I came out at thirteen as a lesbian. I was so convinced I only liked women as a result of severe familial trauma in my early years.
Deep, seeded trauma had kept me from being an honest person, and while I don’t use that as an excuse for my adult behavior, I understand that trauma motivated many unsavory behaviors in me until my early twenties at least. And I will have to work the rest of my life to forgive myself for the person I was when I was not honest with myself or anyone else. And that’s okay.
I allowed the fear of myself I harbored to be my sole motivator.
I feared loneliness so I remained in toxic interpersonal relationships for fear of being alone long enough to confront my own trauma.
I feared my parents, who were incapable of caring even for themselves as a result of their own never confronted traumas, thus providing me with a grocery-list of my own traumas to deal with.
I feared being adopted or thrust into the foster care system, like my siblings had been. If I was going to have to be housed, I’d rather not have had to meet new people doing it.
I feared disappointing others, mostly my religious grandparents.
I feared all men as a result of my mother’s propensity for self sabotage and men with abusive habits.
This fear has followed me for decades. I’m here because I’m not a lesbian and I don’t think I’ve formulated a coherent thought around that before now. I love love. I love all types of people. Despite what I’ve convinced myself, I am capable of great love and I am deserving of it, no matter who it’s from. I am so sorry to my younger self for forcing her into this box. I was convinced I had to pick a side to be taken seriously. I don’t. You don’t. It’s ridiculous. Be open to love in its many forms. My life has opened up greatly since I had this revelation.
I’m trying. And sometimes that’s all you can do.