On this particular visit home, I had resolved to disclose my HIV status to my family. It was time. When I was first diagnosed one of the issues I wrestled with was when or how or what to tell my family. I got the best advice from my friend Neo I ever got. Wait. Don't tell anyone anything until you're ready. Of course, I got this advice after I told Neo almost immediately. But in keeping with the spirit of the rule, I was already ready to tell him, knowing I would get the support I needed. Disclosing to the family, however was a dicier issue. I couldn't be sure of the reaction I would get and more importantly, I couldn't control it. Control freaks no like the unknown.
The basis for my fear was rooted in my coming out. It was sometime after my 18th birthday, but before my 20th. I wish I could be clearer. I wish my memories were more intact. All I'm left with are vignettes. Scenes of things that took place in a place at a time. They are not rooted on a specific timeline, but rather take place "before this" but "after that". I have long since given up being frustrated by what is.
But I remember the catalyst. I got my ear pierced. Now mind you, I'm not so old that this was a radical act. I clearly remember many sport stars and celebrities wearing an earring. Although I am old enough to remember that two pierced ears was out of the question. But I also knew that in my family, in the household I grew up in, this would not be well received. We did not get wild haircuts. We did not get tattoos. And we most certainly did not get an earring. In other words, I picked a fight. And a fight is what I got. And so it was, that a night-time conversation ensued between me and my father at the kitchen table. I wish I could remember all that was said but most of those memories are lost to me. I remember trembling as I struggled to get the words out. I remember him asking me finally if I was gay.
I remembering responding softly "I think so, yeah."
I think he walked away.
I'm not sure how we ended up out on the front porch as our argument got progressively more heated. I was getting more angry and hurt. I said something aggressive and confrontational. And then he slapped me across the face.
"That is it!" I screamed from the lawn. Too angry (and secretly hoping) to care that the neighbors heard. "I'm leaving this shit hole and this time I'm never coming back!" I screamed and sobbed all at once. I left the house enraged and immediately began calculating where to go and who to call. I started scheming as to how I would return to sneak my clothes away and any possessions that were outright mine. I was making a list of everything I paid for that I could take. I wasn't even sure where I was walking to at this point. I felt betrayed and rejected. My father didn't love me. Again.
About 45 minutes of wandering the neighborhood in every direction I still wasn't more than three blocks from my house. My father pulled up in his car.
"Tom."
"I've got nothing to say to you. Leave me alone!"
"Fine, just stop walking and listen. I'll follow you all night if I have to."
And I knew that he would. So I stopped.
"I'm sorry that happened. I was surprised and shocked and I should have handled it differently. I lost my temper and I wasn't thinking. Come home now. If you still want to leave you can but do it right. Not like this."
" I'm not even sure where to go now."
"OK. Get in. You don't have to talk if you don't want to."
I climbed in the front seat and folded my arms. My eyes were filled with tears. We headed for home as I sat silently. After a few minutes I did have one thing to say.
"That's the last time you're ever ever going to hit me. The next time I'll hit you back."
And it was.
That night, I heard both my parents in the middle of the night. Sobbing in their bed.
A few months later I moved out.
to be continued...
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