Well, that’s it – I’ve decided it’s time to come out. Not to everyone, not yet, but to Mum at least. I just can’t hide such an integral part of who I am anymore. After all, I know it’s not my fault that I was born this way. It’s not a decadent lifestyle choice, or some whimsical experiment.
Heck, I wish it were ‘only a stage’.
I realised I had to come out the last time I saw my therapist Lorraine and told her everything I’d been feeling, even the things I couldn’t tell my husband. She listened and she understood me, better than I understood myself. The thing about Lorraine, though, is she’s kind of bossy. She’s told me, in no uncertain terms, that it’s time I tell Mum the truth about what’s been going on with me lately.
I know Mum won’t judge me, it’s not that. In fact, I know exactly what her response will be and I just don’t want it: pity. She’ll tilt her head to the side and in her most gentle voice she’ll say, ‘I just feel sad because I know life’s going to be harder for you.’ Honestly, is there anything worse than being on the receiving end of a pity party?
I really should clarify. These clandestine rendezvous with Lorraine and the proverbial closet I find myself in have nothing to do with a repressed sexuality – that’s a post for another day. My bossy (but well-meaning) therapist is urging me to come out of the IVF closet. To admit that I’m infertile and about to start treatment. On one hand, I feel like my husband and I owe it to society to be open about our infertility. After all, someone has to act as an alternative voice to all those lucky, gushing newlyweds who marvel about how quickly they got pregnant. And I am so very tired of playing the role of the Happy DINK. You know the script, it goes something like this: