Me and My Mom

[This post is for the Family round of the Carnival of Aces. Check it out.]

I am terrified of coming out to my mother.

Flipping terrified.

It’s completely irrational. My mother is a very open-minded, accepting human being. For example, a couple months ago we had a positive, enthusiastic conversation about the complexity and fluidity of gender. Okay, that doesn’t have anything to do with me or my asexuality, but it shows how open-minded my mother is. Regarding myself, I’ve told her that I have no interest in romantic relationships, and she was totally cool with it; she didn’t say any of the things parents often do, like “you just haven’t met the right person” or “you’re too young to know that.” Also, I’ve shared asexuality-related blog posts on my Facebook (albeit cautiously avoiding connecting them in any way to my personal identity), and my mother had read and commented on them without a hint of negativity.

Given all of the above, honestly, she probably already suspects me. Why, then, am I so absolutely petrified at the thought of saying that simple sentence: “Mom, I’m asexual”?

I think part of my apprehension stems from her being a nurse. I’m afraid that her profession will make her more likely to say, “We should take you to the doctor and get your hormones fixed.” But again, this is hardly a rational worry. I’m not sure my mother would even approve of hormone treatment. My mom is somewhat of a nonconformist. She’s into local, non-synthetic foods; compassion and loving-kindness; meditation and alternative medicine. The likelihood of her saying I should “get my hormones fixed” is probably slim to none. I know this, and yet I can’t shake the fear that, despite all I know about her, this time I might be wrong.

Honestly, I think most of my nervousness originates from her reaction to the first time I tried to come out to her. I was fifteen. I had just started to identify as bisexual – not because I had the slightest interest in sex (I just figured that would happen later), but because I found both men and women aesthetically attractive. I sat her down, and I said to her, “Mom, I think I’m bisexual.” I had expected immediate acceptance. What I got, however, was skepticism. “You know, you might not be. A couple times, when I was younger, I thought I was in love with a friend of mine. It’s a phase girls go through sometimes.”

I was stunned. Admittedly, I probably oughtn’t to have used the word “think.” But I was fifteen. And really, I suspect that fact greatly influenced her response to me. She did come to accept me as bisexual, and has been very supportive, but her initial reaction has continued to plague me. What if I tell her this – tell her about the identity I’m ten times more confident and comfortable with – and she reacts the same way she did when I was fifteen? That possibility scares the crap out of me.

So, you might ask, why do I bother coming out to her in the first place? If I’m causing myself so much mental anguish with the very idea of it, why don’t I just stay in the closet? After all, my sexual orientation is nobody’s business but my own. I don’t have to tell anyone.

Here’s why I bother: My mother is one of my closest friends. I love her. I trust her. I feel comfortable with her. We share with each other, have meaningful conversations, spend time together. I’m always honest with her, and not telling her the truth feels almost like lying.

Also, I’m planning to officially come out on my Facebook during Asexuality Awareness Week. If I know anything for sure, it’s that my mother would rather hear it from me than from Facebook.

Friendship Break-Ups

So I was browsing Facebook the other day, and I happened to glance at the profile page of an ex-friend of mine. Our friendship effectively ended about a year ago, but I’m still mourning its loss. We had been friends for seven years. She was one of the people I was closest to, and one of the few whom I trusted implicitly. It wasn’t like we had fought over something, or lied to each other, or anything else that typically ends a friendship. With time, of course, we had been slowly drifting apart, but I still considered her one of the most important people in my life. Then she started dating another ex-friend of mine. Then they got engaged. Then she stopped talking to me altogether.

It still hurts – a hell of a lot, actually. When I think about how close we used to be, and how much I used to trust her, it’s like a dull ache in my chest that refuses to go away. That’s not to say I’m despondent, or depressed, or refusing to move on with my life, because that would be irrational beyond measure. However, it’s still a source of some pain whenever I’m reminded of it. As I sat pondering this the other day, something occurred to me: Most people put a much greater emphasis on the end of a romantic relationship than on the end of a friendship.

I’m still pretty sad over the loss of this friend, but I haven’t told that to anyone because I’m sure most people would think it overdramatic or absurd. About a month after I initially realized our friendship was finished, I also realized that I no longer felt comfortable talking honestly about how upsetting it had been; I felt like I was simply supposed to be “over it.” If I do talk about it now, it’s because someone else mentioned the subject first, and then I’m careful not to sound too emotional about the whole thing. I have this sneaking suspicion, though, that if we had dated instead (especially considering how long our relationship lasted), my not being entirely over her would be a bit more socially acceptable.

I believe that a friendship break-up can be just as painful, if not more so, that a romantic break-up. And maybe this is just my experience, but it seems to me like most people don’t acknowledge that fact. Perhaps they do feel it internally, but they don’t talk about it, and I wish that weren’t the case. I wish it were more acceptable to talk about the loss of a friendship, and how painful and upsetting it can be. It’s devaluing to friendships not to recognize the strong effects they have on the people involved in them. Any relationship that plays such a huge role in your life, especially for such duration, is bound to leave somewhat of a hole in its absence.

How have you reacted to the loss of a friend? Did you feel like you could talk about it? I’d really love to hear other people’s thoughts.