"I'm gay."
I'd probably spoken those words more times this year than I ever had in my entire 32 years. It was both novel and exhilarating, and looking back on how my year has gone, possibly the best, most liberating statement I'd made all decade.
And each time, it felt good to hold my head up.
Not that I'd been hiding my penchant for men and musicals these last few years of my life. But during the time I had been away in Singapore, I didn't feel that there was any conflict between my public and private life. I lived as wantonly as I wanted, and never felt that I had to hide my sexuality or my individuality. The friends I cared enough about to tell, they learned to accept it, or we went our separate ways. The restrictiveness of the government did necessitate some measure of discretion, but not really enough to cramp my lifestyle.
But it was different when I came home. The life I'd established since I was a child, the cultures and mores and taboos I'd learned to grow up with, the friends who'd known me even before I knew myself, all these needed to fit within the current paradigm of my life. I'd spent the last seven years being as free and as gay as I wished, despite the insistence of some of my fag friends that I was a closet heterosexual. I wasn't going back into hiding.
One bad side about this whole thing is, I've found myself less patient and tolerant of people who are still in the closet. I'm sympathetic, yes, and I can understand their situations. But I've heard the same fears and issues so many times before, I have no patience to listen to them again. And even less patience with people who voluntarily chain themselves when there's no reason to.
Case in point. I'd met and briefly dated (very briefly) a young guy this year who was still fairly new to being gay. Seeing someone who seemed as lost and confused as I had been at that age, I thought maybe he could benefit from having a mentor. But I gave up soon after. This guy didn't have baggage; he had a whole luggage compartment.
So I gave up. Shrug. Can't help someone who refuses to be helped.
But going back. For many people who've lived all their lives out and happily gay, this may be just so much babble. Certainly I might have felt that way when I still lived overseas. But now, being back, and seeing the way that time has changed the roles of gays in the social consciousness, I can appreciate the disparities between my life before I'd left and now on my return. Part of my "coming home anxiety" had been the fear that I'd have to segregate the gay and non-gay parts of my life again. Fortunately, I didn't.
Now, there's just one last hurdle. Dear old mom. It should be easy, but I still have to work myself up to being to able to nonchalantly say, "I'm gay. Pass the ketchup, please."
Oh well. Perhaps this coming year.