Coming out 

Many people will tell me that I’m not bisexual because I only date men. Others tell me that I’m just confused, and that I can’t be attracted to girls because again, I’ve only dated men. 

I came out when I was in high school. There was a small group of people I would sit at lunch with and I figured it would be okay to come out to them. I wore my black I love Lucy shirt and now that I think about it, it must have been best to keep everything to myself. Only one of the four girls were accepting. The others called me names, and even told me they didn’t feel comfortable around me. Feeling wounded and scared, I told them not to worry, none of them were my type. 

As the day dragged on, the word got out that I liked both guys and girls. I counted how many times I was called a dyke – fifteen. I figured it was best to just keep it from my parents for as long as I could. My friends didn’t accept me, so my parents certainly wouldn’t. I would have fake Christian values shoved down my throat, of which I decided to pass. 

The secret of myself held me down as if I were in a lake. My sexual preference was the mucky bottom that had gripped at my ankles and refused to release me. Each passing day of this secret being buried deep within me was another moment that I was losing air. I became depressed, and turned to the internet. Maybe I was confused? No, that couldn’t be it. I remember dating a girl at fourteen and remembered I felt more alive than when I dated a guy. I felt during those four short months. I smiled more, laughed often, I was truly happy. But she wasn’t. She left me for her ex girlfriend and I wondered if I would find a girl who did that to me again, or even a guy. I decided to lay low, take the awful names as they came, and just live with my secret. 

I don’t know what prompted me to tell my parents that I preferred both men and women, but I remember when it came out it wasn’t pleasant. I remember trying to tell them I wasn’t confused, and they still didn’t understand. 

Fast forwarding to 2014, I found myself in a gas station, paying for a pack of cigarettes and four gallons of gas when suddenly the cashier saw a pin I wore on my jacket. It was the gay pride rainbow, and the bi pride pink, blue, and purple. As I shuffled for the $15 in my wallet, I heard it. “It’s because of people like you that gays get no respect.” No respect? People like me? I asked him to repeat himself and when he did, my heart dropped to my stomach. “You people date both genders…You can’t be happy with just one. My partner and I get no respect because of people like you.People who are bisexual ruin things for gays? I threw the money at his face and stormed off. Doesn’t the B in LGBT mean anything, or was I told wrong? I sat in my car, hot angry tears soaking my face. No support from my family, my friends, and now even fellow members of the LGBT community were metaphorically shitting on me. Why was being bisexual such a bad thing? 

In 2017, I don’t care what people think of me. I had been written off as confused for far too long, to the point I was afraid to date who I wanted. I am now in a relationship with a man that I love very much. I still find women attractive, but I am loyal to my boyfriend, and I am in love with him. I don’t use my sexual orientation as an excuse to date many people, though I will not cut down someone who does. You see, we are responsible for our own happiness, and I failed to see that. I allowed other opinions to make me think that I was broken. I’m not broken, I’m unique. I will stand my ground and making sure that nobody feels like they are not normal, that they are broken. You are beautiful, no matter who you are attracted to. 


Lend me an ear

Christmas has come and past, bringing with it new toys and new responsibilities. My boyfriend and I decided that with the wave of interest in Pokemon, it’d be a great idea to get the kids Pokemon inspired piggy banks to hold their hard earned allowance. The kids were to put the banks in a safe place, where their fragile ceramic bodies could stand with pride.

After almost a month, I came home from work and noticed the left ear on my stepdaughter’s bank was broken off. Living in a home of bleeding hearts when it comes to our five feline friends, I knew this was bound to happen. I decided that the next time I was at Walmart, I’d just pick up another one, since everything that is made anymore almost seems to be made to throw away.

It wasn’t until the weekend after the initial break took place that my own son, being only seven, taught me a lesson. But first, let me rewind to the trade-off. I was at work, and can only imagine that my son used the broken ear as leverage when he asked my stepdaughter to trade. When I left home that evening, Eevee was still on her dresser, broken ear and wounded glory. When I returned, a fat yellow Pikachu stood proud. I shrugged it off, thinking that Eevee no longer held my stepdaughter’s allowance and was now resting in the garbage can. I tiptoed into my son’s room to pull the blankets over him, and when I turned to leave, I caught the glassy gaze of the Eevee in question. She sat in pride on my son’s dresser, waiting for her ear to be carefully glued back on.

When I woke up the next day, my son beamed with excitement. “Mommy! Sissy let me have her Eevee bank, now all we have to do is fix her ear!” I stared at him, almost dumbfounded. He willingly took a broken piggy bank, despite it’s previous owner disregarding it like yesterday’s newspaper, and loved it even though it was flawed.

The Eevee is now fixed, both ears standing proudly on her head, patiently awaiting her eager owner’s response.
Lesson seven: Just because something or someone is flawed doesn’t mean they are less desirable.