I'm From Driftwood
-
I'm From London, England by Tom Wicker
On the route from my west London flat to the train station is a tree in a park. It’s pretty nondescript, only really notable because it stands by itself. But since sitting beneath its branches on my 31st birthday and popping the cork of the champagne that turned a friendly drink into a date, I’ve turned its seasonal changes into chapters of a story.
This is something I do, often to the exasperation of friends and family. I could say it’s because I studied literature at university, or because I review theatre, but it predates both. I’m incapable of letting things be. I need the reassurance of a bigger picture, the drama that comes with storytelling.
My tree has dropped its leaves twice since that birthday, a spindly outline in the rain as I run past, cursing the holes in my shoes and promising myself (again) that I’ll buy an umbrella. Coming home late at night, blurry with drink and self-pity, I’m greedy for the bleakness of its winter existence.
It’s easy to turn a tree into a metaphor when real life is messy. It won’t argue back or challenge you. My date never turned into a relationship, but what followed hurt like one. He was brilliant, but complicated, and I’ve made a habit of retreat. I’m no good at love. I want to recognise it straight away.
When we met, he was at a low point: a talented journalist frustrated professionally, and getting over someone. I seized on these as reasons for not taking it further, for becoming “just good friends.” Like me, he suffers from depression and the black hole he was in at the time scared me.
If you’ve had depression, it can make you selfish. You understand its power, how it is always lurking beneath the surface waiting to strike. I needed to be more than someone’s life-raft, fearing that we would both end up sinking. I didn’t want to be pulled down again.
But we didn’t go our separate ways. Instead we became confidantes, sharing things about our lives we weren’t telling anyone else. Weekly dinners and drinks were stations on the way to a destination I pretended not to see on the horizon. I wanted the intimacy without having to take responsibility for it.
This continued until a seductively idyllic evening of drinking with my friends and winning my local pub quiz ended with us spending the night together. The next morning, hungover, I tried to pretend it was business as usual. But it wasn’t and two weeks later he asked me out. I said no.
His hurt was raw. “I thought I had a reason to be happy,” he said numbly. His reaction afterwards was swift, as he cut me out of his life both on- and off-line. More than a year later, the extremity of this response still makes me angry. But if I’m being honest, he was only doing what I had done. We both put ourselves first.
We didn’t speak for months, and this rift loomed over my attempts at relationships with other men. I felt validated in my fears that he had seen me as a symbol rather than a person, but this was cold comfort. No one else was as passionate about gay rights, as interested in the world or as good a writer. In racing his demons, he outstripped everyone else I met.
But people change over time. He found a man who wasn’t afraid of the prospect of a relationship, and we eventually reconciled after a few awkward encounters at parties. He and his boyfriend recently moved in together and are deservedly happy. As for me, while I’ve never regretted saying no, he is still a complicated part of my life.
I’d like to think I’ve been as important to him as he has to me, but I’ll never truly know – I’m not brave enough to ask. So I take comfort in things like my ever-changing tree, watching it fade into a shadow of itself in late October before blossoming in time for my birthday in late April.
Looking for hope in the cycle of seasons is undeniably sentimental; but change, at least, is a fact. For me, next year promises a move from London to New York, which is scary but exciting. And perhaps leaving my tree behind will be a good thing. There are other stories to tell now.
- – -
NOTE: Both photos are taken by the author, Tom Wicker. The main image is the park in which his tree grows, and the second image is the actual tree mentioned in the story.
-(Share your story with us!) -
“To love well is the task in all meaningful relationships, not just romantic bonds.” — bell hooks, ‘All About Love: New Visions’ (via celestethebest) -
I'm From San Diego, CA by Andrew
I have three fears in my life.
First, I am scared of many insects, but spiders especially. Tiny or giant –they all scare me. I try not to let it show when I encounter one, but I will admit to screaming like a little girl when I come upon one in the bathroom.
