It’s Just One Coming Out Story After Another

It’s Just One Coming Out Story After Another

(Misadventures of the Mind)

Paul N. Dion - January 2014

(PROLOGUE)

When the skies turn to grey

And all the light is far away

When a cool visitor warns

The daylight will wane

And maybe the rain

Will cry feeling forlorn 
~by Paul N. Dion, from the song Down the Frozen River to the Sea
featured on the CD entitled Tell Me Where You've Been

There came a time in 1992 in which I “came out of the closet” and began a difficult transition from living a closeted life to living as an openly gay man. I used quotes around “came out of the closet” because I don’t know when that phrase began to be used, who coined the phrase, or why we need a description of a process for which, in an ideal world, there would be no need. It reminds me of the problem I have with the word atheist. We have a name for people who “don’t believe in God,” yet we don’t have a name for people who don’t believe in astrology… gravity… devil dogs…

Note to reader: this story contains personal information and observations from my point of view. The content mentions others such as my children, my ex-wife, friends, husband and many other people that I knew 20 odd years ago. No one is mentioned by name, at least not anyone of any significance to me. No personal information about others is included for which advance permission would have been appropriate. However, the story contains facts and describes situations and events that may or may not be known to the reader or be the same as what the reader remembers. It is an honest retelling of events and is unabashed in content. I have tried to keep the timeline accurate but there are sure to be a few inevitable discrepancies or some overlapping of the sequence of particular events.

(Part One)

Up, Up and Away, in my Beautiful, my Beautiful Balloon.

~by Jimmy Web from the song Up, Up and Away recorded by the 5th Dimension

The late eighties and early nineties were very significant years in my life. It was during those years that I experienced a major manic episode, an episode that would (ten years later) be identified as the defining event necessary to accompany years of untreated depression (unless you count self-medicating with vodka) to be given the diagnosis of a Bipolar Type II Disorder (There's some question about whether I have a Bipolar Type I or Type II disorder. I voted for Type II)

The high side of the disorder felt good. Actually, it felt great. I was very energized and active and began to enjoy things that I would NEVER have considered doing before, which is a classic symptom of a bipolar condition.

One day, for no reason that I can now identify, I thought it would be a good idea to ride a bicycle (presumably for exercise). My brother had an English Racer and I borrowed it and I rode it from my house in S. Grafton to the town of Rockdale. It was a 2.5 mile ride, a round trip bike ride of approximately 5 miles. It was fairly easy to ride to Rockdale but more difficult to ride back.

On the way back, a bicyclist passed me by, at what seemed a fast pace. He was wearing bicycling clothing and was riding a mountain bike, a bicycle that looked more appropriate on the road than the English Racer.

A week or so later, having several jaunts to Rockdale under my belt, I went to a Trek Bicycle shop near my house and bought a mountain bike, helmet, water bottle, speedometer, and riding gloves. This was a $450.00 purchase, which was more than 2 weeks wages for me at that time; the purchase was a bad financial decision.

I think it’s important to back up and present the sequence of events in the best order I can relay. So, before we continue discussing the bicycle and subsequent activities, let me give you an understanding of my financial situation at that time. The purchase of the bicycle was a very significant identifiable event but there was already a pattern of fiscal irresponsibly in place.

In the late eighties, I had some credit card debt, perhaps not much more or less than many people at that time. As time went by, the debt increased. By the early nineties, I had amassed a large amount of credit card debt.

One method I used to manage the debt was to only pay the minimum due on any card. Another method was to apply for and get new credit cards to which I would transfer the balances of other cards. Also, sometimes in order to pay the minimum due on one card, I would borrow money from another. This juggling act was fairly easy to continue and at some point, the idea of repaying the debt was replaced with the business of simply treading water.

By 1992, I owed at least $40,000 which is around $64,000 in today’s dollars. To put this in perspective, it would have taken me twenty years of paying $948 per month at the (then) average rate of 17% interest to pay off the debt. In the end, the $64,000 dollars with interest would be a repayment of $225,300.

