The congruence of our stuff, physical yes but emotional really, fueled the love, but I was yet to have names or words or tools for mine, and neither did she, at least not the correct ones from my perspective. We clogged the system and burned it to the ground.
I handled the ending horribly, ostensibly forcing her to break up with me. It needed to end, but I was incapable. Shoving my desire to leave, the sick feeling in my throat, to where I don’t even know. Cringing and pulling away in bed, heartbeat rattling, my body was loud and clear. She heard it, too. I could be passionately conveying my love, my desire for a future, but also confused as the words formed on my lips. A disembodied mouth, the little plastic windup one that waddles along with its large feet. The goal was calm, and I did what I could to keep it that way.
And then I got a crush. And then I lied about said crush. And got caught in said lie. Right before the holidays at that. I made everything a complete mess. It turned into an L Word Holiday Special. Cut to me thinking up a stupendous idea to make a mess of the mess. I got back together with her, it stemmed from the guilt I know, whether conscious or not at the time. Easy to see now. That went on for a month. At least that time I did it, instead of manipulating her to do it. She was, rightfully so, pissed.
I loved her profoundly. I wish I’d taken greater care, that I had been further along and not placated until I snuffed the truth. Moving my finger through the flame, I made it dance before licking the tip of my index, rubbing it against my thumb and pinching, extinguishing it in an instant—that subtle hiss.
My body hoarded the unexamined emotions, sensations, wants, and needs. Easy sentences prepared in my brain, stuck. They were visible to me, written out, I heard the voice but my mouth refused to cooperate. Just the tick tick tick of the windup toy, or nothing at all.
Shingles popped out of my spine while filming Inception when I was twenty-two. In a cast full of cis men, I did not understand the role I found myself in. Despite everyone being delightful to work with, I felt out of place. For the first two weeks of the film I joked I would be recast with Keira Knightley, and rightfully so. Shingles communicated the stress my body felt, what my words could not.
In our relationship I’d expected I would finally feel at home, a destination completed, quandaries resolved. She was out, and surrounded by a community of queer women, which I was now a part of. But if anything it slowly exacerbated my dysphoria. I was not settled, I still felt out of place, stirring up the dust. A pinball of projection, I internalized the chaos. It left me feeling bereft of hope.
“How can I possibly feel this way?” I bawled to my therapist. Again. “Why won’t this emptiness ever go away?”
We do not realize the extent of the energy we are losing until we find where it is seeping from. Invisible until it is not. A thought just out of reach. Only now do I understand just how much I was consumed, the degree to which my brain was taken by a desperate, insatiable need to control. A watchtower enforcing my own personal isolation.
My mother recounts the incident in the car when I was fifteen differently than I do. She’d bring it up randomly, perhaps secretly wanting me to correct her, to initiate that conversation. Even changing the location from inside her VW Golf to the park.
“I remember we went for a walk in Point Pleasant Park. You were so cute when you were little, you called it Park Pleasant Park … Anyways, we were on a walk and you were so scared to tell me and then you did and I just got quiet and felt sad. And I think I said, ‘I just don’t want your life to be hard,’ worried how you would be treated in this society. I feel bad I said that.”
Only recently did I finally correct her, creating space for a real dialogue, a healing one. It was after my conversation with Oprah, months after sharing that I am trans. I never believed a time would come when I’d be able to have these talks with my mother. Quite frankly, I didn’t think she would be open to it, and I didn’t want to hurt her, to see her sad. But people can surprise you.
In the end, it was she who initiated the conversation. She was ready, and so was I. We’ve never been closer, and her willingness to change and grow and move through the discomfort has been powerful and inspiring. She’s become my ally. She loves her son endlessly. I’m lucky to have that, to feel such profound and genuine love. What was the most beautiful and meaningful was to watch her bloom as her old narratives and doctrines faded.
Something opened up. She became less fearful. She has always been self-critical, and I grew up listening to her endlessly berate herself, always using the words “stupid” or “foolish.” This has grown quieter, softer, with at least self-reflection, a readjustment, a knowing that she is worth it. As the old constructs continue to crumble, it lets my mother build something new, too. Perhaps her unconditional love for me has begun to extend to herself.
15
“RYAN”
At twenty-six, I assumed that most people knew I was queer, in my private life I was considerably more open and the last step would be to eventually come out publicly. But I found myself again in a deeply closeted relationship and desperately in love. My partner was more closeted than me for a change, but everything is in degrees, people meet at different points of their journey, unable to sync up the tracks. We were together for almost two years, and even some of my closest friends were not aware I was in a relationship. Her parents did not know. I was the friend that came for Christmas. Only her sister and two of her friends knew. We never touched outside, we barely went to dinner. She was in my phone under the name “Ryan.”
We were staying at the Bowery Hotel in New York City. There are often paparazzi camped out across the street, waiting for celebs to pass through. When we were leaving for the day she went outside, got in a cab, turned the corner onto East Third Street, and I walked out a side door and got in. There was a period when she was working in Europe and I went to visit. She was staying in a giant corporate hotel. That sleek and modern vibe, lots of gray. We ordered room service, and when it was delivered, I literally hid in a closet. Light shone through under the door. I listened to the table roll in, the metal covers clang, and her warm voice expressing gratitude. How frighteningly casual some memories can be.
She would question queerness. Was it true, or simply a consequence of privilege, of having the space to think about it? Similar to thoughts I had when the idea of being queer felt impossible, believing as an actor that I would never be able to come out, praying to God knows what, please make me like men. When I think back, I questioned her sexuality, too, in a way that was harsh and unfair, prying for an answer she was not ready to give. I was angry at her, but I had all the information, I wanted to stay. Still repulsed with my entirety, truth be told, the person I was angry at was me.
Often at parties we would hardly look at each other. As if a sudden catch of the eyes would spill the queer beans.
“What, so you don’t even look at each other in public?” one of my closest pals asked.
I remember one party. I wanted to go home, but she had the key and I had to get it from her. We needed to perform a stealth operation, conceal it all, sharp in the palm.
“Maybe we should both get boyfriends?” she suggested one evening as we lay in bed, to throw people off, as if that would mitigate the shame and vigilance. We were in an open relationship, so technically it was not an unreasonable question.
“I can’t do that, but if you want to you should.” The word “should” came out sharp, a pulled pin, it was just a matter of time now.
For an extremely closeted couple we had a lot of fun, discreet but adventurous sex. On rocks just below the Pacific Coast Highway, hidden in boulders in Joshua Tree National Park, on an airplane. An unconscious yearning to be caught, to have no choice. Forced through the door.
We met making a film together. We would hold hands under a blanket in the back of the transpo van. Reaching instinctually. It wasn’t discussed. It didn’t need to be.