Second, I don’t ever want to be in prison. I know I would be bad at jail. Because of this fear, I forced myself to watch Scared Straight. (It didn’t work.) I think this fear makes me the rule-follower I am.
Third, I have always been scared that I would never know what love is really all about. I have always been a voracious consumer of pop culture in all forms. So, from a very young age, I have been assailed by countless messages of what love is…and none of them ever resonated with me. Straight love scenes in movies? Nothing. Love songs? Feh. Romantic comedies? Mostly annoying. (You know who you are, Meg Ryan.) In the face of messages about love that made no sense to me, I decided that meant I was not someone who would ever feel that kind of love.
I made choices in my life based on that idea. My serious college boyfriend ended up being a 15 year relationship. I am sure people saw us as a model of loving stability. In fact, I settled for mere companionship, since I didn’t really think there was more to it.
Here’s how I dealt with my fears:
At age 40, I met a man who made me realize that I could feel love. Within moments of meeting him, I knew that all those songs and movies were real… and none of them came close to describing how I felt. I always thought the phrase “You complete me” was hackneyed pap. Now it is the closest approximation of how I feel towards him. Hallmark cards make perfect sense to me now. We were married last year (during the five minutes when it was legal) and I have never been as happy as I am now.
My fear of spiders? My husband removes them for me now.
As for prison? Well, I am still scared of prison. I am the most law-abiding citizen I know, so I realize this fear is irrational. However, if anyone ever makes an all male romantic comedy set in a prison, I’ll be hooked.
-(Share your story with us!)
-
I'm From Denver, CO by Anonymous
The letter you’ll never read–
Of all the classrooms in all the colleges in all the world, you had to walk into mine.
I remember with perfect clarity the way you walked in. You made eye contact with me and that was it. I was gone. Before you, I called bullshit on “love at first sight.” Can’t happen, I said… but it did. I knew you were the one right then and there. I was writing a letter to my best friend. Red ink.
“I just found the girl I’m gonna marry. I can’t wait for you to meet her. I guess I should first though…”
I would duck down random hallways… first to avoid you because you made my heart race and my face flush and my communication major brain forget how to communicate at all… and later, after we had muddled through a few awkward conversations, I would duck down random hallways in the hopes that I’d run into you on your way to class. You would smile. And you would always make me laugh. Sometimes I would smile just in the hopes that you would smile back and I could sit and look at it.
Once we became friends, you listened. I mean really listened. You heard everything I had to say and then you did this amazing thing. You spoke greatness into me. You poured out some of your amazingness and let me swim in it. You told me I could do it. You told me I was smart. You told me I was worth it. And for the first time ever, I believed it. You talked me out of giving up on myself so many times. With you behind me, I changed. Because of you, I let myself be smart… and worth it. I’m so damn successful now and it’s not just because you edited my papers and introduced me to people who mattered and taught me things I needed to know… it’s because you sat with me for hours on the phone, or on your couch, or in your truck and talked me through everything that ever hurt me or confused me or made me smile. You talked me into being myself… the best version on myself.
You’re my friend. You’re my mentor. You’re my idol. But you will never be my girl. I hate that. I ache over that. I want you in every way possible. I want your absurd mood swings and your infectious laugh. I want your wine connoisseur, beer guzzling oxymoron self. I want you when you’re crying and when you’re laughing and when you’re thinking so hard you squint. I want to look into your green gold eyes and tell you all of this. But I never will. I want you in my life too much to do that.
I will never forget the nights with you. I’ll never forget the taste of your lips. I’ll never forget the way the second my lips touched yours it felt like coming up for air after drowning my entire life before you. The second you laid your head on my shoulder, my world came into technicolor. I understand love songs because of you. I believe in sappy movies because I’ve held you. I wake up every morning because I know you’re out there in this world.
