I Guess It's Time to Come Out Now

I feel like part of me is still scared to say the word… “bisexual.” It’s bizarre to write it down when it was a word I fled from for so long, a part of my identity I denied for the first eighteen years of my life. I told myself I just thought girls were really pretty. I honestly thought that. I allowed my life and my understanding of myself to be hindered for so long because of the heteronormative culture I was surrounded by growing up.

I am a woman. I was born a girl, I identify as female, and, as soon as it started becoming a topic of conversation, I was expected to like boys. And I did, occasionally, to an extent, but I didn’t let myself feel anything further, anything beyond the bounds of a heterosexual relationship.

My first memory of feeling truly uncomfortable with my façade was the first time I had been directly asked by someone about my sexual orientation when I was sixteen. It wasn’t something that I thought about at the time, and in my mind it didn’t feel like much of a question, but, once it became one, I realized I wasn’t sure of the answer. I hesitantly said I was straight, with a tinge of fear in my throat for considering otherwise, and I didn’t feel like myself afterwards. I wanted to go back and give an explanation, announce every thought I’ve ever had about my identity in that regard to everyone so I wouldn’t be living a lie. I didn’t know what I was at the time, but, in that moment, I knew I was lying. It felt wrong.

After feeling confused about my sexuality for a long time and choosing not to label myself, I became especially frustrated around the time I turned eighteen. Suddenly, trying to figure out how I identified became a constant background thought. Any moment of silence, any second of peace, was an opportunity for my mind to wander where I wish it didn’t. I became hyperaware of my reactions to women, questioning whether I found them attractive or if I was just a straight person queerbaiting. Then, after realizing my own internalized homophobia forced me into a heterosexual mold, I came to terms with my bisexuality. Everything in my mind started to fall into place. The girls I used to think were “just pretty” were more than that to me. I did like Shego from Kim Possible as a kid. I did relate to Hayley Kiyoko’s “Girls Like Girls.” I did experience bi panic on multiple occasions, because I am bi.

For a couple of months, I felt more secure in myself than I had in a long time. I came out to a close friend of mine who also identifies as bisexual, but I waited on telling anyone else, including my family, because I didn’t know how to start the conversation. I figured it would be something I would say in passing, like it was no big deal. If they said something about me marrying a man and I said “or woman,” maybe they would catch on. Or maybe they’d get the memo from the multiple times I was obviously crushing on female actresses in movies. It wasn’t such a big deal for those few weeks, when I felt happy with myself and I wasn’t too worried about what other people would think of me.

Not long after, things became much more complicated when my church decided to reveal their stance on homosexual relationships through their new four-week series. This church, which I’d been going to with my mom and my sister for over ten years, seemed pretty inclusive to me, standing up for people of color in times of prejudice and supporting immigrants and refugees. I was more excited than I was scared when I got the email announcing the “Sex, Sexuality, and Gender Identity” series because I assumed their willingness to address these topics was coming from a place of love and acceptance. I was completely wrong.

I sat through three agonizing sermons in one night, waiting to hear any redeeming remark that might overshadow the church’s queerphobia. Instead, I had to watch, through tears, as the church’s lead pastor blatantly and repeatedly condemned homosexuality. In an attempt to avoid backlash, the pastor informed us that the church believed experiencing attraction to someone of the same sex in itself is not a sin; it was only considered a sin if people acted on that attraction. He then happily shared the stories of churchgoers who experienced homosexual attraction, but chose to remain single and celibate to avoid sinning. My heart broke for those people as they were being forced to live their lives inauthentically because of a group of powerful, hateful homophobes. The pastor was also incredibly invalidating towards trans and non-binary people, obviously incapable of understanding or sympathizing with non-cisgender people. Watching several cisgender, heterosexual people preach to a crowd of hundreds about how queer people are sinners felt unreal, like a type of horror I never hoped to witness in real life.

I’d seen these kinds of things on TV and in movies, but being caught in what felt like a glimpse into conversion therapy was earth-shattering. A small decision I’d made earlier that day, to watch the church sermon when I hadn’t seen one in a couple of years, became unexpectedly life-altering. I wasn’t going to change my personal religious beliefs, nor was I going to change my views on acceptance. Yet despite being secure in my acceptance of other LGBTQ+ people, I suddenly found myself questioning whether there was some truth to the church’s statements. I felt more isolated than I had in a long time, now wondering if even God was against me. I talked about it with my family, but they didn’t understand how personal the situation was to me because I wasn’t out yet. It felt like, for the first time in my life, I couldn’t even turn to God for guidance, because I couldn’t be certain that he didn’t think my bisexuality was a sin.

I knew in my heart that the church was wrong about everything, that they were being discriminatory and causing unsolicited division by otherizing queer people and challenging their relationships with religion. I knew they were wrong. And I told them, too, using an anonymous chat feature on their website. They responded by saying they would pray for me, and later referred me to their on-site “sexual identity therapists.” I felt completely violated, and honestly scared at the prospect of experiencing the likes of conversion therapy under a different name. The place I once considered to be a second home became foreign and dangerous.

The vast majority of people who went to that church previously will likely return, perhaps even including my mom. It seems like something I’ll just have to deal with. Realizing I’m bisexual has made me more comfortable and confident in my own body, but, at the same time, has made me all the more aware of how rampant queerphobia is in this world, and how it’s, unfortunately, something I, and most queer people, will inevitably experience.

I had unknowingly suppressed my true identity for my entire childhood. I’ve only faced the tip of the iceberg when it comes to queerphobia. Even as I was discovering who I am, I felt like I wasn’t gay enough to be gay or straight enough to be straight. I still feel uncomfortable when talking about my bisexuality out of fear of how people will react, which is part of the reason I haven’t come out yet. But I want to live my life being authentically me. I want every important person in my life to know every aspect of my identity.

I’m going to come out to them soon. Not today, not tomorrow, and maybe not even the next day, but I’m going to. I want them to see me, the real me, without me having to hide anything anymore. I’m still scared of what might come after, and I think a part of me will always be scared, but I am more hopeful than ever. I have faith in myself.