I don't remember much of anything from my childhood before the age of 4. Brief snippets of memory here and there. Something about a golf course (I believe my mom used to enjoy golf before she was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis), a flash of a memory of the teacups at Disneyland, and something about sleeping in the U-Haul truck we moved up here in. Oh, and being snowed in at a Holiday Inn for a week by the worst blizzard to hit western Washington in 40 years, after being told that it doesn't really snow up here. (I admit, this tidbit is embellished by the story I've been told by my mom, but I do remember a LOT of snow!)
I'm not sure how long it was after we moved that my mom met her second husband. My biological father left 3 months before I was born, and I've never seen him since. In fact, if the research I've done is correct, he's been dead for 8 years now. Good riddance. At any rate, they got married at some point before I turned 5. I won't bore you with details, or disturb you with them, but suffice it to say that the asshole sexually molested me until the age of 8. I imagine it would have continued for longer, but my mom divorced the bastard, and we moved. We moved around a few times in the next year, eventually landing in a little town that isn't little anymore, Issaquah. I didn't leave that hellhole until I was 22.
By all accounts, and my own memories, I was always a tomboy. In fact, I've been saddled with the nickname "Beast" since about 4 or 5, thanks to the story "Beauty and the Beast." Apparently my mom was reading me the story, and asked me if I wouldn't like to be Beauty, and live in the castle and wear the pretty dresses. I replied something to the effect of, "No. I wanna be the Beast, so I can splash around in mud puddles, climb trees, and get grungy." My dad (I'm getting to him in a bit) still calls me Beast. I distinctly remember being 5 years old, and hating the fact that my mom made me wear my hair long. So, I did something about it. I grabbed my mom's pinking shears (I couldn't find scissors), and lopped it off. Needless to say, she was horrified. And, with the exception of a few years in high school, I've kept it short ever since. I also remember playing Star Wars with my friends, and always wanting to be Han Solo, because he was so cool and he got to kiss Princess Leia. I've never liked dresses. The last time I actually wore one was at my oldest sister's first wedding. I was forced to wear the thing. However, under the dress I had a T-shirt, cutoff shorts, and combat boots. You better believe the second the ceremony was over, that dress was off! So much for mommy's little "girl."
I guess it was around the age of 9 or 10 that I began to suppress my boyish inclinations. Seems some people have a problem with a 9 year old "girl" running around shirtless. Hell, it's not like I had tits or anything. And, like a good little trooper, I tried to live up to my end of the bargain. I tried to get girlified. I tried growing my hair out, wearing makeup, wearing girly clothes, liking boys. Didn't work. I didn't really understand why all the other girls were going ga-ga over the boys in class, and staring at them all dreamy-eyed. I wanted to shoot hoops with em. Then again, I was the one staring all dreamy-eyed at the girls. It wasn't until about the age of 12-ish that I began to realize what was going on, and why I was looking at the girls the same way they were looking at the other guys. By this time we were living in Issaquah, which had suddenly blossomed from quiet little suburb into yuppie conservative hell. I quickly figured out that whatever was "wrong" with me meant I was "gay," and that it was a bad thing, so I shoved it aside, and continued the false girlyhood.
I guess I was about 14 when my mom started dating the man I call dad. They never married, but we all sort of adopted each other. His three daughters from his first marriage are my sisters, his parents are my grandparents, his siblings are my aunts and uncles...well, you get the point. It's kind of scary though. Out of the four of us kids, I'm the one who bears the strongest resemblance to him. The one with no genetic link. It's funny, one of his favorite jokes after I came out to my parents as a lesbian was that I was the son he never had. Ironic, no? They stopped dating about 3 years ago, and have both since remarried. My new stepdad and "stepmom" are great though, and there's no tension at all.
When I was 16 I met the girl who would quickly become my best friend, and first love. Of course by that time I had figured out what "gay" really meant, and that, at least in the eyes of my peers, it was a horrible thing. So, when I realized what I was really feeling for K. (names omitted to protect the innocent) I hid it. At least I tried to. I even tried the whole "I'll show you who's gay!" tactic. I slept with anything male and willing for a while. And, although I got my rocks off (at least sometimes), that was all there was to it. There was no passion, and I realized that that wasn't where my heart was leading me. Eventually I couldn't hide it any longer, at least not from K. I felt like I owed it to her, especially since we were such good friends, that I should tell her the truth. So I did. Or rather, she dragged the truth out of me. I was terrified about it. I didn't know how she'd react. She was really cool about it though. There's more to the story here than that, but in all fairness to K., I'm not going to post it up on the 'net for the whole world to see. If you really want to know, email me, and if I like you, I might tell you. During my senior year in high school I kind of left K. by the side of the road. I feel terrible about it, and I wish to God I could find her to tell her I'm sorry.
When I was about 17, I started to get depressed, severely depressed, to the point of seriously contemplating suicide. I even went so far as to ask a friend of mine from school to acquire a gun for me. Thank God she didn't. I had written personalized suicide letters to everyone in my life I had anything to say to. My mom, dad, K., my sisters. How my mom found them, I still don't know, but find them she did, and shipped my happy ass off to counselling. That was basically how I came out to my family as a lesbian. They were great about it. In fact, one of my sisters' reaction was, and I quote, "DUH!" My dad's response was, "Well, at least you're not a Republican." You gotta love that man. The counsellor was a godsend. Finally somebody was able to explain that it wasn't a fate worse than death to be attracted to girls. I stayed in couselling until shortly before I graduated.