When I meet a girl, even when I really really like her, I feel bad for her. She’ll never stand a chance. She’ll never come close to you. No matter how wonderful she is… when she walks up behind me and covers my eyes, my stomach will always jump, because for a second, I’ll think it’s you. She could never meet you, even if I wanted her to, because she’d see it in my eyes the second you walked in the room… everyone does. And she’ll never break my heart completely. It will never heal from not having you. Every girl is just some girl after you or some girl before you.
Sometimes I smile when I think about you. Sometimes my heart still races when someone mentions you. Sometimes I pull my car over because a song on my radio makes me cry too hard to see over you. Sometimes I sit across the street from a house I think you’d fall in love with and dream about what our lives could look like-the dog, the white picket fence, the piano in the front room, and the green eyed girl standing next to me cracking me up and proofing my first best seller. But always, always there is a dull ache in my chest because I know I’ll never have you again. Always, always I will miss you. Always, always I will be there. Always, always I will love you. Even if you never fully understand how deep you run in my heart… how much you flow through my veins… how often I have to focus so hard on small daily tasks just to stop my mind from thinking about you. I’m so fucking in love with you it lights me up and bursts my heart all in the same breath.
I want to tell you every cliche in the world. I want to sing you songs and read you poems and hold your hand. I want to be there everyday waking you up and falling asleep listening to your heart beat. I want to kiss you in the rain… or the snow.. or the sunshine. I want to see all of you… the good, the bad, the goofy. I want to clean your glasses and hold your hair when your sick. I want to read everything you ever write, test every recipe you try even when you burn it and let you correct my grammar. I want to catch every sunset holding your hand… knowing that God paints a pretty picture but it will never compare to your beauty. I want to pour over the pages of your life like I would an old favorite book. I want to tell you you’re stunning every day for the rest of your life. I want to make you see your perfection. I want the good and the bad… I want it all. I want you… in every way possible. I want to tell you everything. I write to you and about you everyday… and in my drawer, just like in my heart, I’ll keep these words, these letters, that you’ll never read…
-(Share your story with us!)
-
I'm From Colombo, Western Province, Sri Lanka by Charles De Silva
I was a chef working on a cruise line in Miami. Sailing the Caribbean, I was having the time of my life. Work was very hard. But that was it that kept me on my toes. I worked with 48 different nationalities and that was the icing on the cake as I loved moving around with the people of the world. I worked for 5 years and then it was cut short and it was down hill then…
Being gay was a problem as I was being followed by nearly every man who wanted an easy lay! But me being the old fashioned person that I am, I was not interested and shunned them away. I was more interested in a long-term relationship and with someone who meant something and not just lust.
But that was my downfall. Since I was not giving it to them I was gang raped by three of them and that was the worst experience of my life. I tried to forget it and get on with my life but it haunted me day-in day-out! Until something even worse hit me…
When I was back in my homeland for vacation, I found out that I was HIV-positive. But after a while I managed to get a job in Sri Lanka and it helped me forget what I was going through, but then the first ‘symptoms of HIV’ hit me.
My boss found out about my status and I was fired instantly. Then the routine followed job after job until I was out on the street on my own eating from garbage bins and surviving day to day. So I started doing work with PLHIV and also I started positive public speaking in forums to bring the issue to the forefront. It’s now been 16 years since I was infected, without medication!
I had three partners since 1997, and all of them turned out to be a disappointment as they wanted to get saved through me.
They all had jobs and were not HIV-positive. But they knew of my status before they got involved with me. But the last boyfriend took the cake as he lived with me for three years. I looked after him, finding jobs for him as he could not stick to one. I even looked after his family, sending one of his sisters to Japan for studies and his other sister for a temp job as she was studying at the same time.
I had saved a bit for hoping to start my own business at home, as doing sensitization and prevention work on HIV was a bit too much when you are living it every day. So I decided to have something else to take away the sting. So with a small loan from by brother and with all my savings I wanted to start a costume shop. But the day that I withdrew all my money, I had to go out for a sensitization programme and my boyfriend was at home. When I came back he and all my money had gone. Ten days went until I tracked him down. But he had not gotten the money as he says that he had lost it. Now in the meantime I had found out the lies that he had been telling me for the last three years and that was another blow. But I could not go to the police as I did not know what would come out. Homosexuality is a criminal act punishable by law. So I had to keep quiet and he took the upper-hand. This happened in 2007.
