Dear John, I Love Jane: Women Write About Leaving Men for Women (19 page)

I read everything I could find in the library about how sexual orientation develops, and most anecdotal evidence was consistent: From a young age, gay men and lesbians had some inkling of being different. For most, falling in love with someone from the same gender did not come as a surprise, but felt as if something finally fit.

Not me. As a child, I sat on my bedroom rug orchestrating elaborate weddings for my Barbie doll, staging my own future ceremony, directing the action, and dressing her in glimmering gowns and those ubiquitous spiky heels; my brother’s G.I. Joe doll waiting for her at the end of the aisle.

Even after I moved in with Pam, slept curled around her, loved only her, I still had sexual fantasies about men, had pleasurable memories of sex with men, and when I looked at women, most didn’t turn me on. The exception was an occasional butch lesbian with a boy haircut, a female version of the boys and men to whom I’d always been attracted.

Because of my unrest, I found a support group at the Pacific Center in Berkeley, just south of the university and housed in a restored Victorian painted two shades of purple. I believed if I went to a coming-out group, it would speed up the process, and I could begin to acknowledge my “inner lesbian,” understand my heretofore-denied sexual orientation, and finally accept it.

During one of the first meetings at the Pacific Center, I introduced myself and told my story. “I don’t feel gay,” I said. “I just fell in love with this person.”

Several of the women in the group smiled. “We call women like you ‘dykelings,’” someone said. She fit the stereotype: a short boy’s haircut, a man’s shirt, baggy jeans, and boots that might have weighed ten pounds each. Others nodded, as if they’d been there. Dykeling. I liked the term; it was clever and irreverent and it might explain what was happening to me: maybe I just hadn’t evolved into a full-fledged dyke yet.

Over the years, I have contemplated my attraction to Pam, the timing of my finding her, my decision to commit to her and raise kids with her. Now, I think sexual orientation is probably biologically determined, and in ten or twenty years scientists will locate the gene or combination of genetic markers that influence sexual attraction. Someone will prove that those heat-seeking pheromones can be hetero-, homo-, and bisexual and that they fluctuate over time. Perhaps some of us take detours off our genetic map. That could explain why I’ve been attracted to men over the years, and more so again around fifty. I call it midlife hormonal regression to heterosexuality for last-chance perpetuation of the species.

Or maybe I’m a straight woman who has simply lived for over twenty years with the person she loved the most. Because I still feel different from some of my lesbian friends, I feel as if I’ve never been a legitimate member of the Lesbian Club; that I’ve been pretending to be someone I’m not, my internal voice chanting,
imposter, imposter.

Now that the club is sometimes broadened to GLBTQ, the Q for questioning—usually referring to youth or those in the process of coming out—I wonder if someone can spend decades of her life questioning her orientation.

Maybe someday I’ll learn how it is that I spent thirty years on the heterosexual side of the seesaw and then switched sides. Or the better image might be me standing in the middle of the seesaw, straddling the center bolt, moving my weight back and forth. While the bisexual character in the movie
Torch Song Trilogy
alternated between genders on a monthly or yearly basis, maybe I’m one who spends decades on each side.

What some call a choice—whether to follow the heterosexual or homosexual or bisexual path—didn’t feel like a choice for me, nor did it feel like I was following biological inclinations. It did seem like a predetermined path, though, a spiritual blueprint. I might have convinced myself that I needed to have that Barbie-doll wedding to a man, slip on my mother’s dress, dance at my reception, and open stacks of gift boxes wrapped in silver paper. But of course I didn’t. The pull toward bliss was too great.

Clarity

Rachel Smith

K
. and I went on a “non-date,” since I was married and she was in a relationship with someone we both worked with (though her relationship was on its last legs). It was supposed to be a night out—yes, at a lesbian bar—with some of her friends, a couple of drinks, and lots of laughs. In the weeks leading up to the “non-date,” we flirted a lot, through texts and emails. In one email, I confessed that I had a secret crush on someone without naming names. That someone was K.

At the bar that night, I expected to feel very nervous and awkward. But spending time with K. was easy and comfortable. She was easy to talk to: attentive, interested in my opinions,
fun.
And toward the end of the night, after a couple of beers for liquid courage, I kissed her. Afterward, we both sat there stunned and surprised. I had not planned to kiss her (although I did have a crush on her, and had for years). After all, this was supposed to be a “non-date” where two soon-to-be friends go out drinking to get to know each other.

My life was never the same after that kiss.

We tried it again, just to see if it was all about the “surprise” aspect the first time, but the second kiss was even better. We even tried it a third time, just to make sure it wasn’t the alcohol, and the results were the same.

So, after a couple of weeks of making out, flirting, talking, and spending time together, I had a sudden and uncontrollable urge to completely change my life. I had to come out to someone. I wanted to move out of my house and away from my husband. There was no shame attached to these feelings. In fact, I felt like I was shedding my skin—coming into the true me, at least a truer me than before.

