Karen | mid 50s | Philadelphia, USA | Writer
|
Better Latebian Than Never - My Story Karen AKA “Katie D” is a writer and an advocate for LBGT people and women. She authors a blog, www.comingoutatmidlife.com describing her life as a Latebian. |
It took me longer than most to realize why I was different. Unlike people who know from birth that they are gay, or those who recognize their orientation in their youth, I realized I was a lesbian at an age when most LGBT people are well beyond that discovery.
In my case, I was approaching 40, married to a man, and raising four children. My life was very ordinary, except that I was profoundly unhappy. I filled my shelves with self-help books and followed their guidelines to the letter, but still, I was never able to learn the elusive secret to happiness.
It took an extraordinary woman to help me realize that the wisdom I sought so desperately was not contained in a book. In fact, it was inside of me all along. It’s easy to look back today and identify the reasons for my delayed self-awareness. Much of it was a reflection of the times. The life of a girl like me was scripted from birth. I was expected to remain a virgin until I married, and later raise a family. There were no other options. It did not matter that I talked about becoming a priest or a cowboy when I grew up, and preferred trucks and boy-toys to Barbies.
My staunchly religious parents reinforced these views. In our house we never discussed sex, much less sexuality. My future was fixed and immutable. Like most teenagers, I was curious about sex. But I didn’t harbor any delusions about romance. I thought experiencing sex with a boy would provide the answers to questions that I couldn’t put into words. I wanted to be like other girls. I thought that sex would ignite the feelings I could never seem to muster up like they did. I picked Joe, my on-again, off-again boyfriend as my chosen (and to this day, only) male partner. Ironically, after just a couple of tries, I had decided that sex with a man was just not for me (the reason Joe was off-again). Unfortunately, when my parents found my discarded pack of birth control pills, they acted swiftly. Inside of six weeks Joe and I were married.
It was the price I paid for breaking the laws of the church and risking the family’s name and reputation. Each time I ran away from Joe, my parents would send me back to him, their words “you made your bed, you lie in it” ringing in my ears.I didn’t blame Joe or hate him; I just didn’t love him. Joe knew it, and that made him insecure. He convinced me that I was stupid, ugly and unlovable myself, and a terrible wife and mother. He assigned himself the role of making me a better person. In the marital bed, I conjured up visions of women to substitute for the grim reality; afterward, imagining that I was enveloped in female softness helped soothe me to sleep. I told myself it was only because I craved kindness and gentleness, qualities I identified with the female essence. I suppressed the thoughts that ventured into other realms of explanation. Fast-forward many years. My spirit was nearly extinguished. Greatly depressed, I considered the ultimate option, a final act of love for my children. Without me, they would have the opportunity for the mother they deserved. But then something happened that made me decide to hold on just a little longer. I began to have a recurring dream.
In it, a voice reminiscent of Charlton Heston reading a Biblical passage, said, “Soon. It is almost done.” Then a shadowy figure was revealed to me, someone I recognized as my soul mate. I could not discern any features, but I was certain I would know this person when we met. Scenes of the ocean and the sand on the beach told me that my special “someone” would find me there. Each year, our family beach vacations came and went. Each year, I started the kids’ back-to school routine convinced that my dream was just an exercise of my frenetic mind and nothing more. Then came the year I met Charlie. Unwittingly, Joe played Cupid. And that year, in a stroke of brilliant karmic implications, my dream and his nightmare came true.
Charlie (Charlotte) worked with Joe for years and was among the few women he tolerated. Joe talked about her constantly. She was single, athletic, outspoken and fun-loving. All the things I was not. Often Joe disappeared by himself or with the kids to join Charlie on some adventure. He refused to let me meet her. I did not suspect an affair because for all of her attributes, Charlie had two fatal flaws: First, she was African-American. Intimacy with her was out of the question. His idea of complimenting her was to say, “Yeah, she’s black, but you’d never know it, she doesn’t act black.” Also, she was “a tomboy.” Joe’s taste ran to girly, petite women, something Charlie definitely was not. I was puzzled when Joe told me he had invited Charlie and two male coworkers to the beach with us that year. They’d be in a rental house near ours. I made up my mind that I would get to know this paragon. Charlie seemed like the person who could teach even someone like me a thing or two about happiness. She did, but in a way none of us expected.
