Story Time! The Sisters!

Up until the day I had my oldest child, I lived every day by just winging it. I could leave to go to the store for a gallon of milk and somehow end up four states away and gone for a month. I made no plans and the let the wind blow me where it would. This went on from the time I was fifteen until 2008 when she was born. Instantly, I straightened out and grew roots, gathered dust.
I don’t regret that in any way. Yet, I have so many interesting stories to tell because of the way I used to live my life. This is one of those stories. This is how I met the two girls that I think of as sisters. Keep in mind that none of us are biologically related but you couldn’t tell. We’ve been together for so long that people even say we look alike. As I’m sure Flutterby and Kitty will be mentioned quite a bit, I thought it might be fun to tell their stories.
Oh, and if I wanted to, I could sit down and spin a tale making us all legally related at one point or another- albeit distantly- by unrelated and strange twists of fate.
Now, on with the story!
FLUTTERBY
I had just turned eighteen, still in high school. It was starting to get cold outside and Proxy and I (the girl I was living with at the time) had just had a huge fight. As we argued, driving, we passed a friend of mine, standing on the side of the road.
In a fit of child like rage, I got out of the car at the next stop sign, slammed the door and walked off. My friend was all too happy to see me though he seemed perturbed by my backpack. I lived out of said backpack and he knew it.
Him: What…are you doing?
Me: I’m getting so sick of her shit, man. I’m going to find someplace else to stay.
Him: Where?
Me: Hell if I know, I’ll camp if I have to. (Yes, I did things like this.)
Him: Nah, too cold for that, you can live with me.
Now, he and I, like Proxy, had grown up together- since we were the tiniest of street urchins. I knew him to be just as homeless as I was so I was highly confused by this “live with him” business. He had no place to live, after all. It was just the way things were.
Still, I followed him. Now, we’re standing in the middle of town, so it wasn’t as long as a walk as it could have been. He led me to a mobile home I’d never happened to notice before, tucked in behind a house that- I swear to this day- reminds me of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre house from the movies. In we went. Inside was a boy I vaguely remembered suddenly vanishing after being hit by a truck. I had honestly thought he was dead. In the kitchen, a girl I’d never met before. This was Flutterby.
“Hey, Flutterby,” he says, “this is Val. She’s going to be staying here.”
My mouth dropped. How rude was that? I don’t know this girl, she doesn’t know me! He doesn’t actually live here, as far as I know and here he is- just waltzing in there- and being *rude*. She looks up at me from whatever it was she was doing (I can’t remember) and shrugs. Then she says,
“you get the couch.”
Yes.
The next year or so was spent in that two bedroom trailer, within walking distance of school and between four and fifteen people living there with us at any given time. There was whiskey…there were a lot of things and…let’s say that we had plenty of adventures and my more shy side began to die out. Flutterby and I became inseparable. It’s been that way ever since. All of the others, every single one, dropped out in the years after, disappearing, dying, and just drifting away but Flutterby and I remain close. In fact, my first tattoo was a matching one with her to commemorate those years.

Kitty!
Now Kitty…she’s…well, she’s…let’s just say, she’s one of a kind. She is so…one of a kind…that I often warn any girlfriends or new friends of her existence and…let’s say “abstract behavior”, before meeting her. Because, the way I see it, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. It’s almost become a test over the years, survive Kitty without fear or a nervous twitch and you’re in.
I was fully aware at the time that I met Kitty that I was a lesbian. I was a brand new freshman in high school and very, very deep in the closet. Because it was safe there. I was the first person to come out of the closet while still in that devil school, as a homosexual. Why? Because…fuck. That’s why. It was a scary, scary town where I assure you, I was not welcome.
So, one day, shy and quiet and never talking me (so not me now) was sitting in class, minding my own damned business. I believe I was ignoring the teacher in favor of drawing Invader Zim characters on my paper. In fact, I guarantee that’s what I was doing. Said teacher was a strange one. Do you remember watching Men In Black when Will Smith finds out his teacher was an alien? You know how one of your old teachers popped into your mind as a reference? She’s that, for me. This time, she had decided that we should all get to know each other.
That’s ignorant.
This town’s population is slim to none, okay? The majority of us are related. We had five hundred students (fact! I’m not making that up!) in the entire school, four years, five hundred students. No one moves there, no one escapes, that’s how it is. Still, she insisted we play a game.
So, each of us wrote our names, one article of clothing that we were wearing, and something about us no one knew. She then read out everything but our names and had everyone try to guess who was who.
I wasn’t playing. Zim is far more important. I stand by that, to this day. Then I hear,
“I have on tiny cowboy boots, and my mom is….” And the teacher blushed. She had my attention, as it was clearly awkward. I didn’t think she was going to say it. After some prodding from the louder students,

