My story sounds a lot more high-drama than it really was.
I was a student a fundamentalist Christian university in the West. (OK, it was BYU.) I had been raised as a Mormon in New England, where the religion was so uncommon it pretty much flew under the radar, so the culture shock of being in Utah hit me HARD. I had always sort of known I was gay (and even had relationships with women), but being surrounded by a hyper-straight, dumbed-down version of femininity made it obvious. I couldn’t play those games anymore. As a brown-haired, athletic, smart girl in glasses, I practically had a “Dyke!” sign on me anyway. I wore dresses and sang hymns and tried to fit in, because along the way my parents had found out and cut me off financially, so I was basically stranded in the desert a couple thousand miles from home. I just wanted to graduate and move away on my own terms.
In that sort of environment, you had to be careful who to trust. Every student needed an “ecclesiastical endorsement” signed by a bishop to be able to register for classes. If he wouldn’t give you one, for any reason, you were screwed. So the last thing you wanted was for a well-meaning “friend” to tell your bishop you were “struggling with homosexuality.” You’d find yourself hauled in and essentially expelled if you weren’t careful. That happened to several people I knew. The sense of paranoia it created was stifling. (It all seems so ludicrous to me even as I write it. Was this truly my life?)
Anyway, a married classmate became one of my dearest friends. (People get married pretty young in Mormon culture—she was considered exceptional because she had “waited” until she was 21.) We were an unlikely pair: she was short, blond, gorgeous, outgoing, from southern California, and fit the BYU template perfectly. I was a total misfit (for the reasons above). But we made each other laugh, and we had a blast studying together. I never felt strange being myself around her, because she knew who I was and didn’t feel sexually or socially threatened by being around me. Hell, she was married! She was my very best friend, and I’d never endanger that by trying to make it anything more.
Then we both got into graduate school: mine in Chicago, hers in New York. Right before we left she told me that she loved me, and I didn’t know what to do with that. It seemed like nothing could be gained or lost by telling me then, she said. So we moved away to different cities.
About a year later we saw one another at a conference we were both attending. Some mutual friends were there, too, who sort of helped things along (like matching us up in the same bedroom—subtle!). The chemistry was unavoidable, and it just sort of took off. I couldn't believe anything could be that perfect. What made it strange and painful was that she then got divorce, from a truly nice guy, after four years of marriage. Most of her friends dropped her cold. One of them confronted her, saying incredulously, “What are you giving up your life for?! Self-actualization? True love?” And she said, “Well, yeah.”
(Tara’s “Are you happy now?!” smile in Family resonates so powerfully with me because of that.)
We left the Mormon church, obviously. And then we had a long-distance relationship until we could get far enough into our studies that one of us could move to be with the other. It’s been seven years now, and ten years since we met. Long story, happy ending!
One moral (among many): don't make huge life decisions to please someone else, because it will only get harder and more complicated later. Be as honest with yourself and others as you can.
Good luck at school!
Smashed. Wrecked. Gone.