Nothing more than the ordinary
I've had this window opened and ready almost two hours now and the words simply refuse to form. Maybe becuase I am still slightly afraid, becuase I am still gathering and forming and holding this resolve to me. Perhaps because there are so many things to say today, so many things and so different that I know not what to say first.
Something worth writing happens every single day of your life, something extraordinary, spectacular and beautiful. Something... worth writing.
Life has been blissfully calm these last few months and I have struggled to find the meaning in that calm, to find it's own particular light. Now I have something, something that is painful and harsh and ugly to write about.
I have a girlfriend. Her name is Marissa. Do I love her? Not particularily. I like her very much, I enjoy laughing and spending time with her. But what made me say "yes" this Fiday to the "Are you dating?" questions was a far more selfish reason. I wanted to know. I wanted to experiment. I've been considering bisexuality for a long time now, some two years I think. I've never actually had a girlfriend, never kissed a woman and never particularily desired any of my close friends.
This is harshly enough, an experiment, one that I was happy to make. With that feeling of accomplishment and hope I told my mother.
It didn't come out as a surprise to her, my doubts hadn't been a secret and she had never even given me a clue of what this would do to her.
She was griefed, she was in pain, she told me I had shattered her heart. It did not happen at the same time but through the night she made it perfectly clear.
My mother isn't a prejudiced person. She has gay and bisexual friends and loves and respects them. My mother is a rational womand and I always thought a strong one. Whenever someone was wrong in this house it was almost exclusively me. I was the wild one, the irrational one. I was the young thing that had much to learn about the world and herself.
In years this is the first time that my mother has been dead wrong, has been unjust and horrible, has been weak and disappointed me. And at the same time it wasn't. I love her, and though it hurts me that maybe this will mark a time in which I will be the strong one, I know, that I want to do it. I knwo that I will do it and I know that this IS growing up. This will make me into a better person.
And though my mother has told me it is a tragedy for her and that she is tired of bearing the burden, and though the social stigma can and will be painful I can loose no respect or love or awe of her. She is human and a wonderful human.
I wanted to write my pain here, my resentment and all those little things I wanted to scream to her last night. "I hate you" "I needed your support tonight and you betrayed me" "You have hurt me more than anyone ever could" "I HATE YOU". I wanted to write how horrible it was to sleep by her side because she had demanded that I do so, that she demanded me to hear her complaints and her pain, that she kept whispering that I HAD to stay awake becuase she might die because of the sleeping pills. The terror, the pain, the impossibility of a second alone with myself to simply cry for MY pain.
I have written them. But they are not as important as all the rest.
My mother is a soft spoken woman. And I am thinking, of all the possible scenarios witha mexican mother this was a beautiful one in all its purity. In all its honesty. Because I won't stop trusting my mother and I won't hate her. She is a soft spoken beautiful human being. She has raised me and loved me and I will be with her.
It is not my fault I must repeat to myself in this next days. It is not my fault I told her last night. Because I have never and will never fear the social barriers and the prejudice. They don't frighten me. My friends know and love me, my friends understand and know of this from long ago. I am not afraid.
She is and this pain is for once HER problem. For once I will have a breath of peace and knwo that I have done all I could.