The Possibilities of Letting Go
I fell asleep with the words 'Letting Go' ringing in my head. I was tired so I didn't have much brain power to focus on them at the time. As luck would have it, I woke with the same words in my head, so 'letting go' it is this morning. Those words actually have a lot of meaning for me. I'm fond of saying 'it's what I do'. I'm frightfully good at it and, I believe, a much better person because of it. You see, after a childhood of being able to cling to, I've spent a good share of my adult life having to 'let go'.
Maybe that's how it's supposed to be. As kids we're safe, cared for, and oblivious. I, for one, am happy about that. Life was easy as a kid for me - I had parents who loved me and taught me to see and seek the best in myself; I lived in the same room from the time I was three until I left for grad school at twenty-three; I had friends that started kindergarten and graduated high school with me; I was smart enough and athletic enough to lead the middle of the pack. Life was essentially the same day-in-day-out, year-in-year-out. My family was predictable, settled, and ordinary. There was absolutely nothing to 'let go' of, except my best friend in elementary school who moved away in sixth grade (interestingly enough I just found her on Facebook this morning).
Then I became an adult and life got a little more difficult. The first thing I ever really had to let go of was my family. My parents divorced after my first year of grad school and everything I once knew disappeared. Everyone was happy except for me. I was the only one with anything invested in the family and I was devastated. I knew it was for the best; my parents, even in their humdrum ordinary-ness, were miserable. They didn't get along, never really had, not like I thought parents should anyway. Divorce was the best bet for all involved, except for me. Fortunately, I knew that clinging to something that was dead and gone would have been incredibly unhealthy. I let go. It's been neither hard, nor easy. I love both of my parents, but I refuse to choose between them. This means that I spend holidays alone or with friends and spend one week of vacation with my mom and one week with my dad. I would love to be geographically closer to both of them, however, given that one lives in California and one in Minnesota, that's impossible. I miss them and what used to be, but everyone is happier now. I had to let go all those years ago. My sanity and my happiness depended on it.
Fast forward a few years later. I was on the verge of a major realization. I'd spent my life being different. I never really fit anywhere. I seldom dated and felt asexual, weird. I 'manufactured' crushes on boys to fit in and occasionally dated to try my hand at normal. Nothing worked. At a certain point, I concluded that it was just me. I was different and different was ok. Then I fell in with a group of fledgling lesbians while working at a YMCA in Michigan. Life changed for me. Even though I still insisted I was straight (I honestly had never even thought I might be gay), I was more like them than anyone I had ever met. It was spooky, but cool all at the same time. Finally I fit in. I was still different, but a lot closer to 'normal' that I'd ever been before. Slowly I started to entertain the options. I had my first crush on a girl. After that, I had another. This time on a straight woman I worked with. I didn't act on any of these crushes, but I knew. There was no question, I was a lesbian. It wasn't a shocking conclusion; something in me knew that this was who I'd always been. I didn't 'come out' right away. I didn't want to. All my lesbian friends kept telling me I was 'GAY' and I never in my life wanted to be what people thought I was. I resisted. I wasn't scared to tell anyone, per se. I assumed my parents and my friends would still love me and I was right (and very lucky). Finally one day I decided to let go. I had been holding onto something that wasn't real - not wanting to be who people thought I was. Yes, I got a couple very frustrating 'I told you so's', but in the end it was freeing.
Fast forward a few more years. Once I came out in Michigan, I didn't hide any more. If anyone asked, I told. The only time I got a little nervous was when I was trying to join the Navy. In the end, though, I decided to let go of my dream of being in the Navy. I knew I had to be true to myself. I would never hide who I was ever again. Then I moved to East Texas. Now, I'd lived in the Northern Bible belt for many years, but it was nothing compared to what I faced in the South. While people in the North maintained a smidge of political correctness, people in the South said exactly what they felt. I heard the term 'colored' used for the first time and listened to people refer to gays and lesbians as 'fucking fags' and 'fucking dykes'. I decided that the closet might be a wee bit safer for the time being and I hid. I called exes and partners by men's names and denied all connection to the gay world. I told close friends, but I was far from out. Then I got a pretty girlfriend. Never underestimate the advantage of beauty when trying to open minds. I slowly stuck one foot out of the closet, then another. I emerged cautious and knew my safety was tenuous at best. I was far from confident and would still only discuss my sexuality with certain people. It was my secret and I felt I had the right to tell who I wanted when I wanted. In any case, it was a start.
