Natalie Weiss

I can feel this series reaching its conclusion.

I think, unless you’ve been a constant in my life over the past several years, no one knew this story.

Even then, I tend to be a private person, or at least I have been in the past. I probably never divulged some of the stories, some of the details, a lot of my inner thoughts.

And, really, it has been a pleasure to do it here. It has been a release. I have made connections between certain events that I never had before. I have reflected on experiences that have shaped me into who I am today. I have found peace in some of the more difficult moments. And even the happier ones that have lost their shine over time.

I have been open and honest.

I have been out.

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In June 2020, I begin my free fall.

I had found such a rhythm, such fulfillment in my days during lockdown, and now that I am back at work, I am losing it. I am not writing as much. I am not running as much. I am sitting at a desk for eight hours, and work is slow, and it feels like I am not accomplishing anything.

I have a camping trip planned for mid-June.

Solo.

It’s local – at Potato Creek – but I still want to be able to do it by myself. I want to know that I can pack up on any given weekend this summer, head to a park a few hours away, run the trails, and camp overnight, all by myself.

I had gone on the majority of my camping trips with my ex, and, obviously, she wasn’t going to be coming with anymore. My best friend likes camping, but she may have to work on the weekend. And no one I know likes trail running. So I want to be able to just go.

As the trip nears, my mental health is in the gutter. I keep trying to get a second wind, to just get excited for this trip, but I feel so low.

So many things are still on lockdown. Or ill-advised. Or seemingly silly to go do by myself.

I can’t go to a restaurant. Or a brewery. I can’t go to a movie. I can’t go sit at Barnes & Noble and write and browse. I can’t sit at Starbucks either. I can barely even go to Target without feeling some weight of guilt if I am not there for essential items.

These things are slowly coming back, yes, but they are slowly coming back.

The day I’m supposed to head to Potato Creek, I get off of work early, and I have nearly everything ready. I get dressed in the outfit I want to wear there. I am ready to go.

And I just…don’t.

Instead, I lay on my bed and cry.

My mind takes me to dark places. I spend the weekend there instead.

This experience prompts a few things. One, I end up reaching out to my ex. I don’t want to get back together with her, but I miss her, I miss our friendship. She says that she does too. And so we start the slow process of becoming friends and leaving our past relationship in the past. The second thing that happens is I start seriously considering medication. For various reasons, I had always been against it in the past. But I am reading more about it, about people I admire and their experiences with it, about how it may not be all so bad. And the final thing that happens is I question how my job is impacting my well-being. And if changes could be made.

Near the end of June, my coworker – my confidant, my stand-in therapist – decides to step down from her part-time position. I see the opportunity. I could do it – I could drop to part-time, take her spot, and I could resume writing. Finish my novel. Start pitching it to agents. Fingers crossed find representation by the end of the year. I see it so clearly. I am so lucky to have some savings built up and an organization that would still offer me insurance in a part-time role.

And so I do it.

I see it so clearly.

But I don’t see this: my manager requests a resignation letter. I have never been in this situation before. It seems kosher enough. So I write one.

Luckily, I am very specific with my language, with my intentions. I have no intention to leave this organization. I have no intention to not have a job.

I don’t see this: after I put my letter in, I am told I will have to interview.

I don’t see this: my supervisors and managers hold me at an arm’s length, something they have never done before.

I don’t see this: I know, and my coworkers know – this is not going to end well. We know before it happens; I am not going to be offered this part-time position. I am not going to have a job.

So it is no surprise when my manager sits me down and tells me that the organization has decided to part ways with me.

2020 does not relent.

That resignation letter ends up saving me.

I meet with the executive director of our facilities, and he reads my letter, and he sees what my manager did not: I had never resigned. That was never my intention.

In the end, I am offered a part-time position, and it takes humility and composure like I have never had to conjure before to accept the position and return to work for the place and the people that didn’t want me.

After this happens, it’s time to try medication.

The first medication I try is Wellbutrin. I am told by my primary care physician that this is used to treat depression more so than anxiety.  It’s a pick-me-up more than a calming aid.

Maybe it’s all in my head, but within a week, my depression dips again. It’s nothing I’ve not experienced before, but it’s still bad.

I stop the medication.

And I’m too scared to try another one so soon. Especially when the next one is Lexapro.

I have already been convinced by my mom that Lexapro is dangerous and detrimental. My grandma took Lexapro, and she had dementia. My mom’s read all the side effects. All of the stories gone wrong. If these were the only stories, the drug would be banned.

It takes another long month – the rest of July and into August – before I say screw it again. I’m lonely. I’m frustrated. I’m not in a good place.

I’ll try it.

This drug takes longer to work. But it feels better than the other one. I don’t experience the dips.

Things are better socially too, come August.

I’m just done. I’m done being the buzzkill. I’m done refusing to go out because I just “don’t do those things.” So I start hanging out with old friends. And we are going out on the weekends.

Somewhere in here – and I haven’t quite been able to put my finger on it yet – I also start owning my identity as a lesbian woman a little more. Maybe I worked through the family stuff. Maybe I processed my first relationship. Maybe I just got fed up. Fed up that I was living as less than myself for fear of what other people think.

And so I sit down one September Saturday in Barnes & Noble – yes, I am able to go there again! – and I write, “Hi. It’s been a while since we’ve talked. I guess, if I’m honest, most days I don’t think about how I don’t talk to you. I hope that isn’t hard to hear.”

I picture so many different people sitting across from me in Starbucks. The one on Main Street. The OG Mishawaka Starbucks.

People that I have wanted to tell for a long time. People who deserve to know.

And I want you to know how this feels for me.

Every time.

And so I stall.

We talk about what we’ve been up to.

I sip my vanilla latte.

You sip your drink.

I chicken out, like almost always, and I don’t tell you about my girlfriend and our break-up. I don’t tell you about my family, my coming out, and the rocky road that has been. I don’t tell you about my novel, and that it is a YA contemporary coming-of-age story about a girl who likes girls, about this girl who must reconcile faith and family and love and identity.

I don’t tell you about the things that have made up my world for the past two years.

But I want you to know.

So my heart races, and I laugh and wear that out-of-place grin, and I tell you.

I tell you, my reader, my friend, my family.

I’m gay.

And then I tell you the story.