I was told who I was across my life.  Most of us are.  Born with certain seemingly unambiguous anatomy and it was off to the races.  My biological father was fiercely intent upon ensuring his son was not a faggot.  These are his words; memories gathered sneaking around and eavesdropping on conversations wherein I knew I was the topic.  Everyone buried the traumas, the abuse.  I understand why.  When you are attempting to protect a child from the very violence inflicted upon them, it’s understandable to shield, to revise, to protect, and to lie.  What 5 year old would understand that, during his second year of existence, his dad popped balloons in his face until a state of catatonic shock out of some desire to build masculine character and resiliency? 

We protect. We lie.  We repaint a biography that is sanguine, stable, and normal.

The problem comes when said 5 year old is gifted, neurodivergent, and a bit odd.  Weird.  One might have said, “What a queer child.”  Rambunctious, verbal, dramatic, sensitive, emotional, and extra.  Not just extra, but the most.  I learned very quickly to entertain.  Jump in the spotlight, put on a show, and escape before the glue holding on the various personae fails, revealing the emotional mess beneath.

I’ve been putting on a show across my entire life, but not one that I chose.  The responsibility of fitting in, of assimilating, of complying to all the various rules and sins of various systems and people?  It’s overwhelming for a resilient adult, let alone a toddler.

I was able to manage it.  Many are not.  My support needs were somehow low enough and my other intersections of existential privilege (presenting as a happy, polite, mannered, intelligent little white boy) buoyed me forward for forty-plus decades.  That and an ever present and unconditionally regarding feminine presence.  My Mom.  My Nanny (maternal grandmother). Angie, a stepparent.  A cousin who was like a daughter to my Mom. And countless other women who loved me.

My memories, across life, are of me as a boy who likes girls.  However, I never dated anybody.  I had crushes and uncomfortable interactions, but ultimately my family never quite knew.  “Is Greg gay?”  They never knew, and it was always a point of shame for me.  I wasn’t going to bring random girls to events to prove anything, but I also wasn’t able to escape the gravitational pull of it all…so I continued to go to events, weird and quirky and single.  Too smart.  Too sensitive.  Too mouthy.  Too much.  Just, too much.  I frequently received that message.  “You took it too far, Greg.”  “You are too serious about that, Greg.” “That’s none of your business, Greg.”  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.  Wait until you’re older, Greg.”  I heard it and accurately sensed it enough that it stuck, and became an indelible, until very recently, piece of what I believed I was. 

Not good enough.

I didn’t play sports.  I sang in choirs.  I didn’t want to hunt.  I wasn’t into cars. I read Stephen King, doodled, sang along to albums, filled journals, and got As.  The grade point average was a distinct indicator of worth, to me.  I was the first in my family to end up in and then finish college.  And “getting As” was the way for me to gather external messages of esteem so that I could affix them where my own sense of self remained buried under layers of survival masks.  My friends were a sundry group of wonderful weirdos, and I’m grateful for them to this day.  Several remain quite close in my life and continue to accept and love me for who I am becoming.

So…am I coming out of the closet?

No.  Not really. But kind of.

The traumas and travails of the past 5 years have illuminated insights and encouraged epiphanies.

I know that I have developmental trauma.

I know that I also have complex PTSD.

I know that I have PTSD related specifically to this pandemic.

Then there’s the obligatory anxiety and depression.

I am gifted.

I am AuDHD, a portmanteau incorporating Autism and ADHD.

And I am queer.

Hard to explain that one, though.  I’m quite happily married to a cis woman, and I remain a cis man.  I get it.  That’s not gay, lol.

However…I look back and, this is critical, I just know that I am more than, different than, divergent from…whatever most of the influential men in my life were forcing me towards.

So yeah, I’m kind of coming out of the closet.  Would I call it neuroqueer?  I love the term, and it loosely applies, but not precisely.  Bisexual?  In reality? No. I will say, however, that all of the men who have remained in or entered my life and who I trust the most?  Identify as such, or exist in a liminal space similar to the one in which I find myself.  Wherein the masculine and feminine are balanced, if not leaning feminine.

I exist outside of any distinct paradigm, have persevered abuse and trauma related to my performance of gender and sexuality, and have no other term to describe what I am but queer.

I have found real community and existential acceptance across neurodivergent and queer communities.  Most of my family are chosen family.  I have regular contact and feel at home with only one blood relative and their family.  The reasons are lengthy and largely encapsulated in the previous words of this post.  Suffice it to say, my experience of family and community has emulated the experiences of many queer and other non-compliant, unassimilable folks.

Queer.  It’s what feels right.

May all closets into which humans are forced and held be made irrelevant as a more person-centered, trauma-informed, neurodiversity-affirming zeitgeist emerges.

I love and support you.

-G