Now in 2010 I have met a wonderful guy who loves me and accepts me for who I am and my background, too. I was open with him from the start and he has opened up to me and we are now making plans to make fruit of our commitment to each other. The first steps of our relationship is to move in together and which we have now done, and are hoping for the best! I really feel this is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with as he shows so much concern and is also very open and direct, which is what I admire in him.
Wish us luck!
-(Share your story with us!)
-
“I’m From Damascus, GA”
Story by Brad Willis; Artwork by featured artist Ryan Hartley
See more artwork by IFD Featured Artists and their respective stories here!
I grew up in a world where boys longed for a new deer rifle for Christmas. The back pockets of blue jeans bore faded circles, evidence of everyone’s favorite contraband, Skoal. It was a world of peanut fields where, in summer months, teenage boys on furlough from football practice drove Ford pickup trucks down rain-rutted country roads toward hundred-year-old oak tree forests where they hauled two-by-fours, sheets of plywood, hammers and nails into the sturdy limbs of trees and there they built deer stands. During winter months, these crude platforms were populated with men, young and old, who sat silent for hours at a stretch, shivering in the cold and waiting for their prey to step haltingly, unsuspectingly into their crosshairs. A boy’s first kill was properly celebrated with drops of blood from the freshly slain buck smeared across his cheeks and forehead by older, more experienced hunters.
It was in this world that I first fell in love.
It was 1982, and I was a Sophomore in high school. His name was Alex, and he was two years younger than I was. I had attended every grade since Kindergarten with his sister, but I had never taken much notice of her little brother. From my youthful perspective, the two years that separated us might just as well have defined the term ‘generation gap’. But that year his mom, who was going through a nasty divorce from his dad and no doubt saw an opportunity to win the children over to her side, decided to treat Alex, his sister and a friend to a trip to Washington, DC. Lucky me, I became the designated friend.
Alex and I shared a hotel room. That’s when I first saw the scar that ran just below the outside curve of his chest. It was about an inch long and slightly raised. The skin over it was darker than the rest of his body. It looked swollen, the scar, and I imagined that if I touched it, if I ran my finger across it, I would find that it was hard.
He said someone had cut him with a hunting knife while skinning a deer. If you had told me at the time that this boy with the golden hair and the defined torso and the muscles that suggested a man rather than a teenager was trying to impress me, I would have looked at you incredulously. The other boys at school occasionally shoved me or called me a faggot. But Alex seemed to want to win my approval. He wasn’t a sissy and he sure didn’t seem like a faggot. But something was different.
On the first night of our stay, I emerged from the shower to find Alex under the covers of the bed I had clearly designated as mine. The only light in the room was that of the television, and it cast shadows in such a way as to make it impossible for me to read his face. Confused, I flopped down on the other bed. We spoke of insignificant things, at once getting to know each other while at the same time holding ourselves at arm’s length from one another but also, perhaps, from ourselves. When it came time to sleep, Alex crawled out of my bed and into his own, while I snuggled into the warmth he had left for me. And so it continued with every night of our stay, each of us warming the bed for the other.
When we got back to school, we would see each other in the hallway and stop to talk. He always had a swarm of girls around him, flirting and giggling. But he seemed to gravitate toward me. I think the other guys thought it was a little weird that this jock, this boy who was surely destined to lead our football team to victory after victory, would hang out with me, a slightly bookish, snobbish guy who cared way more about clothes than any guy should.
I wore his friendship like a coat of armor.
That summer he invited me to stay with his family at their condominium at the beach in Florida. His mother informed me, apologetically, that I would have to share a bed with Alex. I had long since given up any reservations about the fact that he was two years younger than I was. And I was more than content to share his bed.