Since my average income at the time was about $950 per month, I think it would be safe to say I was financially irresponsible. Paying off the debt was quite literally impossible. The situation of incurring financial debt or making poor financial decisions is also a fairly common symptom of a Bipolar Disorder. In fact, people often do far worse than I did in this regard. If the reader is wondering how this financial fiasco was ultimately resolved, it was settled by declaring bankruptcy.

Anyone that was paying attention would have noticed other frivolous spending habits that included buying a $2000 camcorder and installing 2 extra phone lines to accommodate the BBS system ^[1] that I had created. The BBS system was transferred to my brother’s home on a few occasions which necessitated forwarding the phone numbers to his area code (at additional cost).

There were other signs of manic behavior that the people in my life didn’t perceive as unusual or feel the need to bring to my attention. No serious questions about over-spending were made nor were explanations or inquiries for my behavior or sudden enthusiasms discussed. Of course, I don’t know what people were keeping to themselves; there may have been some unspoken concerns.

On one occasion, the family had taken a trip to Franconia Notch in New Hampshire to explore the Lost River Gorge and other tourist attractions of the area. For some reason, my brother Ron was unable to make the trip with us. He almost always accompanied us on outings (and spent practically every weekend at our house). But in this case, he missed the trip.

I decided that he shouldn’t miss out on having the experience, so the next day he and I took the three hour ride to Franconia Notch. We duplicated the family trip and then immediately drove back home (all in one day even though the family trip had included an overnight stay at a motel). 

There are other examples of changes in my behavior that I could provide, but at this point, we can get back to the bicycle and how it marked the beginning of a sequence of events that would alter my life profoundly. The process of change would take many years to finish.

(Part Two)

Sees the Sun Going Down and the Eyes in His Head
See the World Spinning ‘Round.

~by Lennon/McCartney from the song The Fool on the Hill recorded by The Beatles

At some point after I started riding the bicycle, a work-out gym opened only a mile or so from my house. I had been watching its progress and it finally opened sometime during the warm weather months. At that time, I was riding an average of 250 miles per week. And yes, if that sounds like a lot, it probably is. My bike rides sometimes started at my home in S. Grafton, MA and went as far as the Rhode Island state line in Millville, MA, where I always made it a point to cross the state line, even if only for a foot or two. At other times, I had taken the bike to my parent’s house in Worcester, MA near the W. Boylston, MA town line (I believe that was a 38-mile round trip).

One day, completely out of character, I stopped by the gym and went in and met the owner. I told him I was interested in weight lifting and he gave me a tour of the gym. I bought a month membership and soon started lifting weights. I didn’t know anything about the exercises or how to target certain muscle groups, but I slowly started to learn by reading, watching others, and asking for help. After a couple of months, I hired a personal trainer. After that, I didn’t have to think about what to do. I only had to as instructed. A few months after that, I started to see results and within six to eight months I saw significant changes in my appearance.

During this time, I noticed that there was a step aerobics class in a large room connected to the weight training area. I decided to give it a try. It was great. It was sort of like dancing, but only in the sense of moving rhythmically to the deep bass beat of the energizing music. I was hooked. I started attending classes every other day with weight training on the alternate days. Of course, I continued riding the bike too.

This degree of aerobic exercise, weight training, and having a healthy diet was very good for me physically. I was in the best shape I’d ever been or likely will ever be. I weighed 178 lbs. and none of it was fat. My focus was intense and unwavering.

After reaching this state of health and vitality, I was able to sustain the intense schedule for a little more than six months or so before things began to change. Slowly, I started to become aware of the excessive amount of time I was spending away from home. Depending on circumstances, I was often out on the bike instead of at home with the kids while my wife was at work. This began to weigh on my mind and I reduced the time I spent on fitness routines to some degree.

Soon thereafter, I started to become depressed although it was an internal state of mind that was not apparent to those around me. My job at the time required me to spend a lot of time out of the office visiting clients and attending meetings all over the region. As my mood continued to change, I became more and more depressed. I found myself crying in the car on the way to appointments and having to compose myself before going in to an appointment once I reached my destination. ^[2]  It became harder and harder to do my job and I changed my schedule from full time to part time, which cut my caseload by a little more than half. This reduction in work hours was very helpful but only to a point. Soon, there would come a time when I was no longer able to work.

(Part Three) 
To all your friends you're delirious, so consumed in all your doom. 

~by Linda Perry from the song Beautiful recorded by Christina Aguilera

In August of 1992, I turned 37 and my wife and kids went on vacation with my mother-in-law, sister-in-law and two nieces. This was not unusual and had pretty much become an annual event. As they left, I realized that things were going to change dramatically although I hadn’t consciously planned for this to be the time that I would come out. I never had a plan to come out.

An internal need to be honest with myself and others about my sexuality came to the forefront of my attention. With it came immediate and intense emotional turmoil and an acute state of panic and fear. But you can't un-ring a bell or get toothpaste back into the tube (so they say) so I was on a one-way trip into the unknown.

During the week I had on my own, I found myself alone and in crisis. There were two forces at work. I was devastated by the knowledge that I would soon be separating from my family. And I was also transitioning from mania to depression. And I was a falling hard and fast. I had not been able to sleep and had been up for 4 nights. When I would lay down on the bed, I experienced visual hallucinations, mostly swirling lights and colors. But it was unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. Because of the severity of my symptoms, I called a crisis line but when the phone was answered, I was unable to speak on the phone and had to hang up.

Along with the visual stimuli came strong feelings of sadness, despair and confusion that were accompanied by a psychological pain so intense it made me want to cry out as one might when subjected to a significant physical injury. But since this pain originated in my mind, there was no remedy, no first aid or other intervention that could be deployed. When I experienced this for the first time, it was overwhelming.

This would not be the last time I would have this experience. This, and other equally painful manifestations of my depressive illness were things that I would have to endure in the future. This was before being treated for a bipolar disorder which meant having ten years of unsuccessful treatment of my illness because the treatment was incomplete. It only addressed half of the problem. While the high of bipolar mania feels good, the low of depression sinks much further away from the middle ground. The depressive side of the bipolar disorder is devastating.

There were occasions during which I would cry and not be able to stop. I would cry until I would not be able to breath and that sense of not being able to inhale would induce panic. A few times, during one of these intense crying jags, my husband was about to call "someone," as he put it, because he didn't know how to help or if I would be able to calm down on my own.

At other times, I would experience prolonged bouts of generalized depression that would affect all aspects of my life, making daily routines difficult and sometimes simply impossible. As is often the case, I lost all interest in hobbies, activities, and things I previously enjoyed, and I had a diminished sense of satisfaction with life. My depression also affected my physical being. There were occasions where doing things like getting up and out of a car required a extraordinary amount of physical energy. 

Regrettably, my depression also had a component of anxiety. This would manifest itself in the form of irritability, distractability, moodiness and a sense of nervousness and undifferentiated fear. These unpleasant aspects of depression were expressed outwardly through negative emotions, much to the annoyance of the people around me.

(Part Four)

 Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are (Ding Dong the Witch is Dead).

~by Harold Arlen and E.Y. Harburg from the movie The Wizard of Oz

But now I will return to the matter of my coming out to my family when they returned from their vacation. 

Despite my trying week, I forged ahead and when my wife and kids returned from vacation, I told my wife that I was gay. Her immediate reaction was to say: “Then, we’ll have to get divorced.” I don’t think she really knew what to say at that time. I mean, what does one say in such a situation?

A short time later (on the same day), I told my kids that I was gay and I explained to them what that meant. My older daughter (age 14) seemed to understand fairly well and it made her sad. She cried. I don’t know what part of the conversation or situation made her cry, but it was a terrible experience for me. (I’m not being insensitive to how it made her feel, but this isn’t the forum for that discussion.)

My other daughter listened and paid attention to my explanation of what being gay was, but she didn’t have any particularly significant reaction. She was 11 years old at that time.

Over the course of the next few days, she told a friend that her father was gay. Her friend’s mother called me to tell me that my daughter was saying something “not nice” about me. She thought I should talk to her and tell her that she shouldn’t say what she was saying. My reply was to say that whatever my daughter had said was true. That didn’t go over so well and she reiterated that what was being said was “really, really bad.” I repeated myself and told her that whatever my daughter had said was true and then I hung up. I wasn’t in any way interested in this person’s opinion nor did I like the fact that she’d called at all. ^[3] 

I stayed at the house for about two more weeks as the gravity of the situation sunk in. Everyone had to adapt to the situation and nobody knew what to expect from day to day.

