The Die Is Cast in The Stuff That's Not Interesting But Is The Most Interesting Stuff I'll Write

Someone recently asked me why I don’t get along with my mother. The answer is simple, but the reasons behind the answer are extremely complicated. The reason I know it’s both is because I was recently explaining the circumstances of my coming out to my friend Wendy and she immediately said, “This explains your relationship with your mother. I don’t have anymore questions, and I don’t blame you.”

I’m not going to go through the entire story of my coming out again because I’m tired of telling that story and the comments that I get after that story. Yes, it was horrible. Yes, it was terrifying. Yes, I’m lucky to be alive. I understand all of that, but there is a longer, darker history besides the facts. Long story short, when I came out everyone thought that meant that I was a pervert and a child molester. It was the early 2000s and the paranoia of the 90s was still lingering. The fuel to that fire was my online journal which described my sexual activity, which was significantly more active in my late-teens. While everyone in my family accepted that I was a deviant (except my grandmother), the family was split. Half of them were hellbent on sending me to jail, the other half didn’t disagree that I was a deviant, but they didn’t believe that I should necessarily be incarcerated for it.

My mother was of the latter half, however, this was when I learned of my mother’s pattern of making it all about her. It was all about how she suffered, how stressful it was for her, and it was such a trial for her. Never mind that my entire life was ruined, I lost my job, was thrown out of my home, lost all of my friends and almost died. Nope, she was inconvenienced.

Not only that, but the reasons this all started were because people started gossiping. Over a period of weeks, the rumors were flying. Suddenly things that I had done years ago were on the lips of everyone in my family. Relatives I’d never spoken to suddenly were being copied in e-mails that had excerpts of how I lost my virginity. I couldn’t believe it.

It was through that situation that I discovered the thing I hate most.... I hate people talking about me. It reminds me of Fanny Price from Mansfield Park. I became paranoid and refused to answer questions about anything. I confide nothing to anyone. When I did stand-up, I created an entire persona in order to insulate myself from questions.

I separated myself from everyone in my family and went on my merry way. That’s what happened. She doesn’t know who I am, she has an idea based on the rumors she’s heard. She thinks I’m an asshole. She thinks I mistreat people. She thinks the reason I’m single is because I abuse everyone.

I know why she thinks the way she does, I sympathize with her and I understand that her feelings are misguided, but the die is cast and things are the way things are.