Exhausted

 You ask me for my coming out story. “Which one,” I respond. 

Your eyebrows furrow, pink flushes to your cheeks. Your confusion reads as easily as a billboard. I wait in the silence. I watch you squirm. I watch as you panic, rethinking what you just asked. 

I imagine your inner dialogue is somewhere along the train of ‘is asking someone for their coming out story no longer acceptable? What does she mean, which one? Is there a new term for coming out?’

I watch as you land at the question that all inevitably do, “what do you mean? Your coming out story. How old were you? How did your family respond?”

I know it is not your fault. You’re straight. You’ve never had to come out. You’ve been spoon-fed a narrative that a person comes out once, and then magically, everyone knows their queerness. A magical rainbow emerges on my forehead, and now I am out. 

“Well, today,” I respond, “I came out to my coworker when he asked about my husband. Then I came out to the grocery store worker when she referred to my wife as my friend. Then I came out to a waitress when she misgendered my wife, and now I’m coming out to you. Which story do you want?”

You shake your head. That is not what you meant and I know it. I know your intentions were not malicious. I know you want the story of when I first told someone about my queerness, but it doesn’t stop there.

I come out every day. Some days I fear for my safety, and I choose not to come out. I’m straight passing and have that ability; my wife not so much.

I know it is not your fault. I shouldn’t leave you in this discomfort, fearing that you may have offended me, but I’m exhausted.

Exhausted of coming out. Exhausted from having to think about whether my identity will get me fired, assaulted, or killed. Exhausted of correcting strangers. Exhausted from answering overly personal questions about my sex life. I’m exhausted.

I know I should relieve you and just tell you the story you want to hear, but it’s nice to have a little power. It is nice to make you feel a slice of the discomfort I feel every day. To feel the fear that lies in not knowing how someone will respond. 

So, yes, I came out in college. My parents weren’t ecstatic—my siblings didn’t care. Eventually, my parents came around, and my dad walked me down the aisle. 

So, yes, according to you, that means I’m out, but if you were to ask me, I would just say I’m exhausted.