Celebrating the end of Pride month with a new piece about coming out and a reminder that it really does get better.
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What do I want to feed my imagination? Now that feels like a question worth spending time with.
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In the end, it’s a quality of being honest that is liberating. For so long, I wasn’t fully honest. I lied outright about some things, like smoking, and in a more subconscious way about deeper things, things that I didn’t have names for, things that were so big I was afraid to expose them.
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Take some time soon to write about anger. Set a timer for 10 minutes and make a fast and furious list (see what I did there?) of associations you have with anger. You could simply start with “anger = …” and go from there, returning to this equation if you get stuck.
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So I wrote and kept writing. I worked and loved and read books to myself and read books to my kids. I wrote about them, I wrote about showing up. I wrote about depression and the layers and the falling apart.
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That was a Wednesday. Four days later, I was telling my husband of nearly eleven years that I was gay. And yes, I was sure.
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