“I have on tiny cowboy boots and my mom is a lesbian.”
Dead.
Silence.
“Lesbian” was said like some scandalous secret not to be spoken in good company. My friends gathered around me, snickered. They knew who it was. I had no idea. No one was guessing because, *gasp*, lesbians! No one says “lesbian” in public, my god!
Yeah.
Then she stood up, right beside me. I hadn’t even noticed her. She’s a strange looking girl with a broad nose and huge lips and stands about five foot three. Her hair is blonde, her eyes kind of yellow (I swear) and her skin is always really tan. She sure enough had on what can only be described as “tiny cowboy boots”. She then raised her hand as everyone turned to stare at her, gawking, and in the most something-anonymous voice you ever heard, said, “hello, my name is Kitty and my mom is a lesbian.”
I imagine that, to this day, I’ve never met anyone else with such an accurate gaydar. She immediately looked me dead in the eyes and grinned.
Best friends, ever since.
Whereas Flutterby tends to me the Romey to my Michelle, Kitty is the Shawn to my Corey. Cheers.

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Addiction

Alright, as I’ve told you before, I used to be addicted to drugs.
I am an addict. I’m a firm believer that once you are an addict, you always are. You may not be using, but you’re an addict and I think that only addicts can fully comprehend that.
What I was addicted to doesn’t matter. At least not in my opinion, it’s just not important here. I can tell you that what it was is considered highly dangerous and those withdrawing are often put on suicide watch in one form or another.
If you’re addicted to something, you probably know. In fact, I know you know. You may strut or march around all day claiming at the top of your lungs that you’re not addicted at all. But both of us know, in the back of your mind that you are. It’s like a secret, you don’t want to admit- even to yourself.
I have been clean and away from it for seven years now, just a little over as the anniversary of my quitting has just passed. I’m pleased to say that a lot of the damage I did to myself- not all- is finally healed.
I think about it sometimes, more often than I’d like to admit. It’s a problem here, though not as badly as it was when I was hooked. I can see it, when I go to the store, on the faces of those doing it. I know they see it on my face too. I’ve thought about this quite a bit.
I have no scars, no haunted look, no physical embodiment of my addiction. Yet, there’s still something there. I’ve talked to others who were addicted to the same thing, and they agree. We’ll call it a she.
It’s like once she touches you, she leaves something behind. She’s always there, looking out at people. She also gives you the ability to see those who romanced her as well. It’s so hard to explain, but it’s just there, just beneath the service and easily spotted.
I know strangers see her on my face. We see each other out in public, eating or at Wal-Mart. We make eye contact and one of two things happens. We always acknowledge one another for who, or what, we are; in one way or another. It could be a slight nod of the head, a slight turn of the lip in an acknowledging smile. Or, one of us will quickly look away. That in itself is both an acknowledgement that we see each other and an acknowledgement that not only is she on that other person but in them as well. It’s sad.
Those closest to me, those that know about my long term love affair with her, have tried to see it. These people have never met her and never will, if I can help it. I ask them if they can see her, on my face, if there’s some difference that I don’t or can’t notice. The answer is always negative. Of course, they saw her clearly while we were together, but not now- not this long afterward. Mostly, I’m told I look just the same. Yet those that loved her with me, they rejoice that someone else has noticed the same thing- that same look.
It’s something to contemplate, that look. How do we know each other? What, exactly, has changed about our faces and why can’t we pin point exactly what it is? This is just what I’m thinking about today.
As for those of you who are addicted, if you can’t admit that you are to yourself, you’re not ready to quit. I think a lot of you know you want to. Again, it’s in the back of your mind and you don’t like the control she- that bitch- has. I’ve never been a part of any anonymous group but the first step really is admitting it.
Self introspection is really difficult, I know. It sucks. A lot of the time, you’re not going to like the answers you find and, subconsciously, you know that. You know it sucks, and you know it’s not gonna be what you want. So you don’t look. But really, what are you accomplishing by not knowing yourself?
If we’re both thinking about the same thing, dear reader, I’m going to leave you with a warning. Get out. “She” does not love you. If you can’t admit this to yourself, if you can’t ditch her, death is the only way out. It won’t take as long as you think. In a very small crew of people, more than I care to sit and count are already dead, because they stayed behind.
If you wanna talk about it, I’m can listen as much as I can talk. That’s a lot. Just let me know.
Have a great day, it gets better. Believe me, it can *always* get worse. So, cheer up, buttercup!