Fast forward a few years later. I was out enough and happy. I didn't shout my sexuality from the roof-tops but most people knew where I stood on the issue. I hung with a straight crowd and my friends loved me for who I was. None of them cared whether I was gay or straight. I was Stacee and their friend. That was good enough. Then I met Kendra. I was her first openly gay friend and she was PROUD of that fact. She was also proud of me and my strength and my courage. She thought I was an amazing person and the fact that I lived honestly and 'out' in East Texas only added to her amazement. Truth is a tough commodity in a place like East Texas. Conformity is the norm and I quietly refused to conform. Kendra loved this about me. She wanted me to share my Truth with others.
With her gentle guidance, I shed the last of my fears. One night at a happy hour, I told the same old 'story' about how I came to be a Yankee living in Texarkana, USA - I got tired of the cold in Michigan and wanted to be warm. Kendra slugged my leg under the table and said loudly, 'Tell the REAL story, Stacee'. I looked at her and I let go. I turned to the guy who had asked and said simply, 'I followed a girl. We broke up and I stayed'. In that moment, I was finally free. I'd spoken my Truth to a complete stranger for the first time. He didn't flinch or call me names. It was extraordinary. I was standing.
I continued to stand in East Texas for a few more years. As I quietly and matter of factly railed against the Establishment (my mere presence was usually enough to incite opposition), I endured verbal barbs, hard stares, and the occasional scuffle. I never waved a rainbow flag or staged a demonstration. To me, my sexuality has always been a very small part of me. I like girls. Period. It doesn't make me better or worse than anyone. According to popular East Texas ignorant wisdom, this is not the case. I am the sum total of my sexuality which makes me either the Anti-Christ, one of his disciples, or at the very least destined for Hell. I am thankful to all who 'loved me' (mostly because Jesus told them they should, I think) and prayed for me. I'm not sure the content of those prayers, but I'm certain they didn't hurt.
I owe everything I am to the good folks of Texarkana. Without them, I doubt I would be who I am today. And it all started by letting go - letting go of who I didn't think they wanted me to be; letting go of my fears; letting go of the lies. When I finally did all that, I opened myself up to possibilities I'd never imagined. I gained confidence and became more vocal about more than my sexuality. I stopped hiding my beliefs and started down a path of authenticity. You see, it wasn't just my sexuality that made me different. My open mind and odd (non-Christian) spiritual beliefs also set me apart. Sure I was hated, but I found that many people liked me for my honesty, my truth, and my courage. I found that I liked me for the same reasons. Out of the doldrums of an ordinary, humdrum childhood, I emerged in my late thirties strong, defiant, and extraordinary. And all I had to do was let go. Amazing.
Maybe that's how it's supposed to be. As kids we're safe, cared for, and oblivious. I, for one, am happy about that. Life was easy as a kid for me - I had parents who loved me and taught me to see and seek the best in myself; I lived in the same room from the time I was three until I left for grad school at twenty-three; I had friends that started kindergarten and graduated high school with me; I was smart enough and athletic enough to lead the middle of the pack. Life was essentially the same day-in-day-out, year-in-year-out. My family was predictable, settled, and ordinary. There was absolutely nothing to 'let go' of, except my best friend in elementary school who moved away in sixth grade (interestingly enough I just found her on Facebook this morning).
Then I became an adult and life got a little more difficult. The first thing I ever really had to let go of was my family. My parents divorced after my first year of grad school and everything I once knew disappeared. Everyone was happy except for me. I was the only one with anything invested in the family and I was devastated. I knew it was for the best; my parents, even in their humdrum ordinary-ness, were miserable. They didn't get along, never really had, not like I thought parents should anyway. Divorce was the best bet for all involved, except for me. Fortunately, I knew that clinging to something that was dead and gone would have been incredibly unhealthy. I let go. It's been neither hard, nor easy. I love both of my parents, but I refuse to choose between them. This means that I spend holidays alone or with friends and spend one week of vacation with my mom and one week with my dad. I would love to be geographically closer to both of them, however, given that one lives in California and one in Minnesota, that's impossible. I miss them and what used to be, but everyone is happier now. I had to let go all those years ago. My sanity and my happiness depended on it.
Fast forward a few years later. I was on the verge of a major realization. I'd spent my life being different. I never really fit anywhere. I seldom dated and felt asexual, weird. I 'manufactured' crushes on boys to fit in and occasionally dated to try my hand at normal. Nothing worked. At a certain point, I concluded that it was just me. I was different and different was ok. Then I fell in with a group of fledgling lesbians while working at a YMCA in Michigan. Life changed for me. Even though I still insisted I was straight (I honestly had never even thought I might be gay), I was more like them than anyone I had ever met. It was spooky, but cool all at the same time. Finally I fit in. I was still different, but a lot closer to 'normal' that I'd ever been before. Slowly I started to entertain the options. I had my first crush on a girl. After that, I had another. This time on a straight woman I worked with. I didn't act on any of these crushes, but I knew. There was no question, I was a lesbian. It wasn't a shocking conclusion; something in me knew that this was who I'd always been. I didn't 'come out' right away. I didn't want to. All my lesbian friends kept telling me I was 'GAY' and I never in my life wanted to be what people thought I was. I resisted. I wasn't scared to tell anyone, per se. I assumed my parents and my friends would still love me and I was right (and very lucky). Finally one day I decided to let go. I had been holding onto something that wasn't real - not wanting to be who people thought I was. Yes, I got a couple very frustrating 'I told you so's', but in the end it was freeing.
Fast forward a few more years. Once I came out in Michigan, I didn't hide any more. If anyone asked, I told. The only time I got a little nervous was when I was trying to join the Navy. In the end, though, I decided to let go of my dream of being in the Navy. I knew I had to be true to myself. I would never hide who I was ever again. Then I moved to East Texas. Now, I'd lived in the Northern Bible belt for many years, but it was nothing compared to what I faced in the South. While people in the North maintained a smidge of political correctness, people in the South said exactly what they felt. I heard the term 'colored' used for the first time and listened to people refer to gays and lesbians as 'fucking fags' and 'fucking dykes'. I decided that the closet might be a wee bit safer for the time being and I hid. I called exes and partners by men's names and denied all connection to the gay world. I told close friends, but I was far from out. Then I got a pretty girlfriend. Never underestimate the advantage of beauty when trying to open minds. I slowly stuck one foot out of the closet, then another. I emerged cautious and knew my safety was tenuous at best. I was far from confident and would still only discuss my sexuality with certain people. It was my secret and I felt I had the right to tell who I wanted when I wanted. In any case, it was a start.
Fast forward a few years later. I was out enough and happy. I didn't shout my sexuality from the roof-tops but most people knew where I stood on the issue. I hung with a straight crowd and my friends loved me for who I was. None of them cared whether I was gay or straight. I was Stacee and their friend. That was good enough. Then I met Kendra. I was her first openly gay friend and she was PROUD of that fact. She was also proud of me and my strength and my courage. She thought I was an amazing person and the fact that I lived honestly and 'out' in East Texas only added to her amazement. Truth is a tough commodity in a place like East Texas. Conformity is the norm and I quietly refused to conform. Kendra loved this about me. She wanted me to share my Truth with others.
With her gentle guidance, I shed the last of my fears. One night at a happy hour, I told the same old 'story' about how I came to be a Yankee living in Texarkana, USA - I got tired of the cold in Michigan and wanted to be warm. Kendra slugged my leg under the table and said loudly, 'Tell the REAL story, Stacee'. I looked at her and I let go. I turned to the guy who had asked and said simply, 'I followed a girl. We broke up and I stayed'. In that moment, I was finally free. I'd spoken my Truth to a complete stranger for the first time. He didn't flinch or call me names. It was extraordinary. I was standing.
I continued to stand in East Texas for a few more years. As I quietly and matter of factly railed against the Establishment (my mere presence was usually enough to incite opposition), I endured verbal barbs, hard stares, and the occasional scuffle. I never waved a rainbow flag or staged a demonstration. To me, my sexuality has always been a very small part of me. I like girls. Period. It doesn't make me better or worse than anyone. According to popular East Texas ignorant wisdom, this is not the case. I am the sum total of my sexuality which makes me either the Anti-Christ, one of his disciples, or at the very least destined for Hell. I am thankful to all who 'loved me' (mostly because Jesus told them they should, I think) and prayed for me. I'm not sure the content of those prayers, but I'm certain they didn't hurt.
I owe everything I am to the good folks of Texarkana. Without them, I doubt I would be who I am today. And it all started by letting go - letting go of who I didn't think they wanted me to be; letting go of my fears; letting go of the lies. When I finally did all that, I opened myself up to possibilities I'd never imagined. I gained confidence and became more vocal about more than my sexuality. I stopped hiding my beliefs and started down a path of authenticity. You see, it wasn't just my sexuality that made me different. My open mind and odd (non-Christian) spiritual beliefs also set me apart. Sure I was hated, but I found that many people liked me for my honesty, my truth, and my courage. I found that I liked me for the same reasons. Out of the doldrums of an ordinary, humdrum childhood, I emerged in my late thirties strong, defiant, and extraordinary. And all I had to do was let go. Amazing.
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