Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty
According to my bond; nor more nor less.
The jewels of our father, with wash'd eyes
Cordelia leaves you: I know you what you are;
When I began the process of coming out I hadn’t realised this was something I would have to do over and over again. Coming out to myself and leaving the stage-lit, elaborately decorated Barbie dream-closet I’d made wasn’t easy. Leaving the husbear was worse. Maintaining a relationship as lovers had become impossible, and I’d so often dreamed of an escape from the constant black cloud of worry that had been hanging over my head for months. My love for him as my friend and companion never waned. Part of me still wishes that I could be the dutiful femme he needed to see him through the process of transitioning. I think it came to a point where him growing into the person he always was had to take priority over a relationship that had sprung up between two people who no longer existed.
Another surprise has been the sheer length of time it’s taken me to get to this point. It always seemed to me that being either gay or straight was something you simply knew from day one in black and white terms. I’m still unsure as to whether I’ve ‘jumped the fence’ from a predominantly straight bisexual to lesbian, or that I was gay all along and simply wandered off the path for a spell. Either way I can’t help but feel like in the school of sexual orientation, I’m sat at the special desk in remedial class with a circle of paper and a chubby crayon.