A few days ago was International Coming Out Day. I know that because a bunch of people were posting supportive things on bsky and because there was a whole discourse about Rainbow Capitalism and McDonald’s. I think there’s an interesting conversation to be had here, but I’m not educated enough on media studies and such to have it. Here’s someone who is.
Man, I need to work on my cold opens. Anyway, when I was young and foolish, specifically in my late 30s, I thought coming out was something you did once. Was I dumb? Idealistic? Naive? Some beautiful impossible combination of all three? I dunno. It doesn’t matter anymore; I’ve since learned that coming out is something you have to do more than once.
How many times? When do you get to stop?
And that’s really, really unfair. I don’t know if you’ve ever come out, but it’s fucking awful, right up until the moment it isn’t. It is a gut wrenching horror. Imagine asking everyone you know if they really love you, and there being a reasonable chance they’ll give you an honest answer.
When it’s good though, well, it’s really good. Sometimes people surprise you. There are people in life who you wouldn’t expect to support you who do. Sometimes you get to be the genesis of someone’s redemption arc. Sometimes it’s a good friend telling you that you’re an absolute cunt for worrying they might reject you. And then sometimes it’s just a very warm “thank you for trusting me with this.”
Like I said, it’s not all sunshine and rainbows, but it can be good. The thing is, as far as I can tell, you never get to stop coming out. It’s every time you meet someone new. Every co-worker. Every friendship. Every professional acquaintance. Every overly familiar kid at a birthday party.
And that more than anything, brings me to my point. Normally, I’d tell you I don’t know who needs to hear this, but I do this time. I hope they hear it, and i hope it helps the rest of you — You owe exactly one fucking person being out, and that’s you.
I’m not saying that you owe yourself being out in all of the domains of your life, though I will generally advocate for a life lived authentically (alright, fine, yes, glass houses and all that, but it’s good advice and I think I’m enough of a mom to get away with do as I say, not as I do). I’m saying that you owe yourself knowing yourself. You have to acknowledge who you are to you, and everything else is gravy.
What I’m saying is you, you specifically reading this, you need to stop fucking torturing yourself because you’re not doing the brave thing. No, stop hiding behind the mug, or the hoodie, or the blanket and pay attention god damn it. No, fuck you, you don’t owe being an example to anyone. No, no. Stop it. You don’t owe it to the people you love and who love you to be your full authentic self either.
I did not stutter, as much as one ever stutters with a pen. As much as anyone writes a goddamned blog entry with a pen. I meant what I said, and so let me repeat it. You have to acknowledge who you are to you, and everything else is gravy. Everyone who knows who you are beyond you is nice to have, not necessary. You can take a breath. You can conserve energy. You can decide that right now, right this moment is too much. Stop fucking torturing yourself, you dingus. Life is hard enough already without you beating yourself up too.
You do have to be out to yourself though. And, let me be frank, that doesn’t stop either, not as far as I can tell. No amount of having a kick-ass rack and being really, really happy about that stops that fucking awful feeling at the pit of my stomach that maybe this is all in my head and not real.
After years of being out, I cried when some lesbian saw me as desirable, because god damn it external validation is relieving. I mean, I promptly kicked my own ass for feeling happy about it, because fuck me for having a bar for myself to feel sufficiently like a woman, but it was, well, it was an immense relief.
And maybe thinking back on it, there shouldn’t have been that shame there. External validation is relieving because being certain of yourself, knowing who you are every fucking day, from dawn to dusk, in your dreams where you can’t be guarded, in the face of society who says you can’t actually be that way? Well, that’s a Sisyphean task. Having someone else help shoulder the burden for just a little bit? How could that be anything but relieving. I mean, just definitionally, right?
And here’s the thing, I think the whole “you don’t have to be perfect and strong every day” is true here too (I stand by my critique of Sartre and the BoJack writers room). I wish someone had told me that when I was busy beating myself up for treating someone’s interest in me as validation of my identity. Let me be that for you though, dear reader. It’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to not have gas in the tank, and it’s okay to want someone else to affirm your identity.
Heaven fucking forbid someone want to be seen, right? Needing that doesn’t make you less anything. Not having the energy to assert who you are for the 57th time in a goddamned week doesn’t make what you keep having to reveal and reinforce any less true. Where identity is concerned, you are what you believe yourself to be, and you don’t have to think you’re less of anything if the arm holding the bullhorn gets tired from time to time, alright?