Story Time: Building My Army for the Journey Out
A shortened version of this story was originally shared with @MentalHealthStoryteller on Instagram. A wonderful account dedicated to rewriting the story around mental health one human at a time.
In 1993, I had just broken up with my girlfriend and was licking my wounds when I discovered a small film called Three of Hearts starring Billy Baldwin and Sherilyn Fenn. By the time the credits rolled, I couldn’t stop sobbing. I was completely devastated, but I had no idea why. A week later, Billy released his big summer movie, Sliver, with Sharon Stone. There’s a scene where Billy is at the gym, on all fours, talking and kicking his leg in the air. I was transfixed, frozen in my seat, and felt an enormous jolt of electricity surge through my body, unlike anything I had ever felt before.
It’s obvious now what was happening, but at the time, I didn’t recognize it. Having never had a male role model, I mistook being turned on for being inspired. As one does with a teenage crush, I dyed my hair dark brown like his, joined a gym to use that same machine, and even bought the identical hairbrush he used to slick his hair back. I was so enamored with Billy that I found myself at the theater multiple times a week, alternating between his two films like a teenager obsessed with their first crush.
I was nineteen. I naively thought I wanted Billy to be my cool older brother. It never crossed my mind that I wanted to kiss him, let alone be held in his arms. Believe it or not, I was so deeply closeted that when I looked at his hairy chest, I wasn’t thinking, “I’d love to lay my head on that.” Instead, I wondered, “Is my chest hair ever going to grow in so I could one day look like him?”
For me, being in the closet wasn’t like being trapped in a dark room. It was more like walking around in public and throwing on Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak when I felt uncomfortable. I’d wrap it around me tightly, hoping it would protect me, hiding the parts of myself I was ashamed of. And the more people called me gay or hurled insults about how “queer” I was, the tighter I pulled my cloak, praying they would leave me alone because the sad truth is, nobody actually wants or chooses to be gay, especially in the ‘80s.
No one says, “I want everything in my life to come with extra challenges, danger, and rejection.” Growing up, there were no gay role models or positive influences. This was long before k.d. lang, Melissa Etheridge, or even Will & Grace. Gay people were either the punchline, the flamboyant neighbor, or over-the-top figures like The Village People—who made me fear I was destined for assless chaps and a handlebar mustache—or tragic figures like Rock Hudson, whose death from AIDS felt like a death sentence for us all. In 1993, the fear of admitting you were gay was paralyzing and overwhelming.
Before our breakup, my girlfriend had this guru-type friend who seemed to think he had all the answers to the universe. One evening, in a particularly enlightening moment, he decided to enlighten me. With a smirk that could have curdled milk, he declared, “You're gay, but you're too scared to admit it.” Then, turning to my girlfriend, he added, “He's going to go home with you tonight and fuck you extra hard just to try and prove me wrong. But trust me, he's gay!”
That “guru” didn’t care about my truth. His ego needed to be right. And while he was ultimately right about me being gay, that night, the only thing he got right was when I got home and took her into the bedroom. Cloak pulled tighter. Thanks to him, I’m certain it delayed my self-discovery by months.
About six months later, I was working at a video distribution store. Both Three of Hearts and Sliver were being released on VHS, and yes, I understand how old that makes me sound, but I swear it wasn’t that long ago. I was in charge of setting up visual displays, and like a kid in a candy store, I had stacks of Billy Baldwin posters to decorate with—like a 13-year-old’s bedroom.
My co-worker, Karen Hughes, was a kind, gentle, and very proudly out lesbian who often shared stories about her nights out with "the girls." As comfortable as I was around other gay people, I never once entertained the idea that I could possibly be gay as well. One morning, as I was setting up the display and likely mindlessly gushing about Billy, Karen very intentionally asked a question that would change my life forever.
"Bob, if you could go on a date with anyone, who would it be?" she asked, her tone playful but soft.
"Romantic or non-romantic?" I replied.
"Both," she said. "Let’s start with non-romantic."
"Well, that’s easy!" I said, without hesitation. "Bette Midler! I would love to sit with her and just listen to her tell stories all night!" I’m sure you can visualize the confetti and glitter shooting out of my mouth as I said it.
"Okay," she continued, "now romantic?"
I paused. I can so vividly remember the intimate space Karen held for me—no pressure, no follow-up questions to steer me in any direction. Only calm curiosity. Surprising only to myself, I replied, “Billy Baldwin.”
And then everything went silent, the way it does during a heavy snowfall.
Karen gently closed the cash register, placed the “WE’LL BE BACK” sign in the store window, and said, “Let’s step out back for some fresh air.”
She knew the profound moment I was having even before I did.
Out by the dumpster, in a random warehouse building in East San Jose, I spoke my truth for the very first time. Karen was soft-spoken and safe. She asked follow-up questions, never rushing me, never making the moment about her. She didn’t say, “I knew it!” She didn’t need to be right. She knew she needed to be compassionate.
Instead of telling me who I was, Karen gently handed me a mirror and allowed me to see for myself. For the first time, I saw myself—not cloaked in invisibility, but wrapped in a magnificent, bejeweled version of the truth I had been pretending didn’t exist. I realized that I had never truly been able to hide—at least not from the people around me. What had been obvious to everyone else had never felt safe enough to be spoken aloud.
Later that night, in the parking lot of a Denny’s, I was with one of my closest friends, Carrie, probably talking about Belinda Carlisle or which movies were opening on Friday. After holding my breath for what felt like forever, I finally exhaled and blurted out, “I’m gay.” Carrie wasn’t fazed or surprised. I think she congratulated me and asked if I was going to get a Moons Over My Hammy or a Grand Slam. And just like that, I knew my peace was within reach.
With Karen, and now Carrie, on my side, I realized I was safe and wouldn’t be alone. Knowing that at least one person would still love me, even if the rest of the world rejected me, gave me the confidence that I could eventually be okay. And that’s how I began building my army. Karen was my general, and one by one, as I told each additional friend, they became my comrades. As my army grew and I knew I had enough people on my side, it mattered less and less whether anyone else accepted me, because I had plenty of people protecting me.
But of course, while I was preparing for battle with the world, it turned out there was no war—just the one I had been fighting internally for as long as I could remember. A war that began with the production of my first hormone—but that’s a story for another post.
Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of holding space for others as they discover themselves. Because of Karen, I’ve always approached their experiences with love, empathy, and grace. I never tell anyone who they are; instead, I love them and ask questions to help them uncover their truth. I make sure it’s never about me, always ensuring they feel safe and seen. It’s one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received, and I hope to share that gift and lesson with as many people as possible. Thank you, Karen, wherever you are.
You can read the original version of this story on Instagram @mentalhealthstoryteller by clicking here and supporting her with a follow.
I relate so much because as a teen I had a “best friend” who would tease me relentlessly about “being gay” that I hid myself for a long time because I didn’t want to be perceived. It’s always bothered me but like many experiences, I tucked it away. Your story reminded me of that wound and how happy I am now to be my authentic self, despite all the people who try to “other” me. Thank you. KEEP WRITING!! ✍🏻
This is so beautifully written. I love your brain. 🌈