who the hell am I?

My turn was coming up and though I’d been sorting through the files in my brain for however long it took to get to me, it seemed impossible to conjure up an answer, as if everything had been written in invisible ink and was useless to me without black light. The seventh graders on the cheer team sat together at lunch, in a circle at one of the round tables in the cafeteria, where suddenly everyone’s eyes were locked on me. Someone had had the idea to go around the table and have all of us share the name of the boy we liked. I knew I could lie, but creating the lie became more and more difficult considering I was the last person to be asked, so I couldn’t take the easy way out by naming one of the popular boys on the football team. They’d already been mentioned. So they asked me, “Emma, what about you, who do you like?” And I sat there feeling like a fool and said that I didn’t know, I didn’t really have a crush on anyone. That wouldn’t fly, so the girls started listing names of cute boys, swim team boys, less desirable football boys, soccer boys, boys who went on ski trips in the winter. They continued until the captain of the cheer team finally exclaimed that she knew who I’d look good with, what about Nick? All of the girls agreed, said he’s funny, he’s sweet, and I nodded, wide-eyed and dry-mouthed with a forced smile, silently begging God or whoever to ring the bell.

I didn’t understand why girls liked boys. At that time my most recent experience with one had been with Paul, a boy in my grade who liked to closely follow girls up the stairs, making it known that he was staring at their ass the entire time. He especially liked the girls in yoga pants, the cheerleaders or the softball players, the girls whose moms let them shop at Victoria’s Secret. When he tried with me, just once, I told him it wasn’t going to happen, nuh-uh, and stood still until he let out an exasperated laugh that reeked of slight defeat but a disappointedly unbruised ego, and walked ahead of me, smiling. My bra and underwear were from Justice. Everyone knew that he did this, had known for years, actually, but his father coached the football team so no one ever stopped him. But yeah, sure, boys could be nice, too. In the third grade I’d been asked out by a nice boy. I was caught off guard and felt nothing towards him, so I told him no, sorry, but he could pretend that we were dating, like tell his friends and stuff, if he wanted. He didn’t accept my offer, understandably, and later that year I nearly drowned at his pool party. Karma, maybe, but undeserved. 

Despite these experiences it took me until the beginning of 2024, just after my twenty-first birthday, to realize I’m a lesbian. The only issue with that was that I’d been out as bisexual since I was fifteen—I wrote a letter to my parents and everything—which allowed them to cling to the hope that one day they’d have grandchildren, even though I’d been saying for ages that I don’t want kids. The first person I told was my therapist, who didn’t seem at all surprised. She just smirked, looked at me funny and said she was happy for me. There was a sense of freedom that came with understanding myself more, a kind that made me want to rebel. I felt radicalized, or on the cusp of becoming so. I started acting gayer, which means that I stopped shaving my armpits all the time and never wear a bra. In a way, these changes provided me with a sense of autonomy, something I was desperate for, as I was terribly depressed and hated my job, life, and a few other things. I wrote a list but I lost it. I liked having a secret, something that was mine and that I had the power to share or not to share, but eventually I felt suffocated by it, by realizing that the freedom was quite restricted, so, hold on, was it really freedom at all?

After a mental breakdown that nearly put the final nail in the coffin, I moved back in with my parents, so I couldn’t spend all day naked anymore—which I’d loved doing and would recommend to anyone wanting to become more comfortable existing in their own body—but I also wasn’t paying rent. You win some, you lose some. The first few months, from July to October, were awful. After The Awful I found a new therapist and got medicated. The Prozac made me start to feel like a whole person, like my mind and body were connecting for the first time. Two months later with my developing sense of self and around $850—I’d taken out my retirement fund—I booked a trip to upstate New York. I’d read a book set there, heard that the place was pretty gay, and craved reinventing myself, so what the hell, why not go? I spent two nights there and felt as if I’d been baptized and possibly reborn, but the religion wasn’t really a religion at all, it was community. It was real freedom. 

Leaving was like pulling teeth. Blood and spit and tears dripped down my chin the entire drive home and I didn’t have any tissues, so I sat there and wallowed in it, let it drip onto my jeans. I only made two wrong turns. When I got back home, I cried on and off for days until my mother asked me what was wrong. Standing in the kitchen and cooking pasta for lunch, I told her I really liked the person I became on my trip, that I didn’t know I could feel like I did, so full of possibilities. I felt shiny and new and accepted. Getting straight to the point, she said, “So what are you telling me, that you’re gay?” With my head down I mindlessly stirred the boiling water and told her yeah, I guess I am, and thought to myself that she should’ve figured as such based on my continuous need to watch Killing Eve just one more time. She seemed slightly offended that I hadn’t told her sooner and said I should talk to my therapist, that I should tell her I want to feel the way I felt in New York at home, too, and that she supposed she wasn’t getting grandchildren. 

A few weeks later, I got a job as a cleaning lady—I’d quit my old job right before I moved back home (remember the mental breakdown)—and noticed a change in my style and how I carried myself. I had a reason to work. I wanted to make money and get the fuck out of dodge, to go back to New York. At first when I was cleaning I imagined it was shame that I was scrubbing off countertops and dusting from chandeliers. I’d then vacuum it all up and toss it in the trash. When I worked alone I could even stomp on the bag a bit or throw it at the ground repeatedly. I started reading again and committed to writing (almost) every day. Sometimes it’s as though I’m on a high. Sometimes I am high. I could just be riding that now, but I don’t think so. I feel permanently changed and I’ve never been less suicidal in my life. In three weeks I’ll be driving to New York again, and with each passing day I become more eager to be the person I am when I am there.

I’m making a conscious effort to be unashamed of my existence. I dress how I like to and manspread on the loveseat at therapy. I wear lipstick and a bare face, I grew out my bangs. I picked up painting. I write about myself and don’t feel sick when I do so, but I’m done for now, I have a book to read and a trip to plan for. I have a person to be.