“Oh you’re gay.”
— replied the seller on a popular mobile marketplace app, after I casually made a remark about how my partner enjoys Stratego; and I’d like to buy it for him.
I am not closeted. I have been out for nine years now. I assume most of my family knows I am gay. I say “most” because I doubt my parents sent out a family memo regarding their newfound understanding of their son’s sexuality. So those who know, know by proxy. All whom I consider as friends know I am gay. Incidentally I am also out at work.
But no matter how often I hear this, it seems that this is something I have never gotten used to. I still feel a certain conditioned fear every time I “come out”, even to a stranger. Was that a split second micro-expression of disgust that I have just observed? Have I become a victim of discrimination unknowingly? Would the seller change his mind and decide not to sell me the item? These are just some questions that run through my head.
I am reminded that I have come a long way as a closeted gay Malaysian man of Chinese descent born to a family who professes the Roman Catholic faith. I could still remember the anxiety at the thought of being accidentally outed to the world. Or the dread of lying again to another well-intentioned relative who wanted to know if I have started dating (a girl, of course). Or perhaps the tugging guilt that tells me that I am an abomination to God.
It has been nine years since I stopped hating myself,
— eight years since my first love.
— seven years since getting my heart broken.
— six years since I’ve learned to love myself.
— five years since coming out to my family.
— four years since my move to Singapore.
— three years since I’ve gotten to know an incredible bunch of friends (gay and straight).
— two years since meeting the One who made me fall in love again.
— one year since we celebrated our first anniversary.
It has been 9 years since I have left the closet.
And I have never been happier.
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