A hypothetical letter…
My dearest Jennifer:
First, I want you to know that I love you; I always have, I always will and I hope that you never forget this. Having said that – and it had to be said – I think you now understand why there are some things I don’t talk to you about, like making the decision to tell you that I’m bisexual. I made that decision to tell you my deepest secret because I love you, I felt that I could trust you, and I thought you’d understand. This wasn’t a decision I made lightly or easily because this wasn’t one of those things that’s “easy” to talk about, like when I told you about the time I got arrested for breaking out all of Mrs. Wilson’s car windows; compared to what I told you last night, that blemish on my record was a minor thing. Telling you this wasn’t as easy as my telling you that I used to peek at my sister Gloria whenever she was naked in her room – remember how you laughed at that?
I told you my deepest secret and you lost your mind; I’ve seen you angry before but the way you acted last night? I thought I knew you but if I had known or even had a hint that you would have reacted the way you did, I would have never shared that part of me with you. I had no idea that you could be so vulgar and crude, just like I had no idea that you harbored such hateful feelings for anyone who wasn’t straight, and I’m still trying to figure out how you managed to take something that was purely about me and turned it into such a major issue about yourself.
Okay, I agree with one thing: Maybe I should have told you when we first met and in my defense, I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure that you could be trusted with this very personal thing about myself – and now I know that my first thoughts about this were right… but that’s water under the bridge. You said such horrible things to me, calling me a faggot, calling me queer, even calling me a pervert and you just do no have a clue about how much those words hurt me and, worst of all, when you said that you should have never married me and should have never let me touch you, that pretty much killed me, Jen.
What I told you wasn’t about you, Jen; I tried to tell you that I was bisexual way before we even met but you wouldn’t listen – you kept right on ranting and raving about your incorrect accusations that I preferred men more I than did you. I tried to tell you that if that were true, I would have never fallen in love with you and I sure wouldn’t have married you. I couldn’t believe my ears to hear you accusing me of cheating on you with men even though I told you that when we met, I stopped doing stuff with guys and that I would never find a reason to cheat on you with anyone. But you weren’t listening to me; you were consumed with your feelings about yourself – do you really believe that I would have taken you to bed if I had HIV or AIDS? You conveniently seemed to forget that before you let me fuck you without a condom, you went to the lab with me so we could both be tested, proof that we could have unprotected sex safely; I can still remember the look on your face when they told us that we were both very healthy and disease free, just like I can remember how you acted when we went back to my place and made love – and, as you said, “This is how it’s supposed to be!”
You just wouldn’t listen; it was like you were so consumed by your own feelings that you couldn’t hear the answers to the questions you kept throwing at me – all you cared about was how I somehow betrayed you and how I somehow made you feel less than a woman should feel… and all over something that I kept telling you had nothing to do with my love and desire for you. I don’t know how you managed to take me telling you that I like sucking dick and turned it in an issue of my not liking the way you suck my cock; but you were raving like a, well, like a lunatic and so much that I’m very sure that you weren’t even thinking about what I told you – you just wanted to believe something other than what I told you.
When you asked me, “How can you do this to me?” I have to admit that I had no idea what you were talking about – and I still don’t because, as far as I know, I haven’t done anything to you… except tell you something that I should have never told you. You asked me, “What about my feelings?” and I asked you, “What about my feelings?” – then you drove yet another knife into my heart when you said, “Fuck your feelings! Who gives a fuck about your goddamned feelings, you perverted bastard?”
Up until I told you this, I thought that you gave a fuck about my feelings, Jen…
You probably have no idea how badly you crushed my very soul when you screamed that you wish you had never met me and screamed even louder that I was never in love with you and that I somehow left you with no other choice than to divorce me… and all I did was tell you something about myself and something that, after being with you for fifteen years, I thought you were ready to hear. I thought you’d understand; I thought you were intelligent enough to accept that my feelings about my sexuality were just that – it’s how I feel. I thought that you’d know what whatever sex I had with men before we met was simply something I did before we met but you just would not listen when I kept telling you that when I met you, all of that changed for me.
You wouldn’t listen. You wouldn’t believe me. The thing I can’t believe is how you went from being so much in love with me before I told you about this to hating the very ground I stood on and in just a couple of minutes at that. Yes, I understand being pissed because I never revealed this on Day One… but do you now understand why I didn’t? Oh, yeah, that’s right – when I asked you this, you told me that you didn’t and couldn’t understand it… and when I went further and told you that I didn’t tell you then because I was so very much afraid that you’d act the way you’re acting now, all it seemed to do was make you even more angry; you kept right on calling me a faggot and a liar and a cheater and even a child molester and I still don’t know why you’d even say some shit like that.
And all because I told you something about myself and something that, now, I wish I had never said anything about. I thought I could trust you; I thought you’d understand…
I thought you loved me, Jennifer.
So now what? You ran out of the house in tears and, right now, I have no idea where you are or whether you’re safe – all I can think of is hearing you screaming at the top of your lungs, “I have to get away from your faggot ass!” My cell phone has been ringing almost constantly; our mothers have been trying to call me so I can only assume that, at some point, you told them what I told you and only God knows what you said to them, given your state of mind. My boss has been trying to call me, too – did you tell him, too? If you’re out there somewhere and telling everyone you can tell that – how did you put it? – I’m some fudge-packing faggot, I guess you don’t care how this is going to ruin my life, do you? No, all you now seem to care about is how I have supposedly ruined your life.
So I’m leaving you this letter and without really knowing if you’re gonna read it or just throw it in the trash unread. It won’t take you long to figure out that I’m not here and, no, I’m not dumping you like you swore you were going to dump me – I still have to go to Pittsburgh for the Myers account and while I still have a job but I’m sure that in your rage, you’ve totally forgotten about that business trip.
Now I just don’t know what to do and, worse, I have no idea what you’re going to do. I told you this because I do love you and that it was high time that you knew this about me but it was a mistake, wasn’t it? I suppose there’s no point in pointing out to you that my sexuality is partially responsible for me being the man you fell in love with, huh? I don’t know whether I should apologize or not; then again, given how you went off on me, I’m not sure you’d even believe that I was sorry or that my apology would be sincere and more so since you seemed to feel that you could no longer trust me. I will tell you and with all honesty that I now very much regret sharing this part of myself with you and now you need to decide where we’re going from here and if we’re even going anywhere at all.
PS: No matter what you think or feel about me, I have always loved you and always will.