Out, Many Times

It was when Sheik turned into Zelda in Ocarina of Time and I was still attracted.

Incidentally, that was when my cousins started calling me “gay.”

I didn’t know what gay meant then.

I was 13.


One day in grade school I was asked what I thought of boys. I answered honestly — and after I answered all the girls avoided me. I’d said that I liked girls better, and suddenly I was shunned by all.

I was 12.


A few years earlier I’d had a good friend. We shared the same interests. We got along well. But a rumor started. I didn’t know about it until I arrived for the scheduled hangout and was told that her folks didn’t want “that type of girl” hanging around. Then the door was closed in my face.

I was 7.


I was 20.

I’d just successfully confessed my feelings to my crush on campus. He’d shot me down. My friends took me out for sushi to make me feel better. A few weeks passed and I saw more of the guy that made me realize that I’d actually dodged a bullet — the guy was beautiful, but BOY was he problematic. While all this was going on, one of my other friends had something awesome happen to her — and in her soaring euphoria, she kissed ME before skipping off to her destination.

“Guys,” I said to my group as the realization finally dawned, chest a flutter, “I think I might be bisexual.”


I was 30.

I’m freaking out because my clothes are gendered. Male is wrong. Female is wrong. But if that’s the case then what am I? I panic and cancel my plans. I hit up the new LGBT sub on 4chan of all places — where I learn about nonbinary identities. The panic subsides a bit, and I research into the night. By morning I have a handle on it.

Ze/zir.

Genderqueer/Genderflux.

And a private identification tied to my blood that I reveal only to those who I trust.

For the first time in years, things are clicking.


I am 33.

Things have settled in. Some have evolved: as a nonbinary individual, I now identify more as pansexual because it’s outside the binary. Some have refined: my attraction type is demi-panromantic, if we’re splitting hairs.
I have accepted that I am settled firmly beneath the trans umbrella — something that I denied vehemently before. And I am growing as a person.

… well, that’s my Coming Out™ story.

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Communication and me. 

Communication.

I have serious trouble detecting sarcasm in written word. As a result I tend to use the emoticons/emoji in written communications when I engage. It makes conveying tone in text difficult. Studies—albeit small ones—have shown that ending a sentence with a period conveys a hostile tone—something I rarely intend to do.

My “proper” structure, therefore, comes across as hostile without meaning to.

I therefore use emoticons/emoji to ensure that the proper tone comes through in my written text. But I have received push back for this as well. I was dismissed as “just some memeing girl.”

There are several things wrong with that statement but that’s for another time.

If anyone has a problem with this, it’s on them… Not me. I know me weaknesses. I know how to compensate.