my mind connected the dots: Was her beautiful smile to blame? Was it a tactful display of bewildering enchantment?
I regret how it all ended. Yes, there is an ending to this story and I wish to report it was a happy one, but the trauma of coming out – of being who you are in spite of how people define you – still persists. Sadly, I caved into my parent’s homophobic speech, letting their words push me into the shadows of a boxed, restrictive space. I was 15 and needed my parents' approval, desperate for their acceptance and love.
And so I said goodbye to my dear friend, crying night after night, dreading to leave the house and show my face in school. How could I? I turned away the one person who made me feel safe to show I’m more than what people think of me. The closet was there and I was peeking through the gaps, but I didn’t step out. Afraid to be abandoned by my parents, I stayed inside.
After almost seven years since the question, “What if---I liked a girl?” I finally have the answer.
It came from the most important person in my sexuality journey: myself. And I said to the person reflected in the mirror, “It’s okay, Ish. You can like who you like.”
That's all for now my loves! Thank you for reading and supporting me 💜🏳️🌈
I know it's a bit late after Pride month ended in June but everyday is a day for the queer folks, am I right? Please let me know your thoughts on the comment section and I'll respond to each everyone! You may use it as a safe space to share your "coming out story" - whatever that may mean.
Always remember, you can turn your wounds into a healing purpose. Stay kind to others and your mind 🤗