Monday 9 December 2019

How love in my thirties gave me the strength to come out

Other people’s observations, beliefs and actions can often make it harder for us to be true to our own heartfelt needs and desires, but it’s never too late when it comes to finding a deep and lasting love.

I had to get far away to shed that shame, as far away as New York. I found love there — it found me — and after years of knowing and not knowing, I finally knew.
I had to get far away to shed that shame, as far away as New York. I found love there — it found me — and after years of knowing and not knowing, I finally knew.

Yvonne Cassidy

The first time I heard the word “lezzer”, I was playing a game called Home Truth. My friends and I played every day for years, and that day two of us were hiding in a hedge between two gardens.

A boy cycled up the driveway behind us. He was a boy we never asked to play and usually he was a quiet boy, but not that day.

“Lezzers!” he shouted. “Youse two are lezzers!”

My first concern was that he had given up our hiding place. But when my friend pushed herself far away from me and made a pukey face, I knew a lezzer must be something really bad. And that my next action was important.

“No we’re not!” I shouted and pushed myself so deep into the hedge, away from her, that the branches scratched my arms. I don’t remember the rest of the game, if we got caught or “saved ourselves”, but I do know that neither of us said anything about the incident to the others.

By my first year in secondary school I knew, of course, what “lezzer” meant, though I don’t remember who ever told me. At lunchtimes we speculated about who might be one.

Apparently, one in 10 girls were; some people said one in four. That meant there could be 25 in our year.

hold hands.jpg
I had to get far away to shed that shame, as far away as New York. I found love there — it found me — and after years of knowing and not knowing, I finally knew.

It seemed impossible that these alien girls could walk among us, preying on us, and I don’t know if I fully believed it, but it didn’t stop me hypothesising, safe in the knowledge it wasn’t me.

I gave this detail to my protagonist, Rhea Farrell, in my new novel, How Many Letters Are In Goodbye?.

Rhea is 17 and, like me, grew up in a small village in Dublin. But Rhea is younger than me and braver than me and has been through much, much more than me. For both Rhea and I, uncovering our sexuality is gradual. There’s no flashing sign, no letter in the post, only a series of small and bigger clues. Rhea is willing to look at these clues. At 17, I wasn’t.

Did you ever ignore something for so long you forgot you were ignoring it at all? That’s what it was like.

And if a new clue sneaked into my view, something I didn’t want to bring into the light, it just became something else to hide in the dark.

But when my life took some turns in my 30s, turns I never wanted it to take, the lights came on and they weren’t so easy to shut off again.

Looking back, this period was painful, lonely. I was terrified to speak to anyone — not family or friends, even my gay friends.

Everyone knew me as straight — I knew me as straight — and I wasn’t even sure. I had to be sure. I started to go to a lesbian group in Outhouse, creeping up Capel Street with an excuse at the ready in case I was spotted.

Sitting awkwardly at the table making small talk, I envied the younger girls — they brought girlfriends, held hands, kissed. They seemed so much lighter, like somehow they’d put down the boulder of shame that weighed so heavily on me, or never picked it up at all.

They influenced my novel, those girls. They helped me to show how naturally Rhea’s sexuality unfolds for her, how pure it feels. Being gay gets tangled up in debates about religion and debates about politics but really, in the end, it’s just about love.

For me, I had to get far away to shed that shame, as far away as New York. I found love there — it found me — and after years of knowing and not knowing, I finally knew. And it felt like freedom.

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Love gives you strength. It gave me strength to tell the first person and the next. Once I started to tell people, I didn’t want to stop. Each time I told someone, I reclaimed something, a part of myself I’d given away.

We live in New York — my wife and I — and the only time people look at us when we walk down the street holding hands is when we march in the Gay Pride parade.

It might sound over the top, but after years of silence, there’s something about the crowds, the banners, all that cheering that’s very special, more than special — it’s a feeling I can’t describe.

And I wish that I could bottle that feeling, or make a tape and somehow show it to my 17-year-old-self, so she could see there’s no reason to worry, that things will work out.

No matter how long it takes.

 

How Many Letters Are In Goodbye? by Yvonne Cassidy, is published by Hachette, price €12.99

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