It’s hard enough coming out to friends — or even to yourself. Tonight my friend (“The lesbian friend“) came out to her parents, the final pieces to her puzzle.
She’s finally at home in her own house now. I went over later tonight and she looked a little different, in a good way. She was a little bit happier, a little bit freer, a lot more comfortable. Isn’t that kind of insane — to feel unsafe in the place you’ve lived for years?
Stuffing journal entries under beds or deep into drawers and carefully deleting a browser’s history is doable for a while. For a while. But it gets to a point where it’s too much, it’s been too long. I haven’t reached that point yet, and I’m really just content with where I’m at now. This isn’t about me. This is about her. She accepted that she wasn’t happy living a different life at home and worked up the courage to change that.
What’s best is that her parents guessed it as she tried to tell them. And they were relatively understanding and accepting. (You can’t expect rainbow fireworks or anything.) I’m just so excited that she’s in a good situation with her parents about this. They’re treating her perfectly normally and acting just the same around her. Not acting — being. In their house no one needs to act anymore, no one needs to pretend. There are no secrets to hide.