Only Time Will Tell

Only Time Will Tell by Tess Beiter

Growing up is hard enough without a sexuality crisis to top it off.

Unfortunately, in my particular situation, the environment I was raised in was not one that fostered the exploration of sexuality. Rather, my childhood was painfully heteronormative. For years, I was left stranded, adrift at sea, convinced that I was completely and utterly alone in my “deviant” thoughts. The faith I was raised in and the parents I was raised by could not, in any sense of the word, be called approving of the LGBTQ+ community. As a result, I was not even aware that gay people existed until I was eleven years old.

Shocking, I know. It angers me that a key part of my identity was stifled and suppressed for far too long, locked in a prison of ignorance. Looking back on my childhood, it’s almost comical how obvious it was that I’m not, nor ever have been, straight. But hindsight, as they say, is 20/20. And despite how clear the signs may seem to me now, they were nothing but confusing for the young girl I once was.

At age five, I couldn’t grasp why I simultaneously wanted to be a princess and the one to rescue her from danger. My young mind couldn’t comprehend why it was strange to others that I wanted both.

Why can’t I also pretend to sweep her off her feet?

At seven, I was ecstatic when an older boy told me that girls could marry girls in Hawaii. Never mind that this wasn’t true; the more telling part is how overjoyed I was. My mind immediately jumped to how much I wanted to spend the rest of my life with my closest friend. Elle! Do you want to run away to Hawaii with me?

At ten, I furrowed my brows when everyone else only argued over Jack Sparrow and Will Turner. Was I the only one who also dreamily watched Elizabeth Swan? I blushed and averted my gaze when she graced the screen, afraid of the apparent strangeness of my thoughts.

You truly don’t find her as pretty as I do?

At eleven, I listened from another room as my parents heatedly discussed the 2015 Supreme Court case that legalized gay marriage. My parents were furious over the ruling, and that terrified me. This was the first time I’d heard the word “gay” defined as “same-sex attraction”, and it hit me as sharply as a slap across the face. I reasoned that I couldn’t possibly be gay; after all, I’d had crushes on boys, too, so I must be conflating my attraction to girls with something else.

If being gay is such an abomination, then...what does that make me?

I lived in this constant state of denial for years, and in retrospect, I now realize how miserable and isolating it was. I was constantly torn between my identity, who I truly wanted to be, and the parents and faith that I trusted. For people who were not raised religious, it may be nearly impossible to understand the battle that raged within me, but bear in mind that my parents and the faith they instilled in me were all I had ever known. However, the hypocrisy of the beliefs they preached became glaringly obvious once I knew to look. How can anyone declare that it’s our duty to love everyone while simultaneously condemning those who love differently than them? If their idea of love is discrimination and elitism masked by facetious sympathy, then I want no part of it.

It takes an immense amount of courage and strength of will to finally deny and leave behind the ideals you were raised with. It was a process that may have taken years, but rest assured, I was not alone. And once it was complete, an immense weight was lifted off my shoulders.

At sixteen, my biology lab partner asked me to tie back her platinum-blonde hair for her; she was occupied with the vials of enzymes we were studying, and strands were escaping her loose bun. My hands shook as I did so, and from there on, I found myself asking the question I had asked a hundred times before.

Do I like her, or do I just want to be like her?

As it turns out, only time could answer that question. While this was not my first crush on a girl, it was the first that I seriously entertained after beginning to think that I might be bisexual. She was popular but down-to-earth, incredibly smart and quick-witted, and her beauty enthralled me. I began to see her everywhere— not only catching glimpses of her in class or the hallway, but also seeing her in the simple moments of everyday life. The color of the cloudy morning sky would remind me of her eyes, or a barista’s voice wishing me a good morning would sound exactly like hers. She would come to mind whenever I saw a border collie, her favorite dog breed, and there were a thousand similar moments that brought her to my mind and a smile to my face. Most of all, I found myself wishing I had the courage to tell her so.

Frankly, this terrified me. I had long since abandoned the close-minded ideals I was raised with, but the last step remained: doing away with my internalized prejudices and accepting that I was biseuxal. There isn’t one definitive moment I can pinpoint where this happened, but rather, it was a slow, calm embracing of my identity. While this was decidedly less dramatic than the classic “confession in the rain” movie scene, it was beautiful nonetheless.

No longer am I compelled by shame to hide my sexuality, and no longer am I held back by the prejudiced views that once trapped me. I’ve broken out of the prison that was simultaneously of my own making and out of my control, and the freedom that has accompanied it is indescribable. There was a time when another woman’s beauty would cripple me, both with insecurity about my own appearance and shame stemming from my attraction to her. But another woman’s beauty does not detract from my own, nor is it something to fear. No, it is something to respect, something to admire, something to revere. There is an enchanting, oftentimes sad story behind every woman, and denying the draw of it is an insult to all the struggles she’s faced and overcome.

While I may regret all the years I spent afraid of my own feelings, I have let go of the bitterness I once held towards my younger self. She was confused and scared, and it’s unfair to be angry with her for the ignorance that trapped her. For better or for worse, every choice she made has led me to where I am now, and I admire her for that. I have vowed to look to the future and make the most of who I am now, and that is enough.