I’ve always known that I’ve had attractions toward other women. I’ve had crushes and admired others, usually from afar. But, I’ve also known that my friends and family wouldn’t have been able to accept it.

This time was different. I wanted to declare my feelings for K. from every rooftop. Instead, I called my best friend M., who lived halfway across the country. M. encouraged my attraction, explaining that she knew me well enough to know that I have been searching for something most of my life and that my previous relationships never quite quenched that desire I had for a real connection with someone. That day, she also informed a mutual friend of my situation, and that friend replied, “It’s about time she came out! She’s the only one who didn’t know that she’s gay!” Seriously? I was on a high, feeling accepted and loved. And I got brave (or foolhardy) and called my mother to come out to her. The response I got was not nearly as warm and fuzzy:

• She wondered if it was a hormonal imbalance that made me feel this way.

• Maybe I should see a shrink who could prescribe something for me to level my emotions out.

• It couldn’t possibly be real—lesbians don’t look or act like me. I’m too feminine.

• They don’t have children, or if they do, they leave them behind to live a wild and decadent life of orgies and one-night stands.

• How could I be attracted to another woman when my husband was so good-looking?

• Just go away for the weekend or for date night and have tons of wild sex.

• Why leave a good man for someone else to snap up?

I thought I would faint right there holding on to the phone. How could this supposedly open-minded woman say such things to her only child? Her princess? She was the very same woman who taught me to be accepting, to educate myself about other cultures and ethnicities, not to discriminate. She encouraged me to pick my friends based on the content of their character and not for any other superficial reasons. But all of this flew out the window when I came out to her. She even questioned my priorities as a mother, and implied I was putting the happiness of others before my own children’s well-being. I couldn’t believe it. Needless to say, I was devastated.

After crying a great deal, I picked myself up off the floor and agreed to see a therapist. My goal was to coordinate the chaos in my head. I also agreed to start a journal so that I could make more sense of what was going on. I needed to mull things over, but doing so over the phone with unpredictable people was not the safest way to go about it.

I scoured every bookstore I could find, looking for books about women in similar situations. The few books I found were several years old, and related personal stories. Many of the women sacrificed a lot, lost connections with friends and families, and underwent years of self-loathing and guilt. Some turned to drugs, alcohol, and other destructive behaviors. Many of the relationships didn’t survive. But I did (believe it or not) locate a positive side in all of this. I was not alone in my struggle. I wasn’t some unnatural oddity. I was merely someone who finally had an answer to some of my unspoken questions.

I was ravenous for information about the gay community, potential support groups, anything related to my circumstances, and LGBTQ websites and blogs were another source of comfort and information for me. I found solace in the postings from women from all walks of life who were also searching for answers. Many sought someone or something to guide them through this tumultuous time. They wanted not just validation, but a game plan or a checklist—instructions that told them what to do. And they weren’t finding it. There are very few resources focused on married women in our situation. I tried to reserve Lisa Diamond’s
Sexual Fluidity
from my local public library and have waited for months. It’s still checked out with no end in sight!

I found that I truly had to learn to trust myself, have faith in my decisions, and do the best I could. Becoming self-reliant was the biggest lesson I learned from all of my research. No one was going to come rescue me. I had to rescue myself.

In the meantime, K. and I continued to talk and text daily, even though she was on a two-week vacation in Europe. And my worst fear came true. My husband, suspicious that she and I were in such constant contact, found an incriminating, romantic text message from her. Days of crying and apologizing followed. My husband raged, and I feared for my physical safety. Completely and utterly exhausted, he and I agreed not to make any rash decisions until we both saw therapists and figured things out.

I had tried to describe my struggle to him in the past, but it didn’t go very far. He was too threatened by the thought of me being attracted to anyone else—male or female. His insecurities didn’t allow us to have open and honest dialogue about many different issues within our marriage, including my sexuality. Until now, I hadn’t believed that I would meet a woman I would want to have a relationship with. It had never happened in the past. I had only experienced physical attractions, without positive results. I never got to know the women, or had meaningful and interesting conversations with them. They were purely physical responses, and I was ashamed of them. But K. was different. And different from me.

I’m very feminine, a girly-girl even. I love pedicures, lipstick, and dresses. K. is an athlete—very tomboyish, and lives in khakis and polo shirts. I am opinionated about politics (local and national), and she couldn’t care less. I’m from an urban environment and she’s from a small town. I think that’s part of the attraction.

There are some things about K. that are soft and feminine: her long, gorgeous hair, her ever-changing green eyes. But she’s no princess. She’s the perfect blend of masculine and feminine. Added to that, she’s courteous—almost chivalrous. She opens doors, pays the check, and is very considerate. When I ask my girl why she does these things, she says it’s because she thinks that I’m worth the extra efforts she makes; she wants to show me how special I am to her.

