Out, Proud, & Loved (But Lonely)
Two days ago — on the eve of my mom’s birthday — I had a very long conversation with her. I was only recently able to have my phone turned back on and wanted to call and talk since it had been so long. It was a weird conversation, but one that reminded me of just how like my parents I am. The things I say, the way I phrase things, those quirks that tend to throw other people off go unnoticed to them. They get me because I am a product of them. I need to be reminded of that from time to time.
We discussed relationships and how my parents’ is one I use as a model for how people should interact with each other. They have an effortless marriage, carrying on their own lives, having their own friends, but wanting to share those lives with one another at the end of the day. They are inspirational.
Somehow, the conversation turned to me. Mom has never verbalized her acceptance of me being gay. I suspected that she had moved on and was less upset about it, but didn’t have anything to base that on. I do now. She choked herself up, assuring me that she understands me and accepts me. She gave a few examples of how this had caused her some pain — not because she didn’t accept it, but because she does and realizes how others view gay people, specifically in her church group.
I certainly wouldn’t have wished for my mom to know that part of it, but I am comforted that she is more aware of what life can be like for me. She said she loves my life because it is real… and that is true. I can be very real sometimes. I’ve grown so numb to the snickers and looks of disgust that I hardly notice them anymore. Honestly, they aren’t even that common, but it doesn’t phase me when those things do happen.
Finally, she let me know that I can share that part of my life with her. I think I really needed permission for that. Not that I have a love life to share, but now that I know that I can tell my family and they will be supportive rather than dismissive, I think my search might get easier. I guess I have been scared of dating, but I haven’t really been willing to admit it. Now what? 28 is a tough year to get out there. It is hard to find someone when I am so clueless about how to talk to guys or how to date… or any of it. I need help!
Something is in the air this year. My life is morphing and I really like where it is going. I really hope that good things result. I know my financial life will catch up eventually, so I have decided to stop worrying so much about it. Life seems pretty good right now.

Image: Franz Marc, “Füchse” (ca.1913)
Featured Image Art: photo of Brian









Okay, so it wasn’t a cabinet exactly. I had grown to love the duplex and the many oddities that made it special. It had started to feel like home for me. The pops and creaks the place would make as it warmed from the sun had become familiar. The troops of insects and spiders that would find a way in had started to be less of an annoyance than they once were. The sound of the water under the house — like sitting atop the beach with waves moving back and forth — was soothing. I had even grown fond of the huge fireplace, sitting awkwardly in the corner. It took up too much space and was unusable. I had decided to place foam skulls in it for Halloween and string lights in the top so they would be slightly lit up.

This is my last day in the duplex. I intend to be moved out by the end of the day today — both me and the cats. I am quite over this moving experience. It is second only to moving to Alaska for the worst of my life. It has felt rushed and cursed the entire time. Even now, many of my things sit untouched in the soon to be vacant house. It hardly seems like I have enough time to move. In truth, I had planned to continue tomorrow morning, as this is my regularly scheduled weekend off. The manager who writes the schedule, in her infinite pregnant “wisdom” decided that she would schedule me anyway. Don’t worry, I have been making her feel bad about it since I saw the schedule. I should have just told her that I cannot work. This is too important.







When I think about my friends, I tend to define them in the way episodes of the show Friends were titled. There is the one who reads too much, the one who works too much, the one who is handy, the one who is always kidding, the one I kissed, the one who moved, the one who ran, the one who made me come out when it wasn’t time, the one who writes, & the one who is always growing up. There are others and they are always defined in this way to me. Then there is me. For whatever reason, I am always the one who cannot have a bad day. I don’t like that about myself most of the time, but I am usually able to just accept it and move on.



I am currently reading The Mother Tongue by Bill Bryson. I have read it a number of times before… Bill Bryson is such an excellent writer. This time around, the book seems to have rekindled my love of words (I had hardly noticed my interest had waned). It is almost enough to make me continue my education and get a real degree. Almost.





