When I was younger my mother took me to a movie theater. We went out on regular mother son dates and she would spoil me while we were together. On this particular night though we didn't go out because we wanted to, we did it because there was a sort of obligatory feeling behind it. My dad had just died not too long ago and we had no one but each other left. I was no longer enjoying myself with her though, and I knew why, I just didn't want to have to face it.
As we sat in the nearly empty theater watching whatever movie had been out at the time I leaned over to her and whispered in her ear.
"There's something I need to tell you, mother." My nerves crawled up into my throat and I could barely stand to be so close to her. My palms felt sweaty so I wiped them on my jeans.
"It can wait." She whispered back barely even taking the time to glance over at me. It was always like this with her. Everything was always waiting, but I think we both knew it was only because she didn't want to have to face reality. I wasn't going to wait any longer though, so I leaned over to her again.
"I'm gay." I didn't whisper it, I didn't scream, just simply stated the fact as if it was nothing, but it took everything. Her reaction was delayed. I figured she didn't hear me so I said it again. "I. Am. Gay."
A sharp slap on the side of my face pulled me out of my calm revery. My hand flew up to my cheek on instinct and I could feel sharp, hot tears welling in my eyes. I look up at my mother's face. Her mouth, usually turned up in a smile, was twisted into a grimace as if I'd hurt her. I stood up, knocking over the popcorn in the process.
"Samuel Owen Jones, listen to me." Holy fuck, she used my middle name. I was so scared. She couldn't do anything to me now. I'd only admitted that I was interested in males. Last time I checked that wasn't some capital crime. I hadn't robbed a bank. I hadn't committed genocide. I'd been born different and now I was being shamed and punished for that.
"No, mom. I'm not going to listen to you. What, you think I'm going to hell?" I asked because I wanted to make her feel bad, but a small part of me also wanted her to answer. The few people in the theater had abandoned the movie and were now watching us, curiousity visible in their expressions.
My mother straightened herself up, squaring her shoulders and looking me dead in the eyes. "Yes, Sam. I know you're going to hell." She paused, her eyes shifting to the floor and staying there. "And I'll find you the help you need, but I don't know if I can ever look at you the same way."
And there it was, the last confession I needed from her. I knew things would turn out like this, that she would tell me I was broken and she'd just have to find someone to fix me. But she was wrong because I didn't want to be fixed and you can't fix someone who wants to stay broken.
"I don't really think I care." I left the theater because I couldn't stand to look at her anymore and it seemed like the feeling was mutual. As I walked out the people in the theater cheered me on and for the first time since before my dad died, I smiled.
I couldn't leave because I was only fifteen and I didn't want to call my friends and explain, because if I did that I'd have to tell them the truth and I wasn't ready for the whole world to know. Baby steps were my best shot right now.
I stayed in the car and put my headphones in, listening to Into my Arms by Nick Cave, a song my dad always sang to me to try and get me to go to sleep. I listened to the words and willed myself not to cry, but it didn't work and I ended up doubled over with my head in my hands. Crying had a strange sort of feeling.
Into my arms, oh Lord. Into my arms.