Having nowhere else to go, I eventually asked my parents if I could stay in their basement until I could find a place to live. Obviously, I had to come out to them before making this request. Their reactions were not what I expected. My mother said, “That’s the way I always thought it was,” and my father didn’t say anything but came over and gave me a big hug. I was not expecting his reaction at all.

At that time, my brother was living in the basement of my parent’s house because he was trying to save money to buy a house of his own. Therefore, the basement was full. I had to set up a cot in the utility section of the basement next to the water heater. It was not a pleasant environment at all. In this space I had to find room for everything I had, which was not much. I had my clothes, records, CD's and a box or two of miscellaneous personal belongings. I also had one piece of furniture; it was a tall dresser that had belonged to my grandfather.^[4] 

Soon after moving out of the house I came out to my coworkers and friends. In regard to my friends, it would only be a few weeks before they “drifted away.” I don’t know why I was so surprised, but I was. I was especially disappointed that my best friend (we’ll call him Joe) stopped calling and that our friendship slowly and without ceremony ended. He had been my best friend for over 20 years, and I find it almost impossible that he would not have had any idea whatsoever that I might be gay. After all, a lot of the guys that we hung around with were misogynistic pigs that didn’t have a lot of kind things to say about the women in their lives. I, on the other hand, didn’t have their unfortunate heterosexual chauvinistic characteristics. Lacking those qualities made me different and I was keenly aware of the fact that they knew I was different. In the back of my mind, was the fear that somehow they would know that I was gay. But nothing was ever said.

At work, I decided to tell Sheila (the good Sheila from the “The Cake Bully” short story that you may have read on my blog) and my supervisor. Telling these two people was all I needed to do. They both knew that I wasn’t telling them a secret. So slowly, and in a nonchalant and appropriate way, everyone at work learned of my coming out. No one treated me differently or made any particular comment about it unless the comment was supportive in some way. A few people may have inquired about something they were curious about.

At that time, there were only two men on the staff, me and another man named John. After I came out at work, he began referring to me as the office “token gay.” This he said in good humor. His reference to me as the office’s token gay was meant to be a sarcastic statement about labeling people. It was also a cynical reference to then fashionable practice of seeking out a gay person to be in one’s social circle or have as a coworker for the sole purpose of showing one’s political correctness (or worse even, a show of magnanimous tolerance).

My department was comprised of only two people. The two of us had worked together for about nine years so I thought I would tell her my news personally. I tried to tell her one afternoon as she was (as usual) scurrying about getting ready for an appointment. She was very flustered, and wasn’t in the mood to have a serious conversation with me. But I finally got a moment of her attention and told her that I was in a new relationship, but this time with a man. She immediately said “oh good, I was afraid you were trying to tell me something bad had happened.”

Only two weeks had gone by since coming out to family and friends before I came out at work. There wasn’t any particular reason to “officially” come out at work but the reason I did was to get from point A to point B quickly. Coming out to the office as a whole was easier than having to come out over and over again to each individual coworker as the need arose.

But before I get too far ahead in the story I want to mention that during those two weeks, my wife and I thought it would be good to talk to the minister and his wife of the Unitarian Universalist Church, a church that we had been attending for at least 11 years. We were very involved in the church, and were among the very first members of the small congregation to welcome the new minister and his wife when they came to town.

(Part Five)

I am what I am. I am my own special creation.

~by Jerry Herman from the song I Am what I Am featured in the musical La Cage Aux Folles

Our family had a very close relationship with the other members of the church and with the minister and his wife. At that time, my wife was very involved in religious education and I was a trustee on the Board of Trustees. We were involved in all of the church’s activities; we supported the church financially, and were one of the prominent families within the congregation.

