by Lori L. Lake
Placing the gun in my lap, I picked up the cordless phone and prepared to dial nine-one-one, to let them know where to find me so my family could be spared that awful detail.
I GUESS I should start at the beginning. I grew up in the heart of the Bible belt, in a small town in the western part of Texas. Non-descript houses with more dirt than grass in their yards were the norm, and my family moved around often from one to the next. Though my immediate family was close, I often spent Sundays with my grandparents, much to my own chagrin. My grandmother was a devout Baptist, and my grandfather was a drunk – mainly, I think, to counteract my grandmother. Looking back, I can’t really blame him much. Hell, both their kids ended up as drunks, too. Probably for many of the same reasons. They say the apple never falls far from the tree, and I’m a living example of that. Like my father, and his father before him, I ended up an alcoholic, too.
Throughout my early life, I never felt like I fit in. Whenever I made new friends in the neighborhood, it seemed my father would find “a better house” and have us move. I finally gave up trying, and my mother soon became the best friend I ever had. She was the one person I never wanted to disappoint, and she always seemed proud of my few achievements. I lived for the smile on her face, and in some instances, I still do.
Small towns have even smaller minds, and ours was no exception. Women were expected to marry, have children, and take care of the house. Most did just that. My mother wasn’t any different, despite working at various part-time jobs while my brother and I were growing up, although she did her “job” with as much love and humor as she could. When she married my father, his mother didn’t think mom was good enough for her son, and therefore, she didn’t speak to her for the first several years of my parents’ marriage. When mom finally delivered the first grandchild, me, they grudgingly accepted my mother into the family. My Dad’s sister was basically the same way until I was grown, and to this day, she still looks down her nose at my mother.
I looked up to my parents, as most children do. Although my father was rarely home, I placed him upon a high pedestal, and I would do anything to gain his approval. But he was also a product of the small West Texas town, and his bigotry and small-minded opinions came back to haunt me years later.
I remember back to one Saturday afternoon, when I was twelve, Dad took me to a café for lunch. We had spent the morning building fences together, and he decided we deserved a break. He seemed proud of me. I was strong, bright, and was one of the best helpers he had around the family farm. Since my younger brother was always sickly and frail, I was raised as the son my dad never had. For the longest time, I thought this was why I grew up the way I did, not being interested in boys. But I know now that’s not the case.
We had just sat down at a table when our server stopped to see what we wanted to drink. He was soft-spoken and his mannerisms were almost dainty, but he was polite and professional. After he left, Dad bent his wrist at a funny angle and lisped, “I’ll be back in a moment with your drinks.” He shook his head in disgust. “Damned queers.”
At the time, I didn’t understand why Dad was so upset, but his tone upset me, too. As time went on, I started to feel uncomfortable every time he acted that way, but I wasn’t sure why. In order to look good to him, I nodded my head and laughed. “Yeah,” I agreed, putting on a face of false bravado that I didn’t feel. I was terrified what would happen if he knew the truth about me.
As I grew up, I understood my father’s cruel words and even uttered them myself at one time or another. I hid my confusion over my sexuality under a harsh exterior, knowing that if I took it out and studied it, I wouldn’t like what I found. My high school years were spent with acquaintances more than friends, people who I could go out with to the movies, but not close enough to share my private thoughts with. Like girls my age, I developed crushes, but mine were always on other girls, and my shame and fear of reprisal kept me quiet. Instead of posters of young hunks on my walls, I put up pictures of men I admired, which kept me out of trouble. I suppose that’s why Clint Eastwood adorned a spot over my bed, instead of the Farrah Fawcett poster I secretly coveted. Burt Reynolds and John Wayne were also prominent figures in my room instead of the “boy of the week” adorning the covers of the teen magazines. Not even I could go that far to hide an image of the “normal” teenage girl I wasn’t sure was there. It was hard enough having to listen to the childish titterings of my friends when a boy would walk by, when I didn’t feel anything at all.
When I was barely twenty, my father was fired from his executive position at a local company. The whisperings around town were that he had some shady dealings, but nothing was ever proven. The facts didn’t matter to me. All I knew was that my upper middle class life was turned upside down. I was working at a restaurant as an assistant manager, and when my father decided to pack up the entire family and move hundreds of miles away, I balked. It wasn’t me who lost her job – why should I leave my work and my friends just because my father ruined his career? So, the rest of my family moved away, while I stayed behind. This was another decision I ended up regretting.
Throughout that time, I talked to my mother on the phone almost nightly. She was still the best friend I had, and the longer they were gone, the angrier I became. In my eyes, my father ruined all our lives by moving them so far away. I hated the fact that I was alone and had no immediate prospects of changing that. So, in order to wash away the pain, I drank. It was a running joke where I worked that I’d come in every morning hung over – but it didn’t stop me from going home in the evenings and drinking myself into a stupor.
