A Closet By Any Other Name is Still a Closet

When I read Borderlands/La Frontera, I was struck by the gravity of seeing things from someone else’s viewpoint.  The victory of “winning Texas” isn’t as glorious once you realize how it affected the “other” (in this case, the indigenous people). If we only see our history through our own eyes, without granting due empathy, we miss an entire story from the other perspective. 

            A year ago, my sister came out of the closet after about two months of marriage.  It shook my family to the core, and we are still feeling the shockwaves.  My sister, as much as we loved her still, became “the other”.  I thought that this would be a great opportunity to try to see things from her perspective, and do my best to give her a voice.  This is her story.

                       

            A Closet by Any Other Name is Still a Closet

I finally snapped.  I don’t know why, and now, it doesn’t matter why.   All that matters is that it happened.  I had been married sixty-eight days.  Laszlo woke next to me every morning, faithful and loving and kind.   I’m sorry, my love, my best friend, but this had to happen.  I never meant for things to go this far. 

            It had been weeks since I slept, or ate.  My already thin frame had lost another 12 pounds, and was wasting away.  I stayed awake at night, doing everything that I could to handle life moment by moment.  Making love was only possible when I was drunk, or high.  Even then, I winced in discomfort. 

            Megan was the first to know.  I wanted to tell Laszlo first, but she told me that, after all, she was still my sister, and I could tell her anything.  So I did.  She didn’t seem surprised.  She said she loved me, and then she cried. 

            I can’t even think about how Laszlo felt.  The moments with him were too intense.  In the weeks that followed, I would avoid him with every ounce of motivation that I could muster.  Everyone though that I hated him, or thought I was angry.  I don’t know why, but I was angry: angrier than I had ever been. 

            And then there was Lacey.  I saw her at work; she was my reason for going to work, my reason for leaving the house.  She was the reason for leaving my husband.   It was bound to happen sooner or later; my sexuality was a simmering pot that suddenly boiled over.  She was the perfect catalyst that I needed to push me over the edge.  And for each other, we would make the ultimate sacrifice: for her, I would leave my husband, and for me, she would always take the blame for the end my marriage. 

            I wish mom would stop crying.  I wish dad would stop crying.  I can’t stop them, though, and there is no way to undo what I have said.  There’s not really such thing as going back and forth on this. But nobody believes me.  I’m being treated like some delicate little thing, with everyone tiptoeing around me.  They are hoping that if they leave me alone, give me space, let me consider things, I’ll change my mind.  I don’t blame them, but that will never happen.  And now, what I need more than anything is to be taken seriously.

  Everyone around me is in pain and mourning, and I know that it is because of me.  It makes me want to turn on my heels and run.  And then, when I do run, they treat me like I’m insane and heartless, like some reckless child that’s about to blow away in the wind.  

            Truth be told, that’s exactly how I feel.  Everything around me is fucked,; everyone around me is falling to pieces.  And I hate to admit, but I finally feel like things are as they should be.  I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off of my chest, and I can breathe in a way that I never felt was possible.  I wish so much that I could perpetuate this feeling of lightness, and live as I have always wanted.  Reality, however, intervened.  I want nothing more than to run away, to be done with this whole nightmare, this whole marriage and my overbearing, insensitive family.  There is nothing on my mind but her.  She is all that I need, all that I see. 

            Laszlo is gone now.  New York City is a place for broken hearts, apparently.  And now, I am stuck.  Everything that was certain is now uncertain.  Little parts of being an adult are much harder on your own.  How do I get health insurance? Where will I live? What about my dog, my cat?  There are moments, with my family, when I can feel them all staring at me, and wishing I would take it back.  Wishing I would snap out of it and run back to him, say I was sorry and made a mistake and need to stay with him and want it to work and…

            But, that clearly isn’t the case.  This whole SCENE, this whole ORDEAL, took about two months to happen. December and January.  The Christmas tree never got decorated. Or watered, for that matter.  It just stood in the corner of the living room and died.  Actually, drinking Bloody Mary’s on Christmas morning was the only tradition that seemed to survive.  No one even seemed terribly concerned with the gifts; it was straight to the vodka.  Even Grandma got drunk. 

            The next few weeks were back to business: I had my entire life to figure out, Laszlo moved to New York for good, and I began the surprisingly long process of divorce and, later, trying to get my last name back.   SIMMONS. 

           

At one point, my dad looked up and asked, “How did I raise such screwballs?”

           

I don’t know the answer, but that quote is on the fridge.