When was your defining moment?

Mine, I have been thinking about a lot lately. The trajectory of life; the landscape that changed; one you could not turn your back on; one that came to you?

I was 16 – young, right. I remember distinctly. A series of events lead to this point. Common teenage issues with my parents, but then, not. There was a layer underneath that began to whisper and soon it got louder.

A friendship: a threat to my parents, but not to me.

“Tessa, are you gay?” my mother asks.

The question did not come in a warm and nurturing manner, but more as a threat.

“Sit down, we need to talk.” she continues.

I said nothing, absolutely nothing. How could I? I didn’t even know if I was. And I didn’t feel as if I could toss the idea around with my parents in a friendly and inviting manner. I did not feel safe.

I have known ever since I was 5, 6 maybe, that I was different. I didn’t know how, why, what, anything – but I knew I wasn’t like everyone else.

To note, I don’t know if my mom was the villain in this story, after all, I was a teenager in suburban Minnesota. Being gay was foreign.

One time she read my journal. She took it away from me, and I never saw it again. She used it to ground me, and honestly I don’t remember exactly. I remember I said some things that were unkind about her. I was a teenager. Who doesn’t say unkind things? That is when our distrust solidified.

Over the next months, many events happened. Then, my brother moved out – and EVERYTHING was directed at me. The suffocation, them not listening to me when I spoke, and then the repetitive question:

“Tessa, are you gay?”

Depression set in. It was in late July 1994 and I remember waking and realizing where I was – that day, mentally, the relationship, the havoc with my parents and I said, “I wish I didn’t wake up.” A few seconds went by, and I realized I was in trouble, because I really wished I didn’t wake-up. I wished I didn’t live the life I was living, if at all. No matter how much I tried to talk, tried to make them happy, tried to be the daughter they wanted – NOTHING worked. I was losing myself, whomever I was.

We even tried family counseling, and it worked for a while; then, the counselor wanted to see my mom one-on-one. That did not pan out.

I decided that since they weren’t listening, they would have to listen, if I was not there NOT TO listen. My voice would be heard more if my voice wasn’t there at all, so I decided to run away. I spoke to two of my best friends at that time, and I found a place I could go, at least for a time-out. It was called “The Bridge for Runaway Youth.”

I plotted and organized. My one friend became my diversion and another friend helped me get there; the two best friends anyone could ask. I took my treatment machine, medications, clothes, etc.

Getting there, being there was the scariest moment of my life. I was going up against the greatest fear in my life – my mother. My mother’s temper, what she could do with it. I was defying her while I was defining myself.

“The Bridge” needed permission from my parents to stay there. Once I got there, they called my parents. I stayed there that night and then in the morning I had to speak to my mother on the phone. The threats came “Where is the car? Tell me where it is? Get it back here – we are responsible for it! You are grounded.” I refused to tell them where the car was, and I said to my mom, “Why would I want to go home if I wasn’t happy before, and I would still be unhappy?”

My brother intervened, apparently, and they agreed to let me stay. I was extremely close to becoming a runaway. I would have gotten in the car and I would have taken off. I knew where I could go to get more medication and I would be classified a runaway. Not that I wanted that, because mind you, I was nerd, still am. I got great grades; I worked hard, always had – so this was far from who I was. But, I wasn’t going back to that, to it – the suffocation, the weight, them not listening to me.

In short the events that followed:

I stayed there for a week. My parents came to the exit meeting and my mother’s anger was explosive. I said
I wanted to live with a friend of mine.

I moved into my friend’s house for 2 weeks while starting my junior year in high school. Her parents were very supportive through all this. More threats came from my mother. They would call the cops on me and arrest me at school, and take me back home, etc.

I went back home after 2 weeks.

I lived there until October 24, 1994 – the day I will never forget. My parents decided I was going to live with a friend of theirs, 2-hours north of the Minneapolis; Brandon, MN – population 400 – on a farm. I did not live on a working farm, but all my neighbors were farmers. She was a Christian extremist. Tattoos had the devil in them, although I didn’t have any tattoos. She didn’t allow her kids to participate in Halloween events; Christmas was not about Santa Claus. I had a couple pieces of jewelry that I wore, she questioned if they were satanic – they were from Claire’s Boutique. We went to Church every week, I joined a youth group for a short time; I imagine they were trying to sanitize me. I thought it all was hogwash. Being gay must have been a real threat to them, although the elephant in the room still wasn’t mentioned.

I lived there for 8-months; finished up my junior year. My anger was fierce, but I used it for the greater good. My parents could F with me, but they couldn’t F with my future if I kept my grades up. I never drank, never smoked, did my treatments, took my medications and finished that school year with an -A average. I left that year seventh best in my class, “F-you assholes.”

