I find I’m counting the hours. I used to count down the hours, when the person who would become by spouse lived in another state. I’d count the hours until they would be coming to visit, or eventually, the hours until they would be here to stay. Now, I count the hours with trepidation.
I’m afraid. I’m afraid that the woman who has been accepting of me my whole life will reject what I’m going to try to tell her, out of hand. I’m worried. I’m worried that she will try to convince me that I’m mistaken, or that I’m doing this to please someone else. I’m nervous. I’m nervous about baring this part of my soul to my own mother.
I’m even scared that she’ll be upset that I waited a year to tell her. But I wanted to be sure. I wanted to let the thought roll around in my head for a while, and reexamine all the things that led me to this point in my life. Memories that, when viewed with this new context, suddenly make sense. Just as an example, I’ve never been able to fathom how anyone could view Gym Class (or P.E as they call it now) with anything other than abject terror and dread. I honestly figured everyone felt that way about it, and were just better at hiding it than I was. When I look back, though, I suddenly understand things, even if I can’t quite put them into words.
There are a number of reasons why I can picture the conversation going badly. I’ve been the “interpreter” for other similar situations for her. I know her experiences with this subject have been skewed and tainted. But I am not C. And, I need to remember that she has always been accepting of me, if not always understanding. I hate to throw her this curve ball, but I don’t want to hide who I am from her.