Stark Raving: A Love Story

Stark Raving: A Love Story

10-31-2014

When I was young

Sorrow came to me

With addiction in her hand

And promises on her tongue

And so we lay there in the sand

Hand in hand

And I hid my soul

In shades of black and gray and red and…

I pretended

Descended

Went stark raving mad

And then I sent her on her way

She begged and pleaded

I wanted her to stay

But I knew that I would drown

The tide came in

It was so tainted

Stained with sin

And carried her away

Now it seems that no one knows me

No one can show me

Who I really am.

A Letter to Studs

Recently, I have heard and overheard a lot of…negatively said things about different sorts of people within the LGBTQ community from their own community. I don’t like that at all so I would like to address my feelings about that.
I am a self identified femme, as I’ve stated before. We are each, individuals. We are each special in who we are, inside the depths of our souls. I am aware of this and I think that is beautiful. I, in no way, mean to offend anyone by my blog. These things are how I indentify, how I think and feel, and my preferences. No, this does not mean that all of those like me feel the way that I do.
That being said, I prefer to date masculine of center women, dominant women. I have dated other girls that have also identified this way and have friends who identify the way that I do. It’s just not my thing. I like studs, butches, bois, AGs, and whoever I didn’t cover there. Again, I don’t care how you got there if you’re there, you’re there. You know you better than anyone. I won’t question that, ever. This piece is to you.
I love these women. There is something that draws me to the energy they put off, it’s magnetic. It’s the way they look in the mirror to check their hair before going out, that head tilt so that they see all sides of it. I love that wink that so many of them do, the often cocky laugh or grin.
I love your ties of all kinds, your combat boots, your stylish kicks. I like your dominant and protective presence, right at my side. I love the way you bring femininity to chivalry and prove it never died. I love the way you smell and have yet to determine why it is you all smell so good. I love the way you sit, laid back, feet up, as though draped like my favorite jacket.
I admire your absolute strength while still being gentle, your energy. I dig the way you can so easily slough off society’s expectations of what a girl should be and rock that out. From flannel to crisp white shirts to baggy jeans and a shirts, you’re pretty freakin’ awesome. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.
I do not think you look like a man. There is something still feminine about you, that separates you and defines you from them, and anyone who says differently isn’t looking the right way. There’s something there, in the lines of your face and in your smile, in your hands, that screams you’re still a woman.
I grew up with two masculine of center women (Kitty’s parents), who were very much in love. Something about them was never attractive to me, perhaps their age or motherly figure like disposition toward me distracted me from how they identified. I can still remember the first masculine of center woman I ever met, still at a young age, who could- in no way- be considered a part of my family. I remember freezing in the kitchen, all of my words gone and turning to my very best friend and hissing, “is this a thing? Who is that? You! Explain now!”
It occurs to me that you must get so much more negative attention than I. Not once have I been confused for being in the “wrong” restroom without actually *being* in the “wrong” restroom. I admire that too, your ability to go through that sort of thing, your sexuality usually pouring out of you in that oh-look-there’s-a-lesbian way. Ignore the haters, honey, because you’re awesome.
I know I’m not alone. I am very close with a large circle of femme’s- both lazy and lipstick- who feel the same way I do and you should know that we’re out here and we adore you- everything about you. You do you because, really, you’re rocking that shit out.
On another note, I feel the same way toward studs (let’s assume there’s an etc. there) who love other studs. All of this applies to you and I find nothing wrong with it. Okay, I might have pouted once or twice a little bit because there goes another one…but that doesn’t make you any less you or any less awesome.

You rock, honey.

Love,
Me ❤
PS: If you’re physically or mentally abusive (no matter who you are or how you identify) for whatever reason, this does not apply to you. You suck.

A Warning, Disclaimer…Whatever

Alright, readers! Here’s the thing. This is my blog, my rules. The things I write here are my opinions, my thoughts, so forth and so on. I represent only myself, no one else and I mean no offense to anyone. Still, I’m going to write what I want to write, because I can. If you’re offended, disagree, or what have you- leave a comment or email me. You never know, you could change my mind. Or, you could be ignored, it’s a 50/50 chance.

