For Hannah Gadsby

Photo by Jorge Vasconez on Unsplash

Sometimes I think I'm a whale.

There is a lot of me. I'm not talking about physically.

When I look through my old journal entries, to evaluate, to grow, to gauge, I see the phrase "I just feel like too much". I. Me. My being is too much.

So I hide myself. I keep myself under the surface and only come up for a breath when I'm absolutely desperate and even then it's just a gulp before I slide under again. A gulp of sentimentality from a movie or a book or a long conversation with a friend that reminds me of the small breaks and cracks that cover my heart. But I gulp and slip under again because I'm a whale and I don't belong up on the surface with light and air and big open space for all my feelings and thoughts. I belong deep below. Where it can all mix in the ocean of unconscious. 

Where did this come from? I'm not totally certain and yet in some ways I can never forget that this has always been with me. Sitting at the top of the stairs, watching my parents lecture my brother because he came home smelling like weed again and promising myself I would never make my mom cry like that. Or the times I was told I had to duct tape my breasts down because the bouncing would "cause my brothers to stumble" or maybe it was the time that my mom asked me, almost crying, if I was a lesbian and I screamed no because I would never make my mom cry like that.

Except why would that make my mom cry so much. Because it's against God's law and it's not what she wants for my life? Because I would be living in sin? Because I have twice as much love to give?

I remember when my mom first asked me if I was a lesbian.

We were playing strip poker in my room and she came upstairs when we weren't expecting it. I threw on a robe. We shoved the deck of cards under my bed. They both dived on my bed under the covers. I tried to act casual even though my cheeks were burning.

She looked at me like something dirty when she opened the door. Gum melted onto her front walkway. She could sidestep, but then someone else might get stuck to me.

So she pulled me downstairs by the arm and asked what we were doing. My eyes darted up when I sighed "nothing" so she pulled my robe open to show my sports bra and panties and asked me again what we were doing.

"Strip poker ok. It was nothing."

She was silent for a minute. Then two minutes.

"Why are you playing strip poker?"

A shrug.

A long, calculated look.

"Hannah, are you a lesbian?"

It was like she'd dumped cold water over my head. Fucking hell. I'd never even considered it, because for the past four years I had a crush on Ben. And besides, all gay people have been sexually abused and they are just broken and needed healing and that wasn't me. I didn't need healing. So what if I rated the centaurs in Fantasia by which I thought was the prettiest? So what if I wound masturbate to thoughts of marrying a woman? Those were just thoughts. They weren't actions. I was safe. 

I can't like women because that would mean there was something wrong with me, that there was a demon I would have to face down the rest of my life. And I wasn't ready to start on a journey of daily fighting the devil on my back.

When I looked at her there were tears sitting just under the edge of her eyes.

"Don't be stupid, of course not."

"No more strip poker."

"Ok, fine. Can I go back upstairs?"

Clutching my robe to myself, hiding my shame.

Mom, can I go back and amend my answer from that night?

"Don't be stupid, of course not. I like men too."

When I told her this year she didn't believe me because I married a man. And we're oh-so-happy and he's my favorite person on the planet.

He's still my favorite person on the planet whether or not my Freebie List contains Aubrey Plaza. Being married doesn't magically change my sexuality, although I'm sure from her perspective I'm just fighting my demons with the power of love.

I was so scared I would make her cry I never dreamed she would make me cry.

Mom, do you know why you make me cry the deep sobs of someone scared for the person they love deeply, truly, and to their core?

Because you've put me in the awkward position of coming out as a 30 year old married woman. I'm angry about that. I'm angry that I know, without any doubt, you wish I would take it all back.

Mom, do you know why I'm angry?

Because I hate feeling like my personhood is too much for you. I hate that every time you talk about your ministry I fold into myself like a paper crane because your tears could disintegrate my heart in an instant and I'm trying to preserve myself. I hate. I hate. I hate. That you are so certain that you are right that you made me hate myself. 

But mom, do you know why I'm telling you now?

Because I deserve the dignity of having those that love me, loving me for every part of myself, even the parts that have forever lived under the surface of the waves.