When I was still an Evangelical Christian, but starting to suspect — and slowly accept — that I was bisexual, I didn’t think (at first) I’d ever act on my same-sex attractions.

I’d had this vision of myself with a husband for quite a while; certainly I’d been dreaming of that future, and looking forward to it. My being bisexual wouldn’t change that.

I wanted a husband. Right?

Perhaps on some level, I believed it would be easier for traditionalist Christians to accept me this way: A “non-practicing” queer. Someone who claimed to like girls, but was outwardly everything they respected: A good Christian woman who married a good Christian man.

Maybe, on some level, it was easier for me to accept myself this way, too.

A house of cards

A problem appeared immediately.

Almost the instant I entertained the idea that, maybe, hypothetically, I could be with a woman, that vision of my future marriage began to crumble — like a house of cards scattering in the wind.

Maybe I’d never wanted it after all. Maybe I’d just thought I was supposed to want it.

Instead, with surprising force, an ache bubbled forth — glaringly clear, appearing naturally and organically from within the hidden depths of my being.

The ache to be with a woman.

Am I gay?

I wondered, not just once: Was I actually just gay?

But that would make no sense at all. What about all those crushes I’d had on boys? Some of those crushes — infatuations? — had been rather intense.

QUITE CLEARLY I WAS ATTRACTED TO GUYS!

Why, then, did I feel a certain way thinking about marrying a woman (warm, excited, hopeful, aching), and a certain, different way thinking about marrying a man (afraid, kind of sickened, enclosed, not too eager)?

Why did attraction to women come more easily and frequently?

A shaky solution

For a while, I settled with an explanation along the lines of: “Well, I’m not quite in the center of the Kinsey scale.”

I was bisexual, certainly, but I had a preference for women. My “bi-cycles” swung feminine more often than masculine. Something like that.

My occasional moments of wondering, “But am I just gay?” brought an instant protest in my gut. No, I was bi. That felt right.

Subconsciously, I knew it was safer, too. “Gay” meant I was trapped; I could never be happy with a man. “Bi” meant I had choices. I could still be respectable in the eyes of my faith community. I could still avoid the many risks and vulnerabilities that came with outwardly dating or marrying a woman.

No, the thought of being gay scared me.

Not like other bisexuals

As time went by, the sapphic side of me felt increasingly important. For a little bit, my Twitter bio said “sapphic bi,” because while yes, I was bisexual, it felt like the word wasn’t enough.

I wanted to emphasize that I WAS INTO GIRLS, OKAY.

Also, I noticed a difference between me and a lot of other people that claimed the “bisexual” label. For most of them, best as I could tell, it really was “anything goes.”

They’d all be happy to end up with the same sex, or the opposite sex, or… both! 😉

Not for me. The thought of being with a guy was… well, it sounded disappointing now. If I was with a guy long-term, I’d probably wish I was with a girl. But not a single part of me worried the inverse would happen.

Homoromantic

I longed to take a protective, semi-masculine role in a relationship, and I couldn’t imagine doing that with a man — not in a way where I’d still, truly feel like myself.

It became very clear that — despite my undeniable sexual attraction to men — I wanted a romantic relationship with a woman, period.

I wanted to marry a woman, period.

I wanted a family with a woman, period.

That was the answer, then: Yes, I was bisexual. But I was also homoromantic.

Homoromantic. It’s not a term you hear as often, but in the queer community we understand that attraction can take many forms. Most of the time, sexual and romantic attraction lines up: Who we want to sleep with is the same as who we want to settle down with.

But not always. This is why an asexual person can still fall in love, for example.

In my case, my sexual and romantic attraction overlaps, but it is not identical.

I’m (not) gay

During my closeted days, I once had a consulting phone call with a counselor who specialized in helping LGBTQ Christians. On the phone, I talked in a low voice, sitting on my bed with my back to the door — hoping no one would hear.

After I told her everything she needed to know about me — including the very clear explanation that I was “bisexual” — she wrapped up the conversation using the phrase, “as a gay Christian,” in reference to me.

A gay Christian.

Upon hanging up, I hurled my phone against the bed, sending it bouncing on the comforter.

“I’m not gay,” I said forcefully.

I never called her back.

Until a couple weeks ago, I thought I understood that moment from two years ago. I thought I understood the uneasiness in my gut I always felt when I thought about being gay.

I reacted this way because it the term “gay” didn’t resonate me — or so I thought. And that was a perfectly valid conclusion; many LGBTQIA+ people use their own reactions to labels, pronouns, and other markers to guide them to which ones are “right.”

But in my case, I’ve realized, there was a little more going on.

A loaded term

The term “gay” has always been loaded with baggage for me, and tinged with fear. “Gay” described other people, not me. By contrast, “bi” always sounded friendlier.

Of course, it’s easy to see why. I’d never heard anyone use “bi” as an insult, the way they did with “gay.” And luckily, I didn’t have stereotypes in my head of what bi people looked like or acted like, in the way I did with gay people.

“Bi” could mean anything. I could don that hat and have it mold to me, fitting the shape of my head easily. “Gay” felt like a too-small helmet, rigid and firm, unable to fit me without causing pain.

And so, when the counselor made that slip and called me “gay,” I clenched up in violent denial.

NO. I’m bi.

I wasn’t wrong. But that was only part of the picture.

An uneasy revelation

Two weeks ago, while grocery shopping, I was reflecting on my new “homoