Confessions Of A Former Lesbian

When I describe myself as a “former lesbian,” I’m often met with incredulity, particularly from those who lean left. Their doubt does not lie in the fact that I had relationships with women, but instead they doubt that I could ever “stop” being gay. From their point of view, being gay is something that is intrinsic, something essential about oneself. It’s not something a person does, but something a person is . When someone “comes out,” they're revealing something that has always been there, something that was forced to hide, waiting to be discovered. Once someone claims the gay identity, they have revealed their truest self, and one cannot opt in and out of the truth. Throughout my twenties, I embodied the ideal image of a woke, liberal progressive. I lived in New York, held all the correct opinions , and kept my mind open to anything and everything that was considered “woke.” I was also struggling to quell my unhappiness. I was constantly searching for something to fill the emptiness inside me, whether I knew it at the time or not. A lifestyle of indulgence allowed me to find temporary solace; partying, promiscuity, and pursuing material goods became the main sacraments of the religion I had found worshipping my own self. I was surrounded by every letter of the LGBT+ group, and sexuality was no big deal in the circles I ran with. Sex itself wasn’t something sacred or special for me or for those around me, so it made sense to treat sex as something to experiment with rather than something to be cherished and protected. The goal of sex was never to create a lifelong bond or to potentially create a new life; instead, it was something as recreational as going out to the bar or trying a new restaurant. All types of relationships and sexual encounters were validated and encouraged with whoever and however many people were involved. I realized that after the initial high of my gay discovery wore off, the nagging feeling of deep unhappiness still remained. When I first told those around me of my new attractions, the response was positive: congratulations, support, and encouragement. It was as though I had finally found the “real” me, leaving behind my old, heterosexual self. I felt the need to explain away past relationships with men, claiming that I wasn’t ever truly happy with them, and that there was always something “off” in my straight relationships. I was trying to convince those around me that I was truly gay, and also trying to convince myself. Since this identity was supposedly something that had always been in me, waiting to come out, I had to find some way to make sense of my former straight behavior. The more I adopted my new label, the more compelled I felt to reinterpret my past through it. Every happy memory with a man had to be explained away, while every disappointment became evidence that I had never been straight at all. Eventually, like many other things I left behind in my twenties, I grew out of homosexuality after two long-term relationships with women and a handful of casual hookups. One day, pursuing women lost its novelty, and I found myself exactly where I started: unhappy. I realized that after the initial high of my gay discovery wore off, the nagging feeling of deep unhappiness still remained. Lesbianism, as it turns out, wasn’t the answer to all my problems. The short euphoria of “figuring it out” dwindled when I realized I hadn’t, not even a little. Resting my identity on the sex of the person I choose to sleep with was a flimsy foundation. The attraction to women seemed to wear off, and the more I chose to separate myself from the lesbian label, the less interested I naturally became in women. I eventually dated men again. For me, the choice was just that: I chose to date men instead of women. It felt simple and anticlimactic; it merely felt like a phase had passed. Once I stopped participating in homosexual behavior, naturally I gave up my lesbian label. Of course, this transition was not welcomed with as much celebration. Speaking about heterosexuality as an identity to the leftist crowd is not valid, since it’s not in the oppressed class. It was only valid to use who I chose to date as an identity if the people I chose to date were not men. My newest discovery about my sexuality wasn’t a discovery at all; instead, it was a sort of regression back into the closet. Calling myself "formerly gay” was met with sadness, while being “formerly straight" was seen as brave and empowering. Calling myself a “former lesbian” is simply speaking the truth. I once participated in homosexuality, and now I don’t. This may be a threatening concept to those who rest their entire identities upon their sexual inclinations, and who would want their identities attacked? But acting on a vice or a temptation is not the same as formerly acting on a vice or temptation, or even thinking about acting on it. An action may describe part of a person’s history without defining the essence of that person. It was only valid to use who I chose to date as an identity if the people I chose to date were not men. Our culture today encourages people to treat identity as a product to be curated, displayed, and endlessly refined. Identity politics demands that we treat our desires and impulses as the truest things about us. For many years, I tried to find identity in something that was within me, something that centered myself. I eventually came to believe that our deepest identity is found not in our wants and desires, but instead in what we choose to pursue and ultimately serve. It wasn’t until I sought purpose and identity outside of myself : as a Catholic, as a mother, as someone who served others and not solely myself, did I finally find the peace and happiness I was searching for in all the wrong places.