I think the separation was even worse for my mother – at least according to what my younger brother told me. My father met up with a man who ran a janitorial company. In his wisdom, Dad invested my parents’ entire savings in this company, and both of them worked there. The hard and stressful work nearly killed my mother. I don’t think I’ve ever forgiven him for that. The man he partnered up with took the money, shut down the company, and left town. So, once again, my father and mother had to start over.
Hundreds of miles away, I continued trying to drown the pain and shame of my father’s firing. At the restaurant, I became friends with another woman who was two years younger than me. Her family treated her badly, and so, being the gullible fool I was at the time, I allowed her to stay at my small apartment. She slept on my couch, and during the weeks that followed, we became even closer friends. Sandy would hug me, and I gladly accepted the contact, since my family was so far away, and I missed them so much.
One cold night, Sandy slipped into my bed and snuggled up behind me. Half asleep, I asked, “What are you doing?”
“It’s cold out there. Please, can I sleep in here with you?”
I hated to be mean to someone who was so nice to me. “Sure.”
After that, she slept in my bed with me every night, and it wasn’t a big deal—at least it wasn’t until the night she started kissing my neck. Before I could say anything, she rolled over on top of me, and her mouth covered mine.
That was a surprising night for me. Sandy was very demanding in bed, and she ended up being even more demanding at work. Although I was the assistant manager and she was just an employee, her constant looking over my shoulder and snide comments were making me a nervous wreck. She wanted to work the same hours as I, and if she wasn’t scheduled, she’d make excuses and stay around, anyway. Any time I spoke to another woman, whether it be an employee or a customer, suddenly it was “flirting”, and I closed myself off just to keep the peace. Around that time, my drinking got heavier. Without me realizing it, we became “a couple.” She was trying to get into the Army, so she told me we had to keep our relationship a secret, which was okay by me. Considering how my father acted throughout my life, I was terrified of my family ever finding out.
After a year of being told what to do, when to do it, and not being allowed out of the apartment for anything, I knew I had to find a way to break off the relationship wit
h Sandy. Any time I brought it up, she would cry and then threaten to kill herself. I’ll admit I was weak, and so I stayed. Finally, a phone call from my brother did what nothing else could. He told me my mother was sick, and he was worried about her. That was all I needed to hear. I made the decision to move away to be with my family, no matter what Sandy said.
Once I returned to my parents’ home, Sandy wouldn’t leave me alone. We were hundreds of miles apart, but she still wanted a relationship with me. Again, my nerves became frayed by her demands and phone calls. She threatened to “out” me to my parents, and then to kill herself. One night, in a drunken stupor, I finally told her to go ahead.
She must have gotten the point. There were no more phone calls or letters from her. The last I heard, she worked for a discount store selling fake jewelry.
Living with my parents once more took a bit of adjustment. I had lived by myself long enough to know I enjoyed it, but I realized my family needed me at home. With my father’s work future uncertain, I had to help pay the bills, which I didn’t mind at all.
For years then, I worked and ignored the way I felt. My mother’s health improved, and we often went shopping or to the movies, and she was the best friend I had. Although she had never said anything derogatory about homosexuality, I had no idea how she felt, and I feared losing her if I ever owned up to who I really was.
My friends at work continued to tease and harass me, some of them telling me I needed to step out of the closet I was hiding in. I ignored their taunts, all the while aching inside to be who I wanted to be. I had even started exploring Internet resources—of course using an assumed name—learning about what it was like to be a lesbian. I made friends online who didn’t care what my sexual preference was, and that was the only time I was truly happy. But the freedom I’d found on the computer was no substitute for the real thing, only making the pain worse. The longer I surfed online, the more I wanted to be free of my inhibitions. I spent sleepless nights, drinking and crying, afraid of losing my family, yet all the time feeling I was losing my mind.
THAT BRINGS ME back to the alley. All is quiet, since everyone is at work. I look at the gun in my lap, and then, to gather my courage, take the bottle and tip it up to my lips. The alcohol burns my throat, but the tears in my eyes are from a deeper pain. I’d rather die than see the looks on my parent’s faces when they find out I’m gay. Even though I’m not in a relationship right now, I would have liked to find someone – but that search would have been difficult to make in secrecy.
Tired of hurting, I set the bottle down beside me and pick up the gun. I stick the barrel of the revolver into my mouth and close my eyes, saying a silent apology to the people I love. Before I can pull the trigger, I feel like someone is watching, almost begging me not to end my life. My hands shaking, I remove the gun and open my eyes, but there’s no one around. The feeling is still with me. I know that I’m alone in the alley, but it’s as if someone has asked me to stop.
Shaken and still clutching the weapon, I gather up the phone and the bottle of rum and retrace my steps back into the house. I put my mother’s revolver away, making certain to wipe my fingerprints and tears from its surface. Now that I’ve decided not to kill myself today, I go back into the kitchen and pick up the envelope I left on the table. It takes me only a moment to tear up the letter, but I feel a bit better for doing it. I can always write another one later.
