Why is it that everyone else seems to understand my sexuality before I do? Sure, there were soft rustlings in the dark that made me pause and wonder ... am I ...? But it wasn't I who put it all together.
A year before I came out to myself and then the world as bisexual, my husband told me outright that I am bi. Then, this past year, he and others have joked -- and then said not so jokingly -- that maybe I'm a lesbian. But how could that be, I asked, when I obviously used to like boys. A lot. Sure, my desire for men and penises had dwindled significantly, but that should come back after I get through my second adolescence now that I've discovered women... Right?
Or maybe not. Or maybe it will eventually. Or maybe...
I don't know. I don't know anything, really.
I love my husband. He is the best man I have ever known. He is the only man I've ever allowed into my body. He's my best friend. I love the life we have built together. I love our baby cat more than I knew I could ever love an animal. He's ours together. And I love all the things N and I share. I love playing games together, both on the computer and board games and with miniatures we have painted ourselves. I love our adventures and trips together, from St. Augustine to watching phenomenal Shakespearean plays together in Virginia. We "get" each other like no one else does. No one has ever loved me as much as he loves me. So intensely. So purely. And I wonder if anyone else could love me like he does.
And I love him too.
But he is not a woman.
I'm terrified. I don't want to lose everything I love and have and cherish. But a part of me yearns for more. Part of me is shutting off. A big part. It's so hard to understand. I used to love to be intimate with men. With N, specifically. We have had hundreds of steamy and creative escapades, and I thoroughly enjoyed every moment of them.
For the first few years.
Then something clicked on while something else clicked off. I don't understand why. We have been struggling with that for the past two years. Desire ebbs and flows, but it's never like it used to be. Nothing like those early days of bliss.
And it makes me feel so guilty.
I want to care for him in that way. I want to be the wife I think he deserves. He's such a good man and still my best friend.
I know I can't control it or help it. This is who I am. But what is so hard to explain to him -- never mind myself -- is how to reconcile who I am with who I was. Both are me. Both are truths. I don't expect the contradictions to make sense to anyone else because they don't even make sense to me. I only find comfort in some of my lesbian friends telling me that they've been there, too.
We've had this discussion -- this argument -- more and more often this past year. Twice I left -- even if just for the day -- and each time I decided that we were done. But then I came home. And he was there. And he was still my best friend. And I did still love him. So, each time, we decided to keep going. Keep trying. Even though a little part of me shouted, "No!"
Until one day when everything snapped. And it's different this time.
Monday, Dec. 6, 2010
It's been a month, now, since I've moved out, squatting at T's apartment since she is the only one of my friends with an extra bedroom for me. (Yes, we're friends now as well as exes.) As sad as it is when little thoughts sneak up on me -- dividing and packing away our Christmas ornaments, especially the wedding ones; really never wearing my wedding rings again; the cute little things he would do -- I know I can't go back. Because for as difficult as this decision has been, when I honestly think about going back, too many voices in my head scream. Because for as stressful and scary and sad as this month has been, in the end, I'm happy. I'm free. I'm ... a lesbian.
