HOW NOT TO COME OUT || Misc.

How Not to Come Out

NOTE (PLEASE READ):

The following story was written when I was fourteen and a very different person, just at the beginning of finding out who they are. Since writing this, the author (me) has come out as nonbinary trans and changed their name (it's Robin now, btw). I am keeping this up partly for myself, to see how far I've come and also because I think it works as a reminder- there is no version of a person that is set in stone. Going through one change does not necessarily mean you won't change again- that is nothing to be ashamed of. Also, I was a very cringey and embarrassing baby gay and I think you can all feel better about yourselves by making fun of me.

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pansexual:

panˈsɛkʃʊəl/

adjective

1. not limited in sexual choice with regard to biological sex, gender, or gender identity.

noun

1. a pansexual person.

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People say that there is no right way to come out. That the situation is different for everyone and no one set of rules can be applied to The Dreaded Talk Of Doom. However, as I have discovered, there is definitely a wrong way. When telling your parent exactly how gay you are, there are a number of things to bear in mind:

One) Go over what you want to say beforehand so that, should you feel the urge to violently throw up in a nearby shrubbery, you can bury your puke in words.

Two) Make sure you are in an environment that you feel safe in, such as your living room or an abandoned cemetery. (Note: that was sarcasm. Please don't actually come out in an abandoned cemetery. Vampires are notorious homophobes)

Three) Have the conversation at a time when none of the parties involved is feeling rushed or under an obligation to do something else.

Four) Try to speak calmly as studies have shown that it also has a calming affect on the person you are talking to.

Five) DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES YELL IT AT YOUR MOTHER IN THE MIDDLE OF A SUPERMARKET.

... You can already tell where this is going.

I should note, before I begin this story, that none of this is the fault of Morrisons (Other supermarkets are just as inappropriate to announce your general percentage of gayness in). If I were fair, I would say that the shop did nothing wrong. The shop was there, being shopped in, as shops tend to be. I'm sure it did a remarkably good job of being shopped in. I'm sure it's shop parents are very proud of it's position in life. I have no idea where this metaphor is going.

However, it is because of my actions almost exactly a year ago that I can no longer spare a glance at that suspiciously not-McDonalds looking 'M' without wanting to empty the contents of my stomach onto the floor with shame and embarrassment.

I say almost exactly a year ago because, although this is the anniversary of when I came out, my mum was not the first person I came out to. The first people I came out to were my friends, because I knew the level of shits they gave about who I wanted to fuck was only marginally more than the amount I give about who won the Premier League in football this season, i.e none.

Okay, that's a lie. They did care. They now had more than double the amount of people to set me up with. Joy.

I should probably get down to what actually happened. The difficult part is the remembering. See, when I get nervous about things, I tend to forget. Forget everything. Where I was going, what happened, that I was even there at all. It's all a part of this big unsolvable mystery in my head, and that is that I don't actually understand how my head works, or why it does the things that it does. Either way, there are few scenarios where I have felt more nervous than this one.