there’s always that one thing—the quiet storm brewing beneath the surface, the flaw in the foundation that you learn to live with until, one day, it cracks. for some, it’s an old heartbreak, a fear of failure, a past they can’t outrun. for me? it’s the fact that I’m gay and my family doesn’t know.
i’ve never been my true self around them. somewhere along the way, i just accepted it as fact—like the way we accept the bay area’s unpredictable weather or the inevitability of a midterm crisis. masking became second nature, slipping into a version of myself that felt palatable, easier, safer.
but the thing about suppression is that it doesn’t just sit there quietly. it piles up, layer after layer, like laundry you keep meaning to do but just shove deeper into the closet. and then, one day, something so small, so insignificant, topples the whole thing over.
it happened on a trip with my friends. we were laughing, joking, being our unfiltered selves. and then, without thinking, I said it out loud:
“at least you can be yourself around your parents. i could never show my mother my true personality.”
silence. a realization. a tidal wave of emotions. before I knew it, i was closing the blinds, locking myself in the bathroom, breaking down in the most cliché movie-scene kind of way. i didn’t even see it coming. one second, i was laughing, the next, i was drowning.
luckily, my friend saved me. she’s also part of the lgbtq community, and she knew—intimately—what this kind of pain feels like. she didn’t panic, didn’t fumble for the right words. she just knew what to say. like a breath of fresh air, she grounded me before I could spiral further.
and yet, as comforting as that was, the question still lingered: Will I ever be able to tell my parents? probably not. will I always have these unexpected emotional crash-outs because of it? most likely. will it affect my life in ways I can’t even predict yet? absolutely.
i shouldn’t have to worry about things like this. i shouldn’t have to weigh my truth against my sense of security. sometimes, i catch myself wishing for an easier life—a “normal” life, whatever that means. one where being myself didn’t come with a footnote of fear.
but then I remember: normal has never been my brand. and maybe, just maybe, that’s okay.
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