Five minutes after we arrived at our rental house, Charlie and Joe’s other two coworkers walked in. Charlie came right up to me and introduced herself. She flashed a bright smile. There was something familiar about her that put me at ease immediately. She volunteered to help me get the kids settled, and we went upstairs. Conversation between us was easy and natural. We lingered with the kids until Joe shouted up to me to get my lazy ass moving on dinner. Charlie frowned. I was mortified. In front of her my incompetence was showing. I quickly ran down the steps.In the kitchen, my husband pushed a bottle of beer at me. He knew I hated beer. I shook my head, but he insisted. “Go, on, loosen up for once, for Christ’s sake!” To appease him, I offered to have a little wine. “No fancy wine drinkers around here,” Joe sneered. “You don’t like beer, then f*** it, that’s all we got,” he said, strolling back to the couch to rejoin the men. Embarrassed that Charlie had witnessed the little scene, I turned away and fiddled with the dials on the stove. She quietly left the kitchen. I was setting the table when I saw her come through the front door, carrying a large paper bag. She propped it on the counter. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got some of everything,” she grinned. She brought out bottles of white and red, an assortment of wine coolers, and even a small bottle of champagne. Joe walked into the kitchen, extracted two beers from the refrigerator and offered one to Charlie. She shook her head. “I think I’ll have some of this tonight,” she said, indicating the wine. When he turned his back, she winked at me. The men left after dinner.
Charlie helped me with the dishes. She and I took the kids for ice cream and then together we put them to bed. Downstairs she asked, “Katie, is it always like this? I mean, is it just because it’s Joe’s vacation, or . . . ? What I mean to say is, you do a lot.” I shrugged. “All the kids, there’s a lot to do. At least I won’t have to go to work in the morning, there’s a plus,” I added with a half-hearted laugh. She didn’t even smile. “I . . . can’t imagine . . .” she said.There was nothing for me to say. After a few minutes of silence, Charlie went home. She showed up at the house bright and early the next day. She and I spent every minute of those two weeks together. Every night, I fell asleep thinking of her, excited about what the morning would bring. I could not deny my feelings for her. I could not deny what those feelings meant, what they said about me. Happily, I just accepted. Everything now made sense. The day we left, I brought the suitcases downstairs with a heavy heart. I didn’t know how to tell Charlie goodbye. I didn’t know how I was going to live without her. I couldn’t have hidden my gloomy expression even if I tried. I figured Joe would think it was because our vacation was over. We piled into the van and were about to pull away when another car screeched into the driveway alongside of us. Charlie opened her door. I leapt from my seat. Joe scrambled out after me. “Have a safe trip,” she said. “Oh, here, I think one of the kids left this at our house.” Her hand reached out to give me a sweater. Her fingers clasped mine for a long second. She pivoted back to the car and over her shoulder, very casually said, “Hey, Katie, let’s have lunch next week. I’ll give you a call, OK?” My heart soared. Joe growled at me, “Wipe that smile off your face or I’ll do it for you!”
In the weeks that followed, Charlie and I became inseparable. She told me she had fallen in love with me, too. That’s all it took for me to abandon all fear. I told Joe I wanted a divorce. He threatened to tell my parents. I said I didn’t care who he told. He begged me to stay, offered to share me with Charlie. I said no. He became violent. I called the police. The day before Thanksgiving, I took the kids and moved in with Charlie. In my mind, everything about my former life was over. I had no idea of the ugliness that lay ahead.
Joe had the court’s sympathy in our divorce. The judge removed my three youngest children. Over time, Joe alienated them from me entirely. They stopped speaking to me. My son hid when I came for scheduled visits. My daughter barred me from her high school graduation. I missed Christmases, their birthdays and Mother’s Days. The judge publicly vilified me for my lifestyle. Every word was entered into the official record. She said I disgusted her, that I did not deserve the honorable title of “mother.” She awarded Joe everything: the house, my books, family photographs, every scrap of my clothing, and even my grandmother’s furniture. I paid Joe alimony in addition to child support. His depression prevented him from working. My paycheck was garnished. To make ends meet and to pay my own legal bills, I worked two additional jobs at night and on weekends.
Incredibly, my parents became our strongest allies. My mother assured me that when the kids grew up they’d return to me (they have). My father told me that Charlie was worth more than all his sons-in-law put together. Despite everything, I was happy. Because, on those terrible nights when I crawled home defeated and spent, Charlie was always there to put me back together again. Today, much has changed. LGBT people are no longer invisible as we once were. The options are known and resources are there, even for girls like me. Public opposition is softening. It does get better. Charlie and I are entering our 19th year together. We have three grandchildren and another on the way. When equal marriage happens, our children from my former union will be our attendants. Everyone’s journey is different. It took me longer than most. I regret that my children suffered in the aftermath. I wish self-awareness – and with it, empowerment – had come sooner. But now, I wouldn’t trade a minute of my life for anything.
Karen AKA “Katie D” is a writer and an advocate for LBGT people and women.
She authors a blog, www.comingoutatmidlife.com describing her life as a Latebian.
HTML Comment Box is loading comments...