We called the minister to ask if we could come over and talk about something, we didn’t elaborate and I think the minister’s wife was concerned about what it could be. When she learned that the news was about me coming out, she had a similar reaction to that of my coworker and said “oh, I was afraid you’re going to tell me there was something wrong with one of the kids.” So far so good…

However, what followed was very disappointing to me. The conversation started with some facts and dates and times. Some feelings were discussed and some practical concerns came up in conversation. At some point in the conversation I commented on the fact that both my wife and I were in human services and worked within the same circles of care providers. (This was before I came out at work.) I expressed a concern about being outed before I was ready to get into it with coworkers and the other service agencies that were involved. I wanted to deal with the situation myself and do so on my own schedule. As far as I could tell, my wife had no problem with this at all. I don’t think she had any particular opinion about it one way or the other.

But then the minister’s wife said: “If Paul’s going to be gay, he has to be gay all the way.” And although it may not be immediately apparent in those 14 words, what she was saying was that I had to come out then and now and to everyone at the same time. Apparently, my ability to do so, comfort in doing so, or the schedule I wished to follow in regard to telling people this personal information about myself didn’t matter to her. For some reason, she had a very specific idea about how such things were to be done.

While addressing the situation to the children, she told them that one of her daughters was gay. And although she suggested that she was “okay” with it, she also told them that when she first heard the news (here puts her hands together over her heart) she had thought to herself: “no,” “no, I don’t want it to be that way.” This was a confusing comment to me so I think it might have been confusing to the kids. In any case, I had already begun to disengage from the conversation right after the “gay all the way” comment was made.

In the process of my coming out, the family’s transition, and all of the events surrounding this intense period of time in my life, this comment was the most inappropriate, disappointing, confusing and insensitive comment I ever heard.

To say that I was disappointed is an understatement. It was confusing to try to understand why she said what she did. And, what the hell does it mean to be “gay all the way”? I couldn’t understand why she had an opinion about the circumstances under which I might come out at work, especially about how I might come out to people that were in no way connected to the family. I wondered if the subject had awoken unresolved feelings she had about her own daughter’s sexuality.

Soon, the conversation comes to a close. At which time, the minister makes his only comment during the entire time. It’s almost worse than his wife’s opinion about how and when I must come out. He makes a lightly humorous face and says “well, all we have to do now is decide who gets the church.” ^[5]

(Part Six)

Every Turn a Surprise, With New Horizons to Pursue.

~by Alan Menkin and Tim Rice from the song A Whole New World from the movie Aladdin

Two weeks after moving out of the house, I met a man named Allen. We dated for 2 weeks and then I moved in with him. Yes, two weeks. It was both exhilarating and surreal. The general consensus was that he was “rebound man” and that the relationship wouldn’t last. Generally speaking, people thought I was being foolhardy. However, at the time, it didn’t feel all that strange and it took very little time for the arrangement to feel perfectly normal. Defying the odds, the relationship stuck and is currently in its 21^st year.

This was the time when I first told my doctor that I was feeling depressed. He prescribed Amitriptyline. It gave me an unpleasant dry mouth and didn’t have much of an effect on my depression. This was my first foray to the pharmaceutical world of anti-depressants and drugs to treat a bipolar disorder. ^[6]

(Part Seven)

I've Seen Lonely Times When I Could Not Find a Friend.

~by James Taylor, from the song You've Got a Friend

It’s still 1992, and I am living in Shrewsbury with my new boyfriend. I was in the 11^th year of publishing a zine called The Brave New Tick. Out of many dozens of contributors only 6 or 7 sent letters of support or acknowledgement of the news published on the cover story of the February 1993 issue of The Brave New Tick, in which I formally came out to the readership. Within a few short months, I stopped getting submissions for the newsletter and most of the general correspondence stopped. I stopped publishing newsletter soon thereafter. Considering the underground nature of the zine culture, one might find it unlikely that so many alternative-minded people dropped me as a publisher because of the fact that I was gay. But that’s how it played out.

The end of publishing the Brave New Tick was a significant loss for me.

(Part Eight)

Help, I need somebody, Help, not just anybody,
Help, you know I need someone, Help.

~by Lennon/McCartney from the song Help featured in the movie Help by Richard Lester

During this time of change, stress, confusion and disappointments, I made an appointment with a therapist to help me cope with my situation. I actually saw two therapists at that time.

The first therapist was a woman but I don’t remember her name. As she introduced herself to me she let me know that her specialty was working with Lesbians. I don’t know why she told me that, but she did. She was a Lesbianic (yes, I just made that word up) therapist, whatever that is. After some routine intake questions, she asked me what it was that she could do for me. It was a fair question but hard to answer. I told her of the events I’d experienced over the preceding months.

After I finished giving her a synopsis of the recent events in my life, she asked a few questions about some of the things I had spoken about. We had a conversation of about 10 minutes or so, at which point she tells me that I am a “worrier.” I don’t know what we talked about after that, but I do know that the session soon ended after she gave her assessment and announced my diagnosis as a worrier.  What was that supposed to mean? Was I unnecessarily worrying about, oh I don’t know, my whole world turning upside down? Did she mean that I wasn’t supposed to be concerned about the consequences of coming out, moving out of the house, getting divorced and starting a new relationship, all in the course of less than a month? Just another day at the office I guess.

When I think of that session, I remember the feeling of disappointment (again).  As a person working in the human services profession, I had an expectation that a therapist would be, well, helpful. But that didn’t turn out to be the case. Although the experience was disappointing, I made another attempt at reaching out and I made an appointment with another therapist.

This time, the therapist was a man and he was not just a therapist, he was an actual psychiatrist. His name was Mark Christianson. I remember his name well. Again, there were the general intake questions to get through and then it was time for me to present my case. He got the whole story about coming out, the pain of moving out of the house and not having my daughters in my daily life, my loss of friends, having difficulties at work, entering a new relationship and I threw everything else that came to mind.

After listening intently, and without having any questions about what I had just told him, he said (these are his exact words): “it’s a good thing you had girls because if you had boys people would worry about what might have happened to them.” In case you haven’t grasped the meaning of that statement just yet, that’s OK. I didn’t understand what he meant either. Then, a few seconds later it hit me. He was telling me that if I had sons instead of daughters, they would have been at risk of being sexually abused (because I was gay). The manner in which he made this comment made it clear to me that he was including himself in the “gay men are likely to sexually abuse their sons” camp.  If you’re finding this hard to believe, I don’t blame you.

I don’t remember exactly what happened immediately after that. I do remember feeling somewhat numb and I felt a strange (undeserving) sense of embarrassment. I think I was actually on the edge of having a panic attack, and although I knew he was wrong, I couldn’t muster up the energy necessary to respond in any way. I was truly dumbfounded and all I could do was to get up and walk out.

Years later, on the advice of my primary care physician, I sought out a psychiatrist. My primary care physician had been treating me for depression for quite a few years with mixed results. He told me that my misadventures in being treated for depression may be indicating that I had something other than generalized depression. He suggested I see a psychiatrist to explore the possibility of having a Bipolar Disorder. As I sought out an appropriate psychiatrist, I had a few sessions with a man who worked at a mental health clinic near Elm Park in Worcester, MA. I saw him three times, during which “he prescribed” a few different medications, all of which had side effects that I wasn’t willing to endure. In the end, I stopped seeing him because the meds he prescribed didn’t help, he was a very crude man, and wasn’t a doctor or L.I.C.S.W. or other independent care provider. He had a master’s degree and some letters after his name that had no valid medical meaning. 

At some time after this, I finally met a doctor who was willing and able to help me. He had a private practice. His name was Dr.Cutler and I saw him for almost 7 years. During that time, we came up with a medication regimen that addressed all of my needs. It took a few years to identity and fine tune these drugs. I am still on the schedule he prescribed to this date. He closed his practice many months ago and moved to New York. It was difficult to say goodbye to him on our last session.

Today, I am still in the process of finding a doctor to replace Dr. Cutler. It's been a daunting task. both my health care plan and the agency they employ to deliver mental health care services have websites with lists of available doctors. The lists are impossibly long and the ability to filter out unwanted professions is limited. I have been trudging through these lists for several months. In a few weeks, I am meeting with a L.I.C.S.W. that has office hours right here in my home town at the Listening Center. I've never met with a social worker before so the idea of trying something new is appealing. If she doesn't meet my needs, she has indicated that she could make other referrals.