To mention, that when I lived up north I took a course after school to become a certified nursing assistant, bought a car, applied to go to college instead of going to high school my senior year – knowing that I couldn’t actually go to real high school while supporting myself. I worked and saved. I took care of my health – even with a lung infection. My sanity was music and walking. I did an amazing amount of it, miles upon miles . . . I wrote to my friends, secretly. I found out who I was. I became my own best friend, my strength, while everyone else could have gone to Hell.

I moved back home after my junior year. I had 2-months to go before I turned 18, the magic year which I was reminded of frequently.

Nothing much happened, as they knew my 18th was around the corner too. I moved out officially 5-days after my 18th, another argument, or I was speaking, my mother was yelling. My key was taken away from me, while it has never been in my possession every since, although they say, “The door is always open.” My mother wanted a couple rings that she gave me, and I gave them back as well.

You see – they thought my friend was influencing bad behaviors on me, making me gay. No, I was gay or the even more frightening word – a lesbian. My parent’s goal was to get me as far away from my friend and then everything would be okay, and they would have their daughter back. Their daughter never returned, because she wasn’t straight, she was a lesbian. She never existed.

My mother even said to me a year later, “You are the same even without her . . .” My mother didn’t say her name, because if they did, I just glared and became silent.

The reason I am saying all this isn’t to be heard, although I haven’t thought about all this in quite some time. If conversations were had, if people would have been more educated, more open, more giving, my life would have taken an extremely different path. If I felt I could have had open conversations, the space to question, without feeling threatened. . .

I don’t blame them. I blame the time, the lack of education, exposure, the intolerance.

For a long time, I didn’t want it to be the thing to define me. The garbage didn’t, but my fierce independence and me standing up to my greatest fear, my mother’s anger – did. I experienced Hell, as much as one could go through Hell as a teenager, in Middle America. My parents said I put them through Hell as well – we finally agreed.

I spent my junior year fighting for my freedom, and when I made it to my senior year, the exhaustion set in and I became extremely depressed. I felt I lost my family, had to define who I was on my own, while supporting myself, taking care of myself all before graduating high school.

Being gay was part of this issue with my parents, my mother’s anger, issues, unhappiness was another piece. I could not make her happy, because she wasn’t. It killed me seeing her cry, but it was sucking the life out of me too. And then, when I needed support, anything, she couldn’t do it, and then over-arching Fear of the real possibility that I could be a lesbian.

I never considered taking my life, maybe because I was too stubborn. Maybe because I knew I didn’t do anything wrong. Being a lesbian isn’t wrong, it just wasn’t and still isn’t the norm. Maybe because I worked so hard at that point to stay alive, to be alive and I wasn’t going to throw it all away. Maybe because I have a healthy ego and I didn’t and don’t give a shit otherwise.

I have had many years of counseling – thank goodness – but not about being a lesbian. In fact, it has always been a fact, no conversations beyond that. I have been in counseling mostly because of my parents, my mother mostly, and as of today – going back and forth many times, we are not talking today, again. When I told them 5 years ago I was engaged to be married to Sheila, the subject dropped off the face of the earth. We haven’t spoken for 3 years, and I haven’t seen them in over 5 years.

Conversations need to be had. Acceptance must be. Living and being my example must take place. It starts at home, but when it can’t be talked about at home, it needs to be talked about and supported in society, in our culture, in our political forum.

A Federal Law needs to be in place that mandates GLBT folks have the same rights as heterosexuals. We need to be considered as equals, not second rate. We are not ruining marriage – we want to be a part of this great tradition.

More conversations lead to more, period. More must be had, because there is a lot of suffering kids out there feeling suffocated in their families, in their communities. IT SHOULD NOT BE –

Being gay is normal just as being straight is normal.

Something that feels unnatural is unnatural – and you shouldn’t be punished for it. Ignorance punishes and suppresses people which leads to stagnant energy, which leads to entrapment, depression, anger, and only suffering.

I am going to end this blurb with a small story: a friend of mine, a lesbian and her gay friend went biking that lead into the evening. They were biking home right outside of Minneapolis, just on the border. Four guys in a truck saw them biking and decided they wanted to have some fun. They started yelling “Faggot” and when the light turned green they took off after them, saying they are going to beat the shit out them. They chased them for a mile or two until my friends were able to out-run them, as they were avid bikers. My friends were biking for their lives. My friend said, “It was the scariest night of her life.” She never peddled so fast in her life.

Earlier that day they asked me if I wanted to go with them. I am not an avid biker, they are too fast for me, and I am sure they would have left me in the dust. Lucky for them they were fast; lucky for me I declined –