Another warning, I swear a lot and randomly. Sorry.

Now! I am an opinionated girl, I’d say. I have lots of opinions on lots of things. I try to have educated opinions. This blog will go between my opinions and what I’m generally doing at any given time. Just so you know, at one point, my friends and I all developed super-hero names for each other. Mine was Random Thoughts Girl. That’s your warning, right there.

I’ve decided to do two things for now, within my normal posts. There will be “Story Time” posts, in which I tell you a story- always true- and something that’s happened to me. It’s usually something I’m reflecting on at the time. The post title will have “Story Time” as the first two words so that if you wish to skip it, you can.

The other type of post will be “A letter to…” in which the topic will be whatever replaces those ellipses. For example, A Letter to Bisexuals, in which I cover my views on bisexuality. Some of these will be appreciative, some somewhere between personal and actually to that group or even people I know, it varies. Now you know, and can skip should you so choose. If you have a topic you want me to cover, comment and I’ll post it, if I develop an opinion. I’m not doing politics. I already have a piece written to masculine of center women, gay men, bisexuals, and transsexuals. I’ll post them all.

I will also post random poems. You can assume, unless I give credit elsewhere, that I did write it. If I didn’t, there will always be credit given. I do this so randomly, they’re written all over everything in my house. Amongst those things, I wouldn’t be surprised to see bits and pieces of my craft projects floating around as I’m always doing something. I recently made paper, a journal (made the entire thing), a book safe, and several other things. Gifts, for Christmas.

Oh, and recipes. If I post it, I’ve made it and it was freaking delicious. I’m trying to brighten your plates.

Just so you know, I get ideas rather quickly. When inspiration strikes on what I want to write on my blog, it’s all at once. It’s a hundred different ideas and I sit down and type them out. I have them saved, some dated for when they’re to publish themselves that way I don’t bombard you guys with too much, too fast. That was a habit with my old blog where I’d end up posting too much and then have nothing to post for a very long time. I’m trying to fix that here. I will also repeat myself because I don’t know if you’ve read what I’ve said in earlier posts or if this is your first. Sometimes, I just forget. So, bare with me!

Have a great day!

Being a Lesbian and a Mom

Yup, I’ve got three kids. Because I’m rather protective after a strange, pedophilic type encounter online I do not give out tons of information about them. I can, however, tell you that they’re reasonably close in age and the first two are called Irish Twins. They have two separate biological fathers between them, neither of which are always as active as I’d like them to be. So, a lot is left up to me and I’m okay with that, we manage.

However, my oldest child approached me recently after a long weekend with her paternal family, who can all be very helpful- until now. This was the conversation that followed:

Her: “Mommy did you know that, sometimes, girls kiss girls?”

Me: “I imagine that, yes, I did actually know that. Go on.” I’m highly amused at this point, wondering where this is going as she’s normally a very insightful child.

Her: “that’s bad though. Girls aren’t supposed to kiss girls and boys aren’t supposed to kiss boys. It’s gross and really, really bad.” End amusement, begin heartbreak.

At that point, I felt as though I had been slapped in the face. With a chair. I was so dumbfounded and confused that all I could do was tell her we would talk about it later and send her on her way to play with her toys and brother. I needed to sort myself out first, this was never supposed to happen. I was numb. It didn’t take long for the pistons in my brain to start firing again, putting it all together.

All of my children are highly intelligent. They get that, of course, from me. I have taught them from the word go, to question and challenge everything. Just because the weatherman says it’s raining, doesn’t mean it is, look outside. I want them to learn to verify for themselves, not to instantly trust and believe. Until that moment, they always had. Sometimes, with all of their evolved beauty, I forget that they’re still children, still impressionable. I knew what had happened in that moment. Someone had sent my own child to take a personal shot at me and it worked.

