I Forgot to Come Out To My Little Brother
A short story about how I fucked up.
It’s that sort of day. You know the one. You’ve known about it since your dad made you spill the sexuality beans on the way home from who-knows-where. You don’t even remember coming out to Pops, but everyone who is anyone knows now, so it definitely happened.
Except, you didn’t tell your sibling. Gulp.
You’ve spent four years slowly leaking your secret to the nuclear family. Two years of shelling the news to best friends over Jade Citrus Mint at Starbucks. You even came out to your 11th-grade English class as a “member of the LGBT community” which earned you an audible *gasp* from everyone in the front row.
You’d have told Sibling already, but multiple grown-ups have told you that’s a terrible idea. He’s two years younger than you — too young to understand.
So you’ve waited. And waited.
It took you four years to realize how much you hate waiting.
You swing your legs off your hand-me-down mattress and march toward Sibling’s bedroom. Today, right now, you’re going to share with them your Big Secret. It’ll be fine, you tell yourself. Sure, they might be hurt that you didn’t tell them sooner, and you just stubbed your toe on the bathroom tile between your bedroom and theirs, but fuck it. Toes are like feelings. They heal. All they need are a few choice words and time. Depending on the toe, a bandage or two. And ice, ice is good. Perhaps a massage. A toe massage?
You’ve lost track of this analogy and you’re stalling, dammit.
Now you’re standing like an idiot under the mini-hoop on Sibling’s door frame. Sibling hasn’t even glanced over from their Xbox 360.
They look busy. Plus, they have a (virtual) weapon and, judging by the screams on screen, aren’t afraid to use it. Is this really the best time for breaking Big News?
Whatever. You’ve been waiting to do this since your pimply 7th-grade self confessed to his forty-something-year-old father that playing with Polly Pockets wasn’t just a phase.
“Sibling,” you say. Deep inhale. “I’m gay.” Deep exhale. You sounded like a gusty old man on his last breath, but you’ve said it. You’ve said it!
Now if only Sibling would stop looking at the Xbox and look at you.
Three seconds. Ten. Twenty.
You shrug and leave the room. That was surprisingly anticlimactic, you think. Maybe he just doesn’t care. Or maybe you’re confession was more violent than you intended and you just blew his brains out. Either way, you’ll find out soon enough.
You tell your parents, because you’re seventeen. They congratulate you and ask how it went.
“Fine,” you say. “I don’t think he cared.”
Your wise, discerning parents look at each other. They look at you. Uh-oh. You head toward your room and hear noises coming from inside. Which is odd, because you aren’t.
You enter to Sibling rifling through your desk drawers like a raccoon hunting for scraps. You start with the obvious.
“What are you doing?”
Sibling continues shuffling. “Looking for your project. Where is it? I know this is an experiment. You’re messing with me.”
Bang. Ouch. Shot through the heart, and no one but yourself to blame. You’re bleeding out, but lucky for you, mom and dad trailed you to your room and help bandage the wound. They even talk Sibling out of their weird social-experiment fantasy (which, on further thought, is totally something you might do).
“Who wants ice cream?” asks dad.
Everyone, obviously. It’s a shame you don’t like Sherbet (because rainbow) but you figure your gay flag has time to fly. And now your relationship with Sibling is a little awkward, but that too will pass. Eventually.
Your toe throbs. Bending down, you rub it a little. Better, you think.
Welp. That actually happened.
That wasn’t smart. I waited four years to spill the beans, I could have waited another ten minutes for my brother to wrap up his gaming session.
Note to self: Don’t drop bombs while your target is running around a virtual battlefield.
Everyone in the closet deserves to come out at their own pace. I know my brother best. Had I come out to him from the start, I’d regret less, regardless of his reaction.
Note to self: Pay attention to your feelings. They matter.
Honestly, I’m glad I stumbled onto my snooping sibling. At least that way, I found out what he was thinking. The situation could have been made so much worse by my lack of communication.
Note to self: Don’t walk out of important conversations without asking the other party what they think. Not having closure leaves messy feelings to molder.
Thank you for reading! If you’ve made it this far, you deserve a badge. Too many military/gun references. Moving on.
You may be wondering why the story portion is so long compared to the advice portion. I sure am. Have an article that retroactively justifies my style choices here. Now have another article that justifiably critiques my style here. (Confession: it’s the same article.)
That’s all the flaws I have the time (and dignity) to point out. If you spot any others (I have faith in you!) let me know in the comments, or email me at coletretheway@gmail.com.
~Here’s to ice cream,
Cole
Need tips on how to come out to your sibling? Check out this elite daily article.
Are your straight family members looking for #rainbow resources? Look no further than the Human Right’s Campaign Allies page.
Craving an article that gets the whole “coming out” thing? See Willa Bennett’s story.
