The story of my mom.
Here’s something I’ve never posted on my blog before.
My mom is a lesbian.
MY MOM IS A LESBIAN.
It’s about a normal a sentence to me as saying she’s also a blonde or makes the best from scratch cookies’n’cream ice cream you’ve ever had.
Since our nation is FINALLY focused on bringing awareness to bullying and prejudices that LGBT teens and young adults are facing in our society, I thought today would be a fine day to talk about my mama.
First things first, I asked her if it was ok to talk about her on my blog. It’s not that her being a lesbian is something I’d ever want to hide, it’s just - this is my blog and the private matters of my family are not something I divulge here without their permission.
So I asked her first and her response was “Please do! I love you!”
and so here I go.
I didn’t grow up with a lesbian mom. Atleast, I didn’t know it at the time. She and my father were married for 29 years. My mom was my mom. A tomboy who loved to work in the yard, install our home appliances, and cook delicious meals for her family. She was and is, the kind of mother I hope to be to my children. Fun, creative, a little quirky, and full of love.
My mom grew up in a rural, Christian, eastern North Carolina town where no one was gay. At least not openly. It wasn’t an option and as a young girl when she found herself developing a crush on a female teacher at school, all she knew was that something must be wrong with her.
So she did what she was supposed to. She went on dates with guys at school, had sleepovers with her best friends, went to college, met a boy and got married. They started a family together and for a long time, the love she had for her family was enough to get her through.
I remember being 17. My mom walked into my bedroom and said “What do you think about you and I getting a place together?” I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what she meant. We were a happy family. A complete unit. “Absolutely not, mom. Why would you even say that?” I asked. Little did I know the turmoil that was brewing in her. The years and years of pushing down the truth and trying with all her might to be the someone everyone said she should be.
During my college years, I wasn’t home enough to see that the walls were crumbling on my parents marriage. They were doing what they could to salvage it including a last ditch effort when they sold their house, their business, the cars and lived on sailboat for a few years.
She started calling my cell phone at 1am, slurring her words and telling me that she just felt sad and wanted to talk. I still had no clue what was really going on. Some months after that she was at my apartment door telling me that she was going to rehab for alcoholism.
And not too long after that, my parent’s marriage was over.
At the time, I was completely absorbed in how all of this affected me. My family was breaking up. My parents were divorcing. What was I going to do?
I was completely self absorbed in my own tragedy. I guess, in retrospect, we all were. At the point of their divorce, I was terrified of what was going to happen to my mother. She was depressed, out of touch with reality, and drinking more heavily than I’d ever seen her before.
What I didn’t know was that it was her only coping mechanism for the realization that she either had to come to terms with the truth inside of her or drink herself to death. She’d spent most of her young life and all of her adult life being someone she was not. Not allowing herself the happiness she deserved and finally, at 49 years of age, it could be contained no longer.
She told me about Peg the same day she told me dog died.
Probably the worst way to tell someone something so important.
“Toby died”
“Oh mom, oh no. How did it happen?”
“He collapsed on the beach. He was running and then he just fell over. He was dead by the time I got to him”
“Oh mom. (tears) I hope you weren’t alone when it happened”
“I wasn’t. I had someone there with me. Someone special, Melissa. Her name is Peg”
“…….”
I got off the phone and I told Brent about our conversation. “My dog died. and also, I think my mom just told me she has a girlfriend”
I was mad at her.
Not because she was a lesbian. but because she was my mom and she was a lesbian. and my parents were divorced. and the drinking. and all of this is affecting me. me. me.
I always believed that my heart carried equality for all people. No matter their religion, race, creed or sexual orientation. All are worthy, none more or less. But my mom? My mom is a lesbian? What about all those years with my dad? What about that seemingly happy marriage? What was all of that? Is this a phase? Is this due to her depression and alcoholism?
We went months without speaking. She needed to be selfish. She deserved it after so many years of giving herself to everyone else.
and I was selfish too. not because I deserved to be… but I was immature and self absorbed.
But there are truths in this world that can’t be denied. One of those is that my mother’s love for me and my love for her, could never be truly broken. Sure we were both a little battered and skeptical - but we came through it.
And the depression went away. The reckless drinking stopped. The sun shone in my mother’s eyes in a way I hadn’t seen since I was little girl. She was truly herself for the very first time in her 50 years in this world.
She’s still with Peg, some 5 plus years later. Some of the family that she was so terrified would turn their back on her, have come to her defenses and welcomed Peg as part of her life too. Others have shunned her and cast judgements on her.
My mom is happy.
I discovered that when I stopped thinking about how everything and everyone affected me and instead put myself in the shoes of others, their reasons and motivations became clear. And then, I just wanted my mama to be happy. truly.
and she finally is.
I love you mama. I love who you are. I love that you finally were true to yourself. And that you’ve found happiness. You’re the bravest woman I know.
with my eyes full of big, happy proud-daughter tears,
M
