Born This Way: 3 Years Out The Invisible Closet
Almost eight years ago, Lady Gaga – a woman I had followed intensely for three years – released a song that made me extremely uncomfortable. Until that point I had obsessed over every song, whether final releases or leaked demos, performance, music video, dance routine and tour interlude in complete awe, endlessly inspired by a seemingly superhuman woman who let me know that it was okay to be gay just when I was confronting that it was indeed my reality.
Through her music and visuals, I was shown thriving and happy young queers living their dreams, and introduced to an extensive history of queer life that had never been shared with me before. Gaga was explicit in her allyship, as well as her own queerness, so while being a Little Monster wasn’t exactly synonymous with being gay, I’m sure that my parents knew my adoration for her went beyond her disco stick.
However, when she released the single ‘Born This Way’ to launch her second full-length studio album of the same name, my whole body rejected it. Listening to a song championing the LGBTQ+ community so proudly should have been like the biggest hug from a loved one but instead there was a stubborn lump in my throat, overwhelmed by the possibility that the song may play on the radio while my mum drove me round the streets to do my paper round (I cycled sometimes).
I had not long turned 15 and people of the same age had started coming out, which should have helped, but the loudness of it all just made me resist more. The fear of finally giving into what people had chastised me for for the best part of a decade ate me up, and every day I was at a war with myself in my own head. In public, I distanced myself from the Little Monster my 13-year-old self had previously found such comfort in, explaining that Gaga’s artistic direction on the third album just wasn’t for me, meanwhile my Tumblr URL was a line from ‘Heavy Metal Lover’.
What my outspoken, flamboyant self would avoid ever discussing in person would be hinted at or quite transparently spoken about online in this way for years to come. Leaving school didn’t do it, going to university didn’t make much of a difference; the possible repercussions from sitting people whom I loved down to utter the words ‘I’m gay’ were simply too terrifying.
Ironically, though, the absence of these words only made us more distant. While physically present, talking about anything and everyone other than myself, going out, being young, drunk and hilarious, and forging meaningful relationships and making incredible memories, my emotions were on flight mode.
Perhaps because I spoke frankly about my husband Zayn Malik and would comment on important queer issues in support or protest, nobody ever questioned things. They probably just assumed I was comfortable in who I was and didn’t need to Say The Words, like I would tell myself. However, nothing good ever comes from suffering in silence, as even though I knew I was very loved for exactly who I was, the way it all went down caused a fair bit of pain as well as temporary euphoria.
When I moved to France to study abroad, there were no big secrets or silences. I could share every thought in my head without hesitance because I had met the people this way, not having to endure humiliation and periods of denial or confusion in front of them. This was all fair and well, and – being so comfortable in my own skin for the first time – I decided to write a letter to my parents (LOL). I was in no rush, mind you. I could take my time and decide when was right, although the subject was right at the front of my mind, so when two of my best friends visited me there was suddenly a major conflict in my head. I felt like myself, and they knew who I was, but I still hadn’t said it, and I hadn’t ever confirmed it to anyone at home, so everything just exploded in an extremely embarrassing and melodramatic blowout that almost cost me a friendship I hold very, very dear to my heart.
I guess what I’m saying in a very long-winded, roundabout way is that it’s easy to be really fucking cruel to yourself. When I trace it all back, I can clearly identify the justified reasons for the paralysing fear I felt every time I considered coming out in my early teens, and why I later decided it simply wasn’t necessary to do so. I wish I’d had the strength to do things earlier and differently, however this is one of many things that I need to forgive myself for.
Feeling embarrassed about being 19 years old when I came out is unnecessary and really quite dumb, actually. As is being angry at myself for letting two simple words hold such power over me. I only ever wanted to protect myself and for that I cannot continue to be mad at myself.
The way things happened taught me that coming out is no easy fix. For one, it never really stops. Secondly, new challenges will come forward, like having to learn how to confront your emotions head on. Share your feelings with friends and family. Go beyond the surface. Have honest and open conversations. Actually allow the people you’re close to in without locking part of yourself away. And do not blame yourself for having to do any of it.
It’s a constant work in progress and something I will need to do for a long time, and that’s fine. Now three years on, I have shed many of the minute worries that once consumed my every day and am happier than ever. I have certainly reverted back to my old coping mechanisms when going through difficult times since, but being conscious not to do these – bottle up – and to just talk honestly is what is important. I’m trying to be the best me that I can be for both myself and those around me, and that’s nothing to feel guilty about.
Lady Gaga held a mirror up to me when I wasn’t ready, which I low-key grudged her for doing (soz queen). I will always be thankful for what she did for me, though, and now I scream that Queer AF anthem word for word every time it comes on, no matter where I am or who is sitting in the driver seat.
Also, take this as the reason why I say I’m gay whenever the fuck I like — because I can!
