Unashamed (25 page)

All we could do was sob until our eyes began to burn. The top portion of our expensive comforter was saturated with mucus and tears. This was absolutely the most deeply connected, emotional moment of our entire marriage. We cried ourselves into a pit of exhaustion and fell to sleep intertwined in one another’s embrace.

The next two nights we were only able to manage a few words to each other, but bedtime always ended in the same way. Words expressed nothing the way tears did.

For those of us who have truly loved, the hardest thing to do is walk away.

Chapter 15

After you tell your spouse that you are gay, what is the next step? Where are the how-to books on this subject? We were both confused and depressed, but we were managing the best we could. We were coping in our own ways and collectively when possible. Couples handle things very differently and, despite everything, Doug and I were maturely and responsibly dealing with the process together. The day we decided to go through our assets felt like we were being proactive in our separation, and it oddly helped us push forward. Had we continued at our own pace, things would have been much easier, but Patty changed that. She thought I was leaving Doug to be with her. Au contraire.

When I revealed the fact that I wanted to be alone, she exploded in anger. She let it be known that I was making the biggest mistake of my life with an excess of loud screams and over-the-top hand gestures. She would not stand for my rejection the way Doug had and even shamed me for the treatment I gave him over the past few years. She said anything she could think of to hurt me the way I was hurting her. When I wouldn’t bend on my decision to leave both of them, she immediately expected me out of the house by the fifteenth of the month, a specific date that she yelled several times so it would be crystal clear.

The fifteenth of the month was a whopping two weeks from the berating conversation. It was also a rotten time to explain that it would take longer than two weeks to find a place, but it had to be said.

Believe me, she let me know that she didn’t give a shit by screaming at the top of her lungs, “THE FIFTEENTH!”

I respectfully turned from her room, tucked my tail in, and slept on the couch.

Coming out of the closet is the biggest suck-tastic adventure a person can know. Everyone reacts differently to the news. Some reactions you expect and some you don’t. The consequences thereafter are also a hot, shitty mess that no one prepares you for, like living in the most awkward arrangement with an ex-husband and ex-girlfriend while searching for a rental of your own.

We secretly celebrated the small victories like when we were finally able to hold surface conversation, albeit without direct eye contact. Our house, although separating, was slowly able to adjust through the coming out process, only this time, it was three people rather than two. By the end of the two weeks, we were managing at our own pace, which would have been fine until I answered a phone call from Zelda.

Dang, I had almost forgotten about her.

She offered absolutely no support for the disruptions in my life. She demanded to know the status of our relationship to which I secretly giggled because I didn’t know she was still holding on. It wasn’t a difficult decision to officially end things with her a few sexual encounters later.

Without the three of them in my life, I sulked more than I cared to admit. My dad helped me move out of the house and tried to be there for me in the best way he knew how. But, after he went back to Ohio, I returned to my lonely, fully furnished condo where depression chained me to my reflection in the mirror. It was clear that the only person who could pull me out of the funk happened to be the person in it. Me.

For a while, I drank myself away. It felt easier to cope with a little help from a bottle.

In sober moments I numbed myself by fixating on mundane objects that I relied on to transcend me into a deadened mindset. The revolving ceiling fan above my bed was self-soothing therapy. The blades rotated on the slowest setting were just enough for my eyes to catch one spin around on its center axis. The fan had the most mesmerizing, catatonia-inducing effect on a girl who only wanted to escape thoughts.

Between drinking and fan watching, I managed to get myself into some really bad situations after leaving Doug and Patty. The ironic part was that I was actually trying to pull myself out of them. Each story makes me shake my head in shame.

In my desire to reconnect to the world, I actually let a girl from Arizona use me for sex and a place to stay while she was on vacation. I honestly didn’t see that train wreck coming.

Bad situation number two was the older married lesbian. Her wife and newborn child were visiting family one weekend, so I went to her place for a fun night of karaoke. Unfortunately, I was nominated to be her evening mistress after endlessly flowing spirits threw her into a wig-ripping tantrum. I slept with her old bald ass because I genuinely felt bad and she was my ride home.

Sticky situation number three met me at a club where she was performing a dare to be butch for the night. She left me in a Long Beach apartment with the worst yeast infection I have ever had in my entire life. The girl’s mentally disabled mother and ninety-something grandmother kept me company because she went to a concert.

Patty paid a visit to my condo somewhere in the middle of all of these disgraceful adventures to engage in a physical altercation armed with accusations of cheating. I managed to get in some punches and slaps during our fight, but, yes, all two hundred and forty pounds of her kicked my one hundred-and-twenty-three-pound ass.

The most shameful and irrational idea that crossed my mind in the months after leaving Doug and Patty was that prostitution was a healthy spin on my promiscuity. Thankfully, that idea never gained momentum, and, in fact, was shut down by rare pulses of lucidity.

Change occurred when those precious waves of conscious stability happened even in the thick of my emotional mayhem. The key was using those waves to create positive whirlwinds. If I didn’t do something constructive to make good mojo happen for myself, it certainly wasn’t going to come and knock on my door. I began to organize budget plans, finish college homework, and add pages to my future book. When I focused on these things, I was happier.

Those constructive motivators were the healing balance to my unsound thinking. My grim experiences definitely shifted my perspective of self-worth. One has to wallow through a mound of manure to come out smelling like roses; it certainly took many months of bathing in shit before adversity bound me to bloom into a better woman.

Dramatics in a tale drive the final point home sometimes, as it did with coming out of the closet. If it seemed like I just dropped the microphone and walked off of the stage before the end of the performance, it was only because I had an ah-ha moment as I stood there with hot glistening tears. One day I had enough and simply released my self-centered desires to tackle my sexuality. It’s such a small part of who I am, anyway. The truth hath set me free and it was sincerely that straightforward. When I finally was honest about who I wanted to fuck, it put that spotlight on more important things that begin with the letter F, reconnecting with friends, forward thinking, and family.

In the future, people who don’t know my history will be curious about vital personality-defining shit, like who I voted for in the presidential election, how many children I have, who does my hair, and what made me want to re-enlist. They don’t need the details of each Pride parade.

I am open with my sexuality now that I understand it and respect it. I also serve proudly in the military and have a deeper sense of purpose: serving with my brothers in arms. No soldier or peer gives a shit about the journey I took to get here. But I embrace my history, even the naughty bits, because confidence and clarity usually come with a heavy price. Inevitably, there was a choice I had to make: I could continue being a twat or become a true woman that always triumphed.

It took a few years until the choice was made to find her, but our hearts pinged each other from across the world. My partner of three years and I currently live in New York. We take great pride in our home improvements and enjoy spending time with our stubborn, but lovable, rescued dog. We hope that children are in our future.

Epilogue

Angel is happily married to a wonderful man, and together they run a successful business.

Sunny married her high school sweetheart, and together they have four children.

Robert has one child.

Kay has two children and has since remarried, twice.

Natalia is on her second marriage with three children. She told me to make her sound sexy in this book.

Monica (the Mexican) was in a terrible motorcycle accident, but, by the grace of God, survived. She is currently sober.

Tracy had her legal twenty-first birthday a few years after our breakup, which would have made her seventeen at the time we dated, unbeknownst to me. On a trip to Las Vegas I swear I saw an Oompa Loompa reflection in a shop window. Before I could turn to look, it waddled away.

Lindsey (or “April”) moved to another state and continues to meet green-eyed women online. I wouldn’t be surprised if she still owns the party masks and has a new address book.

Joy lives in Las Vegas and has since established herself in the music industry. She laughed hysterically when she read this book, and we shared a good laugh at the debauchery we used to get ourselves into.

Rayya’s last phone conversation with me included, “Do you remember when you stole that tranny’s purse? I never
seen
a white girl move that fast! You are one crazy bitch!” I miss you, Rayya.

Zelda continues to search for love in the city and online.

Private Marche works on the railroad. She attributes me with teaching her how to be a stronger woman.

Mandy runs her own business and rides a Harley.

Patty is a teacher who frequently vacations in Hawaii. She lives in the same house and still has some artwork I painted for her on the wall.

Doug is happily remarried with two children.

Emma Janson
is the nom de plume
of a Sergeant currently serving
in the United States Army.
She lives in Upstate New York
with her partner and their dog.

This book is a work of art produced by Zharmae,
an imprint of The Zharmae Publishing Press.

The text was set in Perpetua and California FB.

EDITOR

Noah Baker

EDITORIAL CONTRIBUTIONS

Hufsa Tahir

COVER ARTIST

Lourdes Blazek

COVER DESIGNER

Christina Kaesmayr

TYPYSETTER

Shaughnessey Marshall

COPYEDITOR

Eric Tate

PROOFREADER

Kimiko Hammari

READERS

Sara Bangs,Leigh Farina,
and Alicia Williams.

MANAGING EDITOR

Tomiko Breland

PUBLISHER

Travis Robert Grundy

Spokane | October 2013