THAT NIGHT, I slept fitfully. Unusual dreams invaded my slumber, and whenever I awakened and then fell back to sleep, I’d pick up right where I left off. This continued for several nights until I thought I’d lose my mind. In an attempt to exorcise the visions that whirled through my brain the moment my head hit the pillow, I started to write them down. It didn’t take long before I had a story started, so I did what any closeted lesbian can do – I posted the story to an Internet site. Before long, people were reading the story that started out in my dreams. One woman, in particular, seemed very interested. And not just in the story.
We started out as friends, this woman and me. She told me how the story called to her and how she identified so closely with one of the characters in it. Over time, our friendship blossomed, and we realized how much we had in common, and how much we had grown to care for each other. For the first time in my life, I fell in love. She was thousands of miles away and had complications of her own, but we swore someday to be together, no matter what.
I continued to write my narrative, which by then had turned into a novel, and when it was finished, a publisher approached me. I was so excited! Me, a published writer. My elation turned to fear when I realized I could no longer keep my secret life a secret, not any more. My family would have to be told, since my novel was a lesbian love story. The one thing I had feared for a long time would finally happen. I’d have to “come out” to my family: to my redneck father and brother and to my mother – the one person who I never wanted to lose.
As I kept my long-distance relationship going, I searched for a way to talk to my family. I decided to tell my mom and not even worry about my dad or brother. Suddenly, it was like the opportunity to be alone with her slipped from my grasp time and time again. There was always someone else around, and something else going on. For weeks, whenever I’d work up the nerve to talk to her, something would happen, and my chance would be lost.
Meanwhile, I finally had a chance to bring the woman I loved to Texas for a visit. We were to travel to California together, and, first, her plane stopped off in my town. She’d have a layover of several hours, so we could spend time together before traveling on.
My fear and my happiness continued to wage war against each other. I met my love at the airport, showering her with flowers. We went back to the house I shared with my family and spent a wonderful afternoon together. I gave her a ring, she accepted it, and I knew she was the person I would spend the rest of my life with. I wanted my family to know about her, about us, but we would leave before they got home from work.
We’ve never been the most touchy-feely family, nor do we spend a lot of time talking out our feelings. Even though I’ve always felt loved by my parents, I could probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve actually been told “I love you” by one of them. So, in true family form, I wrote them a long letter, explaining who I am, and who I love. Being the coward I am, I left it on the kitchen table, in the same spot where months earlier my suicide note had lain. I figured that when we came back from California, if they hated me, I’d at least have my love to help me.
California was a wonderful trip and over much too soon. We rode back to my family’s house in the back of a limousine I had rented for the occasion. Terrified at the reception we’d get, I led my lover into the house. My mother was there, all smiles. She hugged me, and at that moment, I wanted to cry. Mom was warm and welcoming. Was it possible that she hadn’t read the letter? Did she not know about my secret? Later, the three of us sat in the living room talking about the trip. My mom gave us each a bottle of water, then sat to listen to our tales. I was hungry and offered to run up to the nearest fast food place and pick up lunch for us all. As I stood, I looked down at two bottles of water: my lover’s and mine. “I can’t remember which one is mine.”
“I don’t think it really matters, does it?” my mother retorted, a sneaky smile on her face.
She was right, of course. Considering our long weekend, I doubt if drinking out of each other’s water bottle would bring harm to either of us. Seeing the smile my mother wore, I knew not only that would everything be okay, but for the first time in my life, so would I.
FIVE YEARS LATER, I’m living a life I could only dream about before. I no longer drink, and I’m feeling pretty good about myself.
My lover and I have a beautiful house, her teenage daughter and I get along beautifully, and I stay home to write full-time. My family is probably the biggest surprise, though. My mother, who was always my best friend in the world, is still a huge part of my life. We live less than a mile away fro
m my folks, and we see them several times a week. They often come over to spend part of the weekend with us. We actually talk a lot, now, about all sorts of things – things I would have never thought possible. All those years, it turns out, my mother had a pretty good idea about me. I think she kept it to herself, in hopes that I’d work though things on my own. I know that having a lesbian for a daughter isn’t something she aspired to, but she’s come to terms with who I am, and I think she’s proud of me. She only wants me to be happy, and even she knows that being gay isn’t the easiest thing in the world. Yet, she’s always there for me.
Mother is still one of my biggest supporters. She gives my partner flowers for Mother’s Day, and the two of them have developed a great relationship. We all enjoy each other’s company, and seeing the two of them together, laughing, brings joy to my heart that I never thought I’d know.
I think back to that day in the alley and realize that I almost lost all of this, before I could find it. That’s something that scares me a lot. I’d like to think that Mom was there, somehow, instead of at work. Maybe deep down inside, I knew what my death would do to her, and to the rest of my family. I’d have never met the woman I’m planning on spending the rest of my life with, and I would have lost out on a lot of close friendships that I’ve developed these past few years.
I thought that coming out would ruin my life as it was, and I was right. In my old life, I was a drunken, angry, closeted woman who hated herself, and her life. Because of the love and support of my family and my partner, I’m now a sober, happy, out woman who feels like she’s the luckiest person in the world.