Being a semi-closeted postmo feels a bit like being a resistance member in nazi Germany.

I think about it all the time.

I notice everyone and wonder if they’re secretly questioning or mentally out, too.

I look at everyone with fear and suspicion.

And with bated hope and wistfulness.

I’m trying to feel people out, collecting cues: a slip of phrase, the mention of tapirs, a casual reference to 1978, an unsuppressed eye roll at church, left-handed sacrament reaching, a newfound interest in “cooking with” wine, the faint smell of coffee, even just a waft of pumpkin spice.

Even then, it’s not a sure bet. But at least I’d have a maybe.

I don’t dare open up to people at large. The risk is too great, the danger too real. Coming under the fire of the leadership is possible. Being caught on the radar is bad enough.

Even if they’re fully in, perhaps I can drop a pleasantly awkward factoid to get the questions rolling. I know better than to break any shelves, but a good friend gifts knickknacks to put on the shelf. This delicate bauble is from my travels to Cumorah, Camorah, or Camora, a place in either North or South America; in the spirit of true revelation, the Inspired Suits have narrowed the location down to 50% of the planet. I hope my friend displays it on a prominent shelf and sees it often.

I try to slip a telling—but not too telling—phrase into the conversation. A signal of the resistance. Perhaps a backhanded compliment about the church, a critically cheerful observation I can pass off as earnest concern, if needed. How will they respond?

Here’s someone truly kind, who’s shown sympathy for the other side. Can I open up a little? No malice, just tell someone that it’s hard? Surely struggling isn’t a sin.

We’re all trying to find each other, but the control is so tight and looking for anyone else might lead them to me.

I bite my lip to keep my cheeks from lighting up. I’ve gone too far, made myself too vulnerable, exposed too much. My heart drums and panic washes over me, feels like a baptism of fire. I can save this. I think. Play it down.

Damnit, stay in line. Stop searching. Play the game, fool, play the game or outright leave.

Pick a side. The middle hurts.

They’ll kill me with loneliness and slow insanity, if they don’t ex me first.

(All respect intended; not making light of a terrible time or equating my struggles to the horrors experienced in wwii. But the tactics of a rich and powerful, psychologically manipulative regime reads very similar, as far as the feels go.)