How to Come out of the Closet as a Straight Woman

Sorry I don’t fit the stereotype of coming out as gay.

Well… I’m not actually sorry. It’s not really any of your damn business, now is it? But, realizing that I’m straight impacted my life in ways I never imagined. I am officially out of the closet and I love it.

A few days ago, we went on thunder break on my job as a lifeguard. All nine of us crammed into the tiny guard shack and chatted away. We were soon joined by Matt, who had been enjoying his day off in the soccer field next door. He tore off his wet shirt to stay warm and kept talking, but I couldn’t stop staring.

My eyes just kept tracing over his abs and the little bit of hair making a treasure trail on his lower stomach. I could feel that little burning sensation in the pit of my stomach. He turned me on.

I saw him shirtless every single day and had even objectively admired his body before. Maybe it was seeing him in his plain clothes and the little peek at his briefs that got to me. Frankly, I don’t care. He is only and will only ever be a good friend.

But a better question would be: Why did I question my own sexuality to begin with? I’ve never once been attracted to a female. I’m not a virgin. I have been turned on by guys before.

It’s because my mother called me a dyke. That’s where this all started. Her constant comments made me wonder if she was right. I mean I’m not particularly girly. I don’t wear make up. I don’t crush on guys easily. A couple other people have asked me since if I am a lesbian. That made me question it, too.

But the thing is I’m not. I knew it all along, but still felt unsure. My mother’s behavior towards me and the topic, perpetuated my behavior that confused the people who then questioned my sexuality later on. Just because I was a bit more of a tomboy as a kid, society and my own parents boxed me up into their little stereotype. But trying to fit a square peg into a round hole doesn’t work.

Getting that turned on just by looking at a guy…. theres no way I could be a lesbian.

She Should Just Stop Waiting

They’re not coming. Really, they’re not.

You probably hid in the bathroom so the other parents wouldn’t insist on waiting with you after the birthday party. You sat on the grungy toilet and held up your feet whenever you heard a sudden sound, careful not to touch the nasty stall. You listened to the endless chatter and friendly goodbyes until, finally, the coast was clear.

Then you waited.

And you’re still waiting. But, Mommy is never going to put you first. So get used to being forgotten. Get used to hiding from the other parents. Get used to walking home. Grow up, because in the end the only person there for you is yourself.

You remind me of myself at your age. I wish I could save you, but I can’t. Even if I called CPS and you moved in with the Brady Bunch, you would still struggle with the ultimate question: Why didn’t Mommy love me the way I am?

So grow up and love yourself.

I can’t save you or Emily. Her mom is sick too. Bipolar Disorder. I see myself in her too. If I had escaped at her age, I wouldn’t have fallen so far.

Emily is a good kid, a coworker of mine. She doesn’t deserve to be mind fucked. Neither do you. At sixteen, she can apply for emancipation now. I’ll support her as much as I can, but in the end it comes down to how much she wants it. It would break my heart if she wound up trapped in her mind the way I am now. God knows her dad isn’t a lick of help.

That reminds me, your daddy won’t save you either. He will always choose your mom or himself.

Please Emily, save yourself. I love you, just the way you are.

Please, just stop waiting.

This Summer I Learned to Feel Pretty

Health. I’ve always been in tip top physical shape, but my life is beyond unhealthy.

Growing up, I lived for my mother. She lived for herself. I never earned her approval, and even worse, she convinced me that I was such a horrible person that she wanted to kill herself. So she did.

Although her suicide attempts weren’t successful, I fell into a never-ending trap of trying to become the daughter she dreamed of. I changed everything about myself, but it was never good enough. My looks were “atrocious”. My personality was “awkward” and “nerdy” and “selfish”. I was a “damn dyke” in her eyes before I even knew what the word meant. This was a nice day with mommy dearest, and I’ll not bore you with the nastier bits.

I learned how to hate myself and I did a damn good job of it.  I lived life as a teenage insomniac who squirmed in her bed at night with unbearable self hatred. My body literally couldn’t hold all of the disgusting feelings I kept. I eventually realized that all the parts I originally liked about myself were the “unacceptable” bits in my mothers eyes. As a freshman in high school, I couldn’t even recognize myself.

By the time I realized I wanted to be me, I was lost in a world of pleasing others. It was like using a shovel to dig yourself into a hole, then figuring out that a shovel wont help you climb out.

One of my main purposes in life had been to protect my little sister from feeling the way I did. As I transitioned away from living for my mother, I only tripped and fell into another hole, stuck living for another person again.

I threw myself into work and school and lived a full life. Essentially I avoided having time to think about who I was, to put aside the disgusting feelings. I was ugly and I knew it but I planned on doing the best I could with what I had. A pessimistic sort of optimism, huh?

I’m about to be a sophomore in college. This summer I am working as a lifeguard at the local Y. Every day my bikini line shaving job and uneven breasts are displayed to the world. My tan lines are horrific and my hair gets pool-frizzy.

At some point this summer, it just clicked. There was a ding in my mind that said “I’m pretty”. I felt confident and ready, without anything in particular to be ready for. I just felt pretty.

I know that looks aren’t what matters and so on. I know that many people think of words like “pretty” as objectifying. But to someone who has never felt that way in their life, it was more of an enlightening wake up call. I’m more confident with guys and people, not because they might like my looks, but because I like my looks. It’s easier to socialize when you don’t feel inferior to everyone around you.

I started to do more things for myself. I started to let my sister take care of herself more, since I spoil her too much anyways. I started reaching out for the things that made me happy, because I craved that pretty feeling. Living for myself, I think I’m on the verge of a healthier lifestyle.

Feeling pretty is the key to breaking out of my cage, because a good appearance proves that my mom is wrong about me and who I am.