So, I called a meeting. We sat on the love seat in my living room and I posed a question. What is wrong about girls kissing girls? Why, pray tell, is it so bad? She had no answer, because she was only going off of what she was told. So, I asked her, if people were different than her, did that make them bad? Because she was different than them, did that mean she was bad in their eyes? Then, she got it. I could literally see the wheels in her mind working and the light click as she grasped the concept. She then said:

“it’s not nice to be mean to people.” Yes, she’d grasped the entire concept in those few seconds. I agreed with her wholeheartedly,

“would you like to play a game of pretend?” I asked. She lit up and nodded. I gestured about our living room “let’s pretend we’re at a party, okay? We’re sitting here, *just chillin’*. There’s some big girls over there and over there, there’s two girls kissing. Over there, there’s two boys kissing and over there, that girl was born a boy.” These were simply the first things that came to mind for me and going much further into the spectrum could confuse a child her age. She nodded, getting the visual. “Do we make fun of the two girls kissing?”

“No, that’s mean.” She replied.

“Do we make fun of the two boys kissing?”

“No.” she replied, “it’s not nice.”

“Good, good, you’re following me so far. Do we make fun of that girl because she weighs more than us?”

“Nope.”

“and that girl who was born a boy?”

“No, we’re friends with everybody.”

“That’s right.” I said, “because you shouldn’t pick on people because they’re different than you. It doesn’t mean you’re better, just different. Now, why do we not make fun of those people?” So help me, I meant for her to answer ‘because it’s mean’ or ‘I’m not a bully’ or ‘they’re just different’…something along those lines. Instead, she cocks back in her seat and gives me this superior look. As seriously as she can, she replies,

“because we’re *chillin’*.”

Parenting. I think I’ve got it.

For those of you that may be wondering, no, I have not sat my children down and had the “mommy is a lesbian” talk. I don’t have to, because there’s no reason to. I don’t see why they should need an explanation when, to them, two girls kissing is commonplace. Now, on to my nephew. As I’ve just thought maybe you’d like to hear this story as well. I’ve changed everyone’s name of course. Flutterby is my sister, bumble her son. He’s a year older than my oldest.

Bumble: Hey, mom, does Aunt Val like girls? She kissed Jane earlier.

Flutterby: yes, she does.

Bumble: so, then, are Jane and Aunt Val…girlfriends?

Flutterby: yes.

Bumble: That’s gross. Kissing is gross. (kissing in general, here, not just two girls. Cooties and all that rot, you know)

Flutterby: You’ll like kissing when you’re older.

Bumble: So Aunt Val and Aunt Jane are girlfriends now?

Flutterby: Yes, does that upset you?

Bumble: *shrugs* nope, just wondering. I don’t care who they’re kissin’, s’long as they’re still playing with me.

And there you have it. It’s that easy for a child his age (he’s still in the earlier years of elementary) to grasp two girls being together. Since then we’ve discussed many things amongst “the cousins” and there’s never been any problem with comprehension, they don’t care. It’s not that difficult.

For those of you that want to know, no. I have no idea who had my daughter say that to me, I really don’t. I don’t care either, as I’m not interested in any sort of drama and as that’s been long enough ago to be able to tell, it didn’t affect her. It was merely a speed bump she went over that she recovered from with grace and ease. I’m not interested in any drama with them, I’ll allow them to believe how they want and I always put it upon my children to make their own decisions and form their own opinions. For example, her only problem with the girls I date is that they tend to have short hair- usually in a fauxhawk sort of style. This disturbs her as it cannot be put into a pony tail therefore disrupting her need for all of her pretty baubles to go in it. *That*, apparently, is unnatural to her hair and purse obsessed mind. We’re okay with that.

Girl, as in Grrrr with an ‘l’ Sound at the End

Alright, so I grew up in a Uhaul.

Stop laughing.

Seriously, though, my parents moved me all up and down the northeast coast for ages, usually more than once a year. Eventually, we settled in town-of-hell in the south. I have always done things for myself, as soon as I was capable of doing so. I am also a fast learner. For example, my mother quite literally put “big girl panties” on me one day and told me, “you’re not going to wear diapers any more, we pee in the potty. We do not pee in these because you are a big girl”, followed by a short demonstration. I accepted this and was potty trained. I pulled every last one of my loose teeth, taught myself to ride a bike, etc. It is to the point that, if not left to learn it myself, I almost have a learning block and can’t learn whatever “it” is, at all.

So, that attitude combined with slowly integrating myself into this southern girl rock sort of culture lead to me being able to change my own oil, among other things. I hold very many qualities that are perceived as being “masculine” in most places. Where I live, it’s really just being a tomboy- the girl next door. I can also run in high heels without causing any bodily damage to myself, for the record. Now, do I wear high heels when I’m doing these things? Hell no, that shit’s expensive. Since I lived on a working farm, my wardrobe also consisted of several masculine articles of clothing.