One day, we were sitting on the beach when Alex reached over and gently, very gently, brushed a few grains of sand off my leg. It was a simple gesture, and it may not seem like much, but I can tell you exactly where the sun was hanging in the sky at that very moment. I held my breath and watched as his hand touched my skin, the moment unfolding as if in slow motion, his body connected to mine however briefly and tenuously. When I looked up, his eyes met mine for a brief second before he quickly looked away as though he had carelessly exposed a terrible secret about himself, one he could never take back.
That night, he took an older girl into the sand dunes to make out while a group of us hung around the pool wishing someone amongst us had a fake i.d. so we could buy beer. Alex and I barely talked as we headed back to his place at the end of the evening. The silence in the elevator hung in the air along with the sickly sweet smell of coconut tanning oil and stale sweat from the bodies of that day’s sunbathers. I climbed in bed next to him, jealous and hurt, and willed myself into the unconsciousness of sleep.
Early that morning, just before sunrise, I felt a heavy weight slide over my leg while someone’s arm draped itself across my body. I had been sleeping on my side, my back facing Alex. And here I was now, awake, feeling his body pressed against mine, my leg pinned under the weight of his leg, his arm thrown over me, heavy and protective. Paranoia overtook me completely. I wanted to turn over and kiss him and finally know what this boy tasted like. And yet, I was convinced it might be a setup, a way for him to expose me and all my perversion and ugliness to the world. My breathing became shallow and my mouth went dry. My own muscles were tight and every joint in my body burned from the tension of immobility. I wanted to change positions, to relieve the ache I felt. Yet I knew the ecstasy of being enveloped in his arms might never be mine again.
And so I lay there. Afraid to move for fear I’d wake him. Afraid to wake him for fear he’d move. It was the sweetest agony I have ever known.
When I think about Alex today, it’s hard to imagine he was ever my friend, much less the object of my complete and total adoration. Someone told me he is married and lives in Jacksonville, Florida. Or is it Gainesville? He owns a kitchen and bath showroom, selling marble tile and high end plumbing fixtures. I imagine his comfortable suburban life, living in a white cape cod style house, (window boxes full of geraniums), perched on a half-acre lot with a perfectly manicured green lawn watered by an underground sprinkler system that turns itself on each evening when the sun goes down (to better take advantage of decreased rates of evaporation during the night). The sprinkler system is set so it will never, ever hit the sparkling SUV and the Audi parked in the driveway. I imagine the furniture he and his wife have chosen to decorate their home. A dark blue, camelback sofa anchors the living room. There are wing chairs and a Persian rug. The mantle over the fireplace is stuffed with photographs of family, friends and, no doubt, children. Candles from Pottery Barn perfume the air with fragrances with names like ‘Sassafrass’ and ‘Cinnabar’. And white sheets, white linen sheets wrap around the king-size mattress in their master bedroom. It’s a comfortable house, snug and warm in the winter and open to the breezes in the summer. They are happy there. And I am happy for them.
For I know that once, in what now seems like another lifetime, Alex gave me a gift: a pair of blood red Yves Saint Laurent men’s French cut bikini briefs with a little white YSL logo clinging to the edge of the pouch just where my pubic hair began. He insisted that he be able to watch me while I tried them on, my growing erection straining against the fabric, betraying my desire for him. And he laughed. He laughed not in derision, but in delight. A lover watching his mistress while she donned a brand-new red negligee.
-(Share your story with us!)
-
I'm From Heyburn, ID by Frank-Joseph Frelier
I look forward to fall.
When I think of fall, I think of you and the lavish seasonal dishes we whipped up together. I felt like French royalty enjoying the most tender fowl, hearty wild rice and creamed soups, succulent gourds and crisp fruits. You are a magician over the stovetop, and I am master of the oven. The apartment smelled of cinnamon, nutmeg, and the most mouth-watering pumpkin treats last autumn.
