Almost immediately after my last post, my friend called me to remind me that my parents had no idea that I was a) bisexual b) blogging about my sex life, and c) had no idea about my mental illness. He’s right: I’m still “in the closet” about my sexuality when it comes to my parents, entirely out of a twisted desire to present my bisexuality in the worst possible light, just so I can infuriate my dad into (hopefully) spontaneously combusting. The past few months, though, I’ve realized that that’s not fair to my mom, who would be, if not understanding, at least accepting. Ostracization has never been my fear. The opposite, in fact: I should be so lucky. I had this plan. I was going to find a one-eyed commie dyke guerrilla and bring her home for a holiday dinner. I was going to confess my deep, dark, sick desires for a manly dyke and a penchant for world domination. I’d watch as my father spluttered, turned purple, and keeled over right on top of the tofurkey. My family and I would do a jig around the table. Yes, I realize that’s completely stupid, selfish, and a tad insane. I’ve rethought this. I’ll tell my mom as I’d first been impelled to do. If my dad doesn’t like it, too bad. At least he’ll live through it and everyone else will be happy about that.
Do I have any regrets about not telling my parents? No. There’s no fear involved. An unholy glee, yes. I’ve resolved to be an adult about this, though, regardless of the urge to make another spectacle of myself. I have more of a problem letting my parents know about my mental illness than I do about my sexuality, though the results and responses will be the same: What the hell is wrong with you?!
As for blogging about my sex life, I do believe my mother knows. She just doesn’t want to. My mental illness? Well, Mom, guess what? I have OCD and BDD. I’ve also got this chill little self-flagellation issue.
Hence the stitches on my skull and the cracked rib I got last night. Surprise. Love ya, and shit.
^I was drinking, but that’s just totally unforgivable.