(Part Nine)
 Conclusion

 These Boots are Made For Walkin'.
~by Lee Hazelwood and recorded by Nancy Sinatra

In the range of what could have happened or what outcomes might have come to be, my coming out story may not have been rosy, but it wasn’t devastating either. Young people brave enough to come out to their families are still being unceremoniously kicked out of their homes. Gay marriage is becoming more acceptable to the majority of people and is becoming legal in more states. The momentum towards equal rights and acceptance of diversity continues but prejudice still exists. Religion remains the champion of hate, discrimination and divisiveness, yet the resolve of equal rights advocates pushes forward. Life is complicated.

When I was in my late thirties, being openly gay was novel and I was exposed to various circumstances in which sexuality somehow mattered. That is to say, in polite conversation with strangers I had to decide how and if I wanted to make reference to my boyfriend as people talked about their spouses or partners (who were understood to be heterosexual). Since my partner was man, I had to either fit that fact into the conversation or gloss over it using euphemisms. There are many circumstances in which your “significant other” (my least favorite title ever) comes up in conversation. Or perhaps it might be necessary to indicate your marital status on a form, application or other document. Sometimes applications and forms ask the actual name of your spouse. In such cases, it’s possible to lie, improvise or ignore the request for information. I’ve done all three.

In the 22 years that I have been out, I have never had anyone get up in my face and make a disparaging comment, make a disapproving face, or worse, confront or assault me in any way (except for one ignorant Indian doctor that I will discuss in the epilogue). This is quite amazing, actually. And back in the early nineties, it never occurred to me that there would come a day that same sex marriage would become legal. But it did.

Today, I am married (legally) to a man, I have children and grandchildren, a non-judgmental family and I live in a town in which being gay doesn’t seem to be of any interest to anyone. I don’t often think about being gay and I don’t have hesitations or have to be guarded when in casual conversation. If my husband comes up, he’s just that, a husband. Not a same-sex partner, not a lover, or <shudder> a significant other. No, he’s not something unusual and no longer something novel, but don’t tell him that <smile>.

The gay people of today have a much easier time of it than the people of the past. Therefore, I hope that in the future, people will live in a more accepting world where differences aren’t scrutinized as intensely as they are today.

Eventually, I hope that a person’s sexuality will only be seen as only one aspect of their individuality and not the defining attribute. In most circumstances, nobody cares if you’re a carnivore or a vegetarian, a lefty or a righty, or a Virgo or Capricorn. I’d like to see sexuality lose its current prominence in how a person is perceived (and perhaps judged) and relegated to the interesting and defining traits of what constitutes an individual but without prejudice. I think that would be nice.

(EPILOGUE)

Don't Fear the Reaper.

~by Donald "Buck Dharma" Roeser of Blue Oyster Cult

In 1993, I had an emergency appendectomy. As a result of the operation, and after I’d gone home from the hospital, I found that I was having some trouble; I kept passing out. As it turns out, I was having an adverse delayed reaction to the anesthesia. The problem wasn’t immediately apparent to me, and I was at home alone at the time. I called my boyfriend and my brother. They both accompanied me to the urgent care center in Worcester, MA.

As a female Indian doctor questioned me, I was still having trouble remaining lucid enough to respond as quickly as she wanted me to. I sensed her impatience and it frustrated me. When two EMT’s came into the room, she decided to cut to the chase and dispatch me tout suite by getting in my face and asking one final question, “Are you gay?” I was too out of it to protest her bedside manner and her inappropriate and dismissive, inappropriate final question, and I said “yes.”

That was all she needed to hear. She put on gloves, even though she hadn’t yet touched me and certainly wasn’t going to touch me now. As she did, she gave the EMT’s a look that said, “Here’s another one of those gay guys with AIDS, better put on gloves.” These guys didn’t need to touch me at all. They just picked up the edges of the sheet and transferred me to the ambulance-gurney thing and slid me into the back of the ambulance for my ride to the hospital. We didn’t have sex on the way to the ambulance and I didn’t bite them (which is not a good way to transmit HIV) or make them share my heroin needles with them, but they weren’t taking any chances. They also didn’t speak to me or even look at me during the ride. This is true.

