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When I was seven, I made my mother cry. She had placed her grandmother’s favorite vase up on the mantle and never ended a day without warning against playing in the living room. One morning, while messing around with a blanket, I broke it. The cloth sailed from behind me as I jumped from the couch. I stopped running to stare in horror as the crystal dipped and spun through the realm of slow motion on its way to meet the hardwood floor. She was at the neighbor’s and I stood, shaking in a silent fear, sobbing, gasping for air. It was only seconds before I couldn’t distinguish the tears from the shards of shattered memories littering the floor. I panicked. I can recall my seven-year-old mind shuffling through ways I could hide it, clean it up, or just run away. The clunk of her garden clogs on the front porch snapped the heavy air of disbelief as my shock quickly turned into shame. It was broken and I could do nothing but stare at the pieces. And she cried. Because of me.

I couldn’t exactly tell you why, but throughout my life I’ve felt this need to somehow compensate for my sexuality. As if existing this way comes with a debt I owe in tears and success. The best grades, the best style, the best college, the best job- all to appease my parents for reasons they’ve never known. And the worst part is that I know it’s all in my mind. I owe no more than anyone else and I shouldn’t feel that I do, and it’s even hypocritical of me to stand up so strongly for my beliefs and so weakly for myself. I don’t know why I’m inwardly ashamed of so much. Why I cherish honesty and lie so often.

I never wanted to fix myself with a label. I realized I was attracted to women in middle school, admitted it to myself my junior year of high school, yet I still have trouble correcting family friends inquiries about my boyfriends. I’ve firmly held to my belief that I’m a person first, a lesbian second. I’m a friend, professional, student, and yes, gay, if you’ve come to know me in the right sort of circumstances. It’s not like I have issues with being open about my life, I just never wanted to make that its only aspect. I won’t deny that my heart still races and the waves of nausea still come when I’m about to share my sexuality with someone new, and I suppose I’m hoping that passes with time and wisdom, and that someday I’ll be strong enough to leave my doubts in the past. But I never could have that sort of confidence with my mother.

It was the weekend of Thanksgiving. I came back home with tales from the office, a massive turkey, and a conspicuous lack of man. I knew she would bring it up, and I wasn’t disappointed. I remember we started setting the table for dinner and had barely taken the plates from the cabinet before she asked about my love life.

“So Bree, how goes the great boyfriend search?” She always seems to name my problems, be they real or imagined.

“Well…I’ve really just been working on setting up at work.” Color rose in my cheeks. I was sick of this crap.

“Well don’t forget to take some time to establish your love life too, hun, there are dozens of guys who would just die to even have a date with you.”

“That’s fine, Mom, but I wouldn’t end up taking them up on that.”

There was a slight pause as she turned from stirring a pot on the stove.

“What…what do you mean?”

“I’m a lesbian, Mom.”

She stood there, just staring at me, as if I wasn’t even there anymore and the brutal truth was all that stood in my place. Blood pounded through my veins and I worried for an instant that I might faint. I was seven again, staring at the broken glass. I was afraid, ashamed, and trying desperately not to stoop to the level of begging for her forgiveness. She cried. Because of me.

I hate to think of what my story sounds like to those who are better able to communicate with their parents about sexuality. I was, and still am, just trying to stand my ground. All I want now is to be happy. To feel pure and loved and, most importantly, able to love. I never wanted to cause “a scene”. I mean, this entire quest for pride, beginning just after I admitted it to myself, was never supposed to restrict me- only liberate me and allow me to find peace with who I am. I don’t need their approval, but to say that I don’t want it would be extremely false. I continue to hope for a better understanding between my family and I, if only because I someday want children who will know and love their grandparents. I never wanted to upset that balance.

Later that evening after the table was cleared, I retired to my old bedroom and tried to lose myself in books, and I thought to myself how it’s funny how some things never change. There was a knock on the door.

“Bree?”

It was her.

“I was…I was wondering if we could talk a little.”

It’s funny how some things never change.

by Bree