What Feels True

Hi! I came out as bi a few years ago, still actually questioning if maybe I’m gay. It was pretty good inspo for this short piece I wrote and I wanted to see what y’all thought. Looking for any advice, positive or negative. Thank you!!

What Feels True
By N.C. Michaelsen

“When did you start to question your sexuality?” Dr. Eggers asked. 

I bit my tounge stifling a laugh. Not that anything was funny, just straight nerves. The immediate answer in my head goes all the way back ot watching Andrew Garfield in The Amazing Spider-Man. Hell, he was the only good part in that whole series. That wasn’t the answer he would want though. That wasn’t exaclty questioning, more so a wordless and physical instinct, a spark without context. 

“When my friend killed herself,” it wasn’t the whole truth, but it wasn’t a lie either. 

Dr. Eggers look at me over the rims of his glasses, the tip of his pen resting between his lips. He looked at me, not interrupting. He was waiting.

I shuddered in a breath and looked down at my hands. The nailbeds were red with irritation. My anxious chewing has left them mangled and ugly.

“I had thoughts back then,” I continued, “Though I questioned everything at her funeral. A day or two later I actually packed my car and didn’t come home for two weeks. I just… left. I couldn’t be bothered to stay in that town.”

“Let’s name this behavior correctly Travis,” the doctor said with his gentle voice. 

“It wasn’t that you ‘couldn’t be bothered’,” he stated with air quotes, “You were grieving, and its important to acknolwege that. 

I nodded, my face was more flustered than usual as I thought of my dead friend. 

“I was grieving,” I said back, though my voice was soft and quiet. 

“Let me ask you this. Where did you go? Why did you leave?”

The easy answer was I couldn’t stand to be here without her. We would hang out every weekend, and now the town was haunted by the memories. That wasn’t why I left though. 

For the first few nights after she died, I didn’t get any sleep. Instead opting to talk with mutual friends. I listened. I validated their emotions. I carried the conversations until the sun came up. Everyone leaned on me, not that I did anything to stop that. I always let people lean on me, to an extent it was all I thought I was good for.

What I didn’t do was ask for anything back, simply because I knew I wouldn’t receive the same treatment. 

The irony of these friendships felt cruel looking at them. This is how all my relationships seemed to work, friends, parents, siblings, hell even the woman I was with now. I was good at helping. Good at giving advice. Good at making people feel seen and heard. 

When it was my turn, however, people stepped over me without noticing. Even if I tried to say something my voice would be drowed by the wind. At some point though I need to admit that I didn’t even help myself. 

Realizing I’d been quet for too long, I looked up to see Dr.Eggers writing again. Hearing the sound of the pen scratching paper made my stomach tighten. 

“I left because I was tired of being a rock,” I finally said. 

He rotated his wrist slightly, pen still in hand, inviting me to continue. 

“I’ve been the rock as long as I can remember,” I told him, “I’ll say the right things, won’t make too many waves. I’ll become whatever someone needs in that moment, putting on a mask. I’ll call it friendship but the truth is it was never a real friendship.”

Why do you call it friendship then?” he asked, “If you’re only masking and telling others what they want to hear.”

I looked up at him frowning. “Can you explain that a bit more?”

“You’re putting on these different faces constantly. Are you being someones friend or are you just being agreeable to avoid being rejected?”

The words were precise, like a scalpel during surgery. Dr. Eggers had hit his mark. 

“To be frank,” Dr. Eggers continue, “you’re terrified of rejection. This usually begins during childhood. But by organizing your entire identiy around that fear, you’ve done something even worse. You’ve rejected yourself. 

My throat grew tighter. I quickly sniffed and cleared my throat. I tried not to pay attention to the embarassing sting behind my eyes.  

“What would the alternative be?” I asked. “Each time I try to be myself someone labels me. I’m either weird, strange, a fag, or whatever other words they come up with. 

He didn’t flinch at the word. “Have you been called that often?”

I shrugged looking back down for a brief second, “Sometimes, it happened at work a few weeks ago, used to happen during school a lot. I just got used to shrugging it off I guess”

I glimpsed a small smile on the doctors face, “You aren’t shrugging it off though, otherwise we wouldn’t be talking about it.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” I snapped back. “I’ve been asked if I’m gay my whole life. By classmates, exes, cowerkers, even my own parents!”

“And does this connect to why you’re questioning now?”

“Yes,” I admitted, then I shook my head, “No. I’m not sure. I just want to know who I am. I keep having these dreams, sexual dreams, about men. I wake up, I crave it through the day, and I hate myself for it. If I admit it, doesn’t that just make everyone right?”

“Why does that matter to you? Why does being right matter more to you than being yourself?”

I didn’t have an answer. I thought instead about my girlfriend, how kinds she was, how comfortable and safe I felt in he relationship. How everyday I would sit in a pool of my own guilt, hating my thoughts. She would talk of our future and my stomach would drop trying to imagine a future I didn’t want. 

“I’m with someone,” I said quietly.

“A woman. She doesn’t deserve… this,” I threw my hands up, “Whatever this is.”

Dr. Eggers nodded along. “To me it sounds like you need to hear this. Guilt doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong, it doesn’t make you a bad person Travis. This is just your body telling your something is misaligned.”

He leaned back onto his chair, “Your entire life people have been putting you in boxes, so much so that when you meet new people you automatically just put yourself in that box. This box has made you the emotional regulator to dysfunctional people. You’ve outgrown the box Travis. This is why you’re hurting so much.”
“So why is this all so hard to admit?” I asked, this time there were tear in my eyes. 

Dr. Eggers reached for a box of tissues and put them on the table in front of me. 

“Because if you admit this, it means things will change. You’ve been raised to believe that freedom only exists if nobody gets hurt. That’s not realistic when it continues to hurt you.”

My phone buzzed, signaling the end of a the session. 

Dr. Eggers closed his notebook. “Before our next session, I want you to do some homework. You’re going to write on two pieces of paper. On the first one write out the box you’ve been put in. Include who you’re supposed to be inside it. Then spend a few days imagining life outside the box. Just wants, not justification.”

“What if there are things I shouldn’t want?” I asked. 

“Make notes of it, acknowledge who wouldn’t want that, but don’t let it dictate that second list. The list should reflect what you want, not what you think makes you acceptable.”

I agreed, though it caused nerves to buzz through my body. 

In my car, I didn’t turn the engine on. Instead, I just sat there. For once, I didn’t want to run.

I opened up a blank notes tab and wrote down a question before quickly deleting it. 

Instead I wrote: What feels right when no one is watching?

The answers first came as a dribble, but the longer I wrote the stronger the flow seemed to get. I didn’t label myself. I didn’t confess. I just wrote the truth. 

For the first time since I can remember, I didn’t put the truth away.