When I think of fall, I think of you and the enchanting melodies that would leap from your fingertips, lulling me to sleep after hours of composing music. I was most happy sketching or painting, with you nearby, concentrating in front of your keyboard. It was an unbelievably romantic pairing that took me by surprise. You inspired me, and we fed off each other’s creativity.
When I think of fall, I think of you and the epic road trips, adventures, and leaf-peeping along the East Coast. I smile when I think of the quaint fishing village we discovered, exploring the oldest lighthouse in New York. Watching the sunset across Montauk Harbor and feasting over buttered lobster and carrot cake, sand still between our toes, it was the kind of date found only in a Jennifer Aniston romantic comedy. It was that trip I realized I was going to spend my life with you. I was embarrassed for the hotel staff when we upgraded to the Honeymoon Suite.
When I think of fall, I think of you and our trip to Michigan for Thanksgiving. Although I was terrified to meet your parents, your family was warm and welcoming. Dinner was lively and full of love, and we had so much to be thankful for. I loved learning your family’s holiday traditions, and exploring the snowy riverbank near the cider mill. Playing board games until early morning with your parents and siblings, I imagined future holidays together.
When I think of fall, I think of you taking my hand, whispering you had a surprise for me. My heart raced as I saw the unmistakable blue boxes with white ribbon in the windows as you led me into Tiffany’s. You promised that one day soon, you’d place a ring on my finger. I was so very much in love.
I dread the winter.
When I think of winter, I think of you and the apartment we shared, the home we’d made together. We could never get the apartment warm, and the wind screamed through cracks between window frames. Too many nights were spent shivering alone in bed while you worked late or left early. Weeks passed without your affectionate touch. I try to forget the morning you were showering alone, and I used your computer.
When I think of winter, I think of you and the lies I was fed. You swore the illicit Internet relations you kept were nothing more than entertainment and nothing physical. We exhaustingly worked to mend our relationship, but I was broken. I still can’t rid myself of the gut-wrenching, eviscerating agony after learning of your three-some and subsequent hookups the same night I ended our relationship, and you went home with a boy in your a capella group. For two agonizing months you slept on our couch while dating him, neglecting to pay rent.
When I think of winter, I think of you and our fights. The cold tiles of our kitchen floor are as harsh in my mind as your tone of voice when you shoved me to the floor. I think of how, for months, I never got an apology. Never an admittance you had done anything wrong. I think about the future, and wonder if other lovers will be as malicious and deceiving.
But I look forward to this fall.
When I think of this fall, I think of my new friends and the “Orphan Thanksgiving” feast we’ve planned, for those too busy or unable to go home this holiday. I look forward to being surrounded by people I love, whose energy and companionship never cease. I think of the unique plate each person will bring and how, like life, everything dished out is enriching and special. And I will sample everything at that table, even giblets, because every experience is worth having.
-(Share your story with us!)
NOTE: Frank-Joseph is also an IFD Featured Artist, and has another written story, in which he discusses coming out to his best friends and the strengthening of their bond the summer after their high school graduation. You can check out his artwork and its respective story here!
-
-
I'm From Queluz, Lisbon, Portugal by Marco Jacinto
I’m a 31-year-old guy with a story to tell. It’s not a funny story, it’s not an exciting story, but if at least one person can relate to it and find something positive in it, I’ll be glad.
Ever since adolescence I’ve always fantasized about this cool, funny, good guy that I would fall in love with and spend the rest of my life with. Of course life is never as we expect it to be and I jumped from abusive relationship, to meaningless relationship, to loveless relationship. I was in this horrible place where I was hating all men, as cold, heartless beings, or hating myself as someone who isn’t good enough for anyone to fall in love with. I lost my appetite, my sleep, I gave up on studying, making friends or spending time with my family. I felt so empty and sad, that everything else besides my eternal search for love seemed pointless. In this process, I became a mediocre student, and then made a mediocre life, I lost most of my friends and drifted more and more away from reality. I didn’t grow up and I didn’t become an adult. I’m not saying this is what always happens when someone’s heart is broken again and again, but this is the impact that had in my life.