That behavior was typical of the left-over hysteria from the mid-eighties that made people afraid to have any physical contact with a person that was only suspected of being in risk group for exposure to HIV infection. In their view, all people with HIV infection had AIDS and getting AIDS was easy to do (it isn’t). Imagine how my boyfriend and brother felt after being told I was going to the hospital by ambulance because I was suspected of having AIDS.

The rest of the story isn’t so much about coming out but it does wrap up the story about what I experienced after my appendectomy and the complications I encountered. 

Once at the hospital, I had to wait in a waiting room filled with people and screaming children. One of the symptoms I had been experiencing was a great sensitivity to sound. The loud noises at the urgent care center and siren of the ambulance had given me quite a headache. Now, I was in a room with far more noise and it was terrible. My condition was getting worse just by being at the hospital.

Eventually, I was seen by a doctor and he and another doctor decided I needed a spinal tap. I wasn’t too thrilled with this diagnosis. Well, it wasn’t really a diagnosis; it was a procedure to see if I had meningitis. I don’t know why they thought I might have that condition. Anyone who’s had a spinal tap knows it isn’t fun. I was positioned on my side with my knees drawn up to my chest and was told not to move, at all.

The result of the test showed blood in my spinal fluid and this wasn’t good news for me or the doctors. They began to tell me the possibilities of this situation, and none of them were good. I was still having trouble being alert and I didn’t fully understand everything they were saying, but I resigned myself to having a serious medical problem. Another doctor suggests that the spinal tap be repeated, and it is. This time, there’s no blood in the sample. I’m told that the first doctor “did it wrong.”

At this point, they don’t have any other ideas so they send me home with instructions for people to watch me. Things went well for a day or so and then I started to have the same problems, but to a lesser degree. I refused to go the hospital, and a few days later I started to feel better. 

^[1] A BBS (Bulletin Board System) was a precursor to the social networking that exploded when the technology allowing for the internet came to be. A BBS communicated with only one or a small handful of users at once. A user had to call a BBS using a phone line and the BBS would answer the call using an incredibly impossibly slow 300 baud mode. (A 300 baud modem would take something like 10-15 minutes to load just one page of a current day typical website, at best.) Once logged in, a user could upload or download files or software, play games, or otherwise interact with other members of the system. Traditionally, a BBS served its local area as people were likely to avoid toll calls.

^[2] During this time, I started to eat junk food, most of which was in the form of some kind of chocolate. Eating chocolate is thought to be common in people with depression, although there are those who think it helps and others who think it can actually cause depression. In my case, the depression came first.

^[3] This woman was my Cousin Walter’s wife. Her name was Chris. Although it isn’t really relative, she was very unattractive. In any case, she was very much a busybody and gossiper and that made her the perfect person in the extended family to find out that I was gay. It was now unnecessary for me to come out to anyone in my huge extended family.

^[3] I kept some loose change on the top of my dresser. One day, my mother took a quarter off of my dresser because I had made a toll call. I'm not sure how she knew I made a toll call. I was only there for 2 weeks so it seemed unlikely that she'd actually seen the phone bill. And even if she had, how did she know the toll call was made by me?

^[5] Although I had never had any heroes, mentors, or significant role models in my life, I was still susceptible to disappointment when someone in a potential position of support fell short of my expectations. Ministers are generally thought to be people who counsel and guide, and I was surprised at the complete lack of emotional support that we, as a family, received. The minister’s insensitivity, awkward humor, and cavalier attitude reinforced my opinion that role models, heroes, and mentors had not been nor were likely to ever be impactful people in my life.

^[6] My medicine cabinet, at some point, has contained all of these medications:

Amitriptyline (Elavil) 
Buproprion (Wellbutrin)*

Citalopram (Celexa)

Diazepam (Valium)

Escitalopram (Lexapro)

Fluoxetine (Prozac)

Lamotrigine (Lamictal)*

Lithium (Eskalith)

Lorazepam (Ativan)*

Mirtazapine (Remeron)

Quetiapine (Seroquel)*

Temazepam (Restoril)*

Topiramate (Topamax)

Venlafaxine (Effexor)

* Current Medication