When we first got together, it was surprising to me how much I didn’t know. I assumed that because we are both women, we would intuitively know how to physically please each other. We have similar body parts, so we should know everything there is to know about sex with another woman, right? Very wrong. My girl was terrific, kind and generous, eager to make sure that my first time was special and memorable and worthy ofremembrance—not some sleazy roll in the hay. But, I (being a very type A, eager-to-please person myself) researched and studied and found that I didn’t have the foggiest idea what sex with a woman actually involved. I had been to sex toy stores and watched porn movies, but it blew my mind. I felt like such a novice. I had so many questions, so much curiosity and fear. I’m older than K. by almost ten years, and I had this idea that I was supposed to be more of a teacher and she the student, and yet in this circumstance, the roles were reversed.

I’ve spent a great deal of time since that first kiss trying to determine how to define myself and my sexuality. How should I label myself? Should I even do so? What I’ve come to is this: I don’t have to. The person I sleep with, fall in love with, am attracted to, is my business. Lesbian, bisexual, straight—none of these labels feel comfortable to me. There is no doubt in my mind that visibility matters and that the labels are an important component in efforts toward equality, but they do not serve me and my journey. I choose to let my personal be my political. Living a healthy, happy, joyful life is what I’m striving for. My girl likes to compare herself to a can on a grocer’s shelf that doesn’t have a label, which I like. And that’s what I go by. At least for now.

I feel like people spend far too much time trying to define themselves—compressing their essence to fit within some narrow margin. It’s more important for me to focus on the relationship rather than on labels. I also came to the realization that my roles as mother/daughter/friend are far more integral to my identity than a label that’s strictly related to my sexuality. I take my role as a mother seriously. Nothing else in the world is more important to me than ensuring that my children are healthy and happy and whole.

Which leads me to one of my biggest concerns: How can I live my life for myself and balance the needs of my children? How would I explain what was happening and why our living arrangements were going to change? My son is ten and my daughter is almost three, so they have very different levels of understanding. Most of the experts I read said that children are primarily concerned with how any kind of change will affect them. Following one of the books I read, I tried to have a conversation with my son, and made a great effort to be age-appropriate, but honest. It was a disaster. We both ended up crying. I think the entire situation, especially the thought of potentially losing daily access to his father figure, frightened him. I needed to approach this conversation in a different way.

K. and I took the kids to the park, to the library, to pizza night at her house. We just spent
time
together. Both children found that they liked her, and soon they looked forward to seeing her on a regular basis. They are actually disappointed if she isn’t in my car when I pick them up from school. I learned a valuable lesson: Discussing the subject in an abstract way didn’t do anyone any favors. My children needed to see love in action.

At this point, I am still legally married. My role as a wife has changed dramatically, due to the fact that I’m in a relationship with K. Additionally, I have accepted something about myself: I’m not cut out to be a wife, at least not a traditional one. There are so many expectations that society places on heterosexual wives, including the one that requires a wife to surrender a large part of herself and sacrifice her dreams for the greater good of the marriage. That was the case in my marriage. My husband, who by and large is a good man, was raised in a very traditional home where his mother’s entire purpose in life was to cater to her husband and children. She was expected to put her needs and wants on the back burner, and her traditional Korean upbringing reinforced this belief.

I, on the other hand, was raised by a single mother who championed education, independence, and self-reliance. Culturally, as an African American, I was taught that my load would be heavier, but that I should have the fortitude to bear it. It’s interesting to note that while my mother stressed these attributes, she also strongly encouraged me to immerse myself in my marriage, and depend heavily on my husband for stability and support.

My husband was stable, traditional, and faithful. I tried everything I could to be the kind of wife that he wanted—to be a suburban soccer mom (not even close to my personality), to be the supermom who handled the home (cleaning, shopping, bill paying, cooking), and a super stepmom to his daughter. I worked a full-time job while obtaining an advanced degree, wore Victoria’s Secret thongs and heels, and gave in to sex on demand. At the same time, I was exhausted, resentful, angry, and cold. I tried the “fake it till you make it” thing but I never quite got there. I seldom enjoyed sex because it seemed like one more thing I
had
to do. And that wasn’t my husband’s fault; it was mine. I rarely said no to anything or anyone. I was over-extended. I didn’t put my foot down and say, “Wait a minute--we are a partnership. Start acting like it!” I allowed things to continue like this until it was too late to salvage anything.

When we got married, I think we both just accepted the concept that the wife generally bears the brunt of the responsibilities. Many times, we made jokes about the “Honey-Do” lists that I left for him to accomplish on his days off from work, how as the “scrimper and saver,” I had a better handle on the finances than my “spender” husband. It shouldn’t have been so one-sided—we both should have been doing the hard work. Looking back, he acknowledges that he should have made more effort.

Many people step outside of their marriage when their needs aren’t being met within their marriage. I doubt that I would have felt the need to explore my feelings for K. if my marriage had been on firmer ground. I do believe that we would have been friends and would have gotten to know each other. But, I don’t think that either of us would have explored more than a friendship.