About 4 years ago, I met a guy. An older, successful, handsome and charming guy. Even though I knew that such a person was way out of my league, I couldn’t help but to fall in love with him. We actually became lovers. One day I asked him what his feelings were towards me (pathetic, I know), and he very bluntly answered, “I’m not in love, if that’s what you want to know.” Well, it wasn’t a new experience for me but it hurt like hell even so. I decided to get away from him before I grew anymore attached. Time passed by and even though I met a few other guys, my mind was always on him. There wasn’t a single day that his face or name didn’t pop up in my mind. I just missed him terribly. So last year, I decided to look up for him once more. And as we returned to that familiar lovers-not-boyfriends situation, I realized something that eased my heart a little. It’s hard enough to say goodbye to love ones. I won’t leave this time, unless he tells me to. Love shouldn’t be perceived as some sort of currency, and my love should not be thrown away, unused just because I’m not loved back. I thought that the world is divided between the loved ones and the ones that only love. Not having the love of somebody didn’t tell me I was an unworthy person anymore. It actually is more valuable to be a person who is capable of loving. And that’s who I am. So I love him with no bounds, no expectations, and even though he doesn’t feel the same way, he lets me do my thing. Sometimes, in a tender kiss or hug of his or in a passionate moment in bed I even find happiness. I know that a lot of you will find me pathetic, or that I shouldn’t let myself be exploited this way but for some of us there’s only two options: to give our hearts or to keep all the love we have to ourselves and grow bitter and dead inside. I am someone who came into this world to love, and so it shall be. If anyone out there thinks that it’s not worth it, that your hearts were drained completely, just consider for a second, that you are an endless source of love, and that being able to give yourselves doesn’t me you’re weak. It makes you beautiful and precious.
-(Share your story with us!)
-
I'm From Louisville, KY by Purple Passion
In 1998 I was living in a small town that was about two hours from Louisville. I realized that I probably would never meet another lesbian in this town so I turned to online dating sites for lesbians. In May 1998 I met my spouse. She drove to my small town to meet me and we connected instantly. I fell in love with her beautiful blue eyes, blond hair, and the strength I felt in her arms. On May 23, 1998, we made our relationship official as we moved in together; I, of course, moved to Louisville.
At the time we met, my spouse was a student at the Presbyterian Seminary. It was really difficult for me to believe that I could be a Christian and a lesbian. I was raised in a Southern Baptist Church and they condemned everything. I knew that I loved this woman and I refused to allow religion to get in the way.
My parents instantly took to this woman in my life but her parents shunned us for many years. After 10 years of no contact, her parents decided that her being a lesbian was no longer a phase. In 2008 we spent Thanksgiving with them and it was really a wonderful experience. I know how lucky I am to have parents that accepted this woman into our family; my mom thinks of her as another daughter.
We have now been together 12 years. Sometimes it is hard to believe that time has passed so fast. Over the years we have watched our friends break up and go their separate ways. People ask us, “What is it that keep you two together?” My answer is and always will be, communication. You have to talk and tell each other how you are feeling and work together through the hard times. We have been through our share of hard times but we never thought of giving up on each other. I know this is the woman I want to grow old with.
We have entered midlife; I am 45 and she is 46. She is already starting menopause and it is not always pleasant for either of us. As 2009 came to a close we both realized that neither of us would be alive to see 2100. Some say this is a morbid thought but I have to disagree. This knowledge has made us realize our mortality. We decided to start making a bucket list and hope we can do all the things we want to before we die.
I feel that midlife for Lesbians is a difficult time. My spouse and I live in Kentucky and they do not allow same-sex marriages. We need to make our wills, health surrogates, and financial affairs. As we look to retirement, it is very upsetting to know that I can never receive my spouse’s retirement should she die. Is midlife really the best time of life? I do not know but I will continue to seek the answers.
-(Share your story with us!)
