Taking a Risk

I went home this weekend. Not home to my apartment, home to my parents’. I haven’t been back here since…well before the summer, so I’m long overdue for a visit. I love my parents dearly, but lately I’ve been having communication problems with them. It’s all my fault—I’ve been so busy with looking for and settling into my job, along with harboring a new secret about myself, that when I have time to call home, I’m not necessarily inclined to call home—for fear that I may spill beans that shouldn’t be spilt yet.

Ever since I discovered my femme side, I’ve had compulsive thoughts about coming out to my family and friends. I’ve held myself back so far, but only just. Telling friends is one thing, though; confessing to the Parental Units is a totally different labyrinth to navigate. All the way home, I worried over whether my parents will pick up on my slightly different demeanor—I had intended to remove most of the incriminating physical evidence, but by the time I’d gotten home, it was 1:30 AM, I was mentally drained from six hours of worry, and I just walked in, bags, jewelry and all. Within two minutes of crossing my parent’s threshold, they were asking very pointed questions about my jewelry and hair. The entire drive home, I vacillated between simple dread, composing coming out scenarios in my head, and just crying. It was a rough drive home, to say the least.

I took a calculated risk in coming home. And now I’m here. My parents have already seen most of my new accoutrements, so I’m not going to bother not wearing them unless somebody makes a big deal about it. I just want to act like this is a normal home visit. I have to keep in mind that my parents do love me, and are happy to see me, even if they don’t understand these changes they see in me. That won’t keep me from worrying about coming out, though.

Here’s to hoping, my friends, that regardless of what happens this weekend, I leave home relatively happy.

Risk taking