Enter previous girlfriend and her masculine of center friend, stage what-the-fuck. I am deemed “too dominant” and “too masculine” to be a self proclaimed femme because of these qualities. So help me this statement was made, “I think you’re really ‘the man’ in this relationship”. Yes, because my soul should be defined by my steel toeds and ability to fix my own vehicle. THAT MAKES SENSE, said no one ever. Still, I had not yet done any self inspection toward my own femininity and it really bothered me. Like…really. I like for things to have names, it’s just the way my mind works. I argued the unfairness of those statements, entering some deep turmoil and attempting to discover myself further. I cut my hair off, all that jazz.

Guess what happened? Still a girl. Still turned into a useless giggly mess around attractive females. Yup, it turns out that my hair and clothes and abilities have shit to do with that. I don’t *want* to be anyone else, I dig the fuck out of who I am right now. Well, except that I miss my hair. I’ve really got to stop doing that sort of thing to prove a point. Either way, however, point made.

Why, as lesbians, are so many of us doing this? Why? After that particular girlfriend and I split, it was terribly hard to find another. Because I’d cut my hair and still wore rather masculine (I’d say more tomboyish- jeans and a tee or A-shirt) clothing. Facts are facts, the type of girl I’m attracted to usually isn’t attracted to the same type and apparently that’s what I appeared to be unless spoken to. How am I supposed to speak to said type of girl if I can’t form intelligent sentences? Do you see the conundrum? It’s bullshit really. It really, really is. In fact, I’ll admit that I had a Plenty of Fish account and an OKCupid account. To prove my point, on one profile my featured picture was me now, with shaggy shorter hair and on the other, me with my long hair. One particular girl got my attention. I flirted with her with my short hair and was shut down. On the other site she didn’t realize I was the same person and hit on me profusely. Oh, no. Don’t think so. This sort of thing happened all of the time.

It’s so judgmental. Why, in the great war against stereotypes and passing of judgment from those outside of our LGBTQ culture/community toward us, are we doing it to each other? Why, because I made mistakes (that I got three glorious children from and do not regret), am I suddenly deemed “not a real lesbian”. I’m sorry, do you know how rare a gold star is? This is happening without knowing each others stories, and that’s wrong on so many levels.

Here’s another thing, why, as FEMALES (no matter how she got there, she’s a she if that’s her chosen pronoun), are we putting negative imagery on being feminine? Sure, I know not all lesbians do this but those that do know good and well that I’m talking to them. This entire cluster fuck of mental debauchery was ended for me during a conversation with my current girlfriend who is masculine of center. I did something, I don’t remember what, completely “girly”. Something she would never do, because it’s just not her. I actually apologized for “being such a girl” and asked her if it bothered her. “No,” she said, “why would it bother me? It’s what I’m attracted to about you. You’re so weird.” Weird, btw, because I apologized.

Boom. Just like that. She’s right. There’s no harm in being myself and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with being feminine. It doesn’t mean I’m weak. No, in fact, it means the exact opposite. Nor does me having short hair make me any less feminine or any other ridiculous nonsense you can think of. I’ve crawled through hell and pitched a tent there for a while. There’s nothing weak about me, I am a strong, intelligent, and badass woman. I can be the “girly girl” that I am and still be that, I’m still a survivor. It literally changes nothing about me. I get it. I hope that, by sharing this, that someone else like me realizes that too and, you know, go change your oil in your high heels and lipstick and swear like a well educated sailor, if you can afford it. That’s your prerogative.

Never, ever, apologize for being yourself.

How To Come Out

Everyone’s “coming out” is as different and unique as they are. I think it would be really hard to write an advice piece on it but Alex from Western Hills GSA nailed it. Epically.

Western Hills GSA

How To

Hi guys! Alex here. A lot of people from GSA have asked us to talk about exactly how you should come out as a member of the LGBT Community or as an LGBT supporter. It’s a wonderful question, and it’s something a lot of people struggle with daily. I’m honored to be the one to give some suggestions that can help make things a little bit easier. I wish I could give you all of the answers, but unfortunately coming out is a different experience for everyone and there’s no sure-fire way of doing it with complete success.


1. Choose The First Person Wisely

When you’re starting to, as they say, “Come out of the closet”, the first person that you tell is crucial. You need to choose someone who you know will accept you no matter who you are. Like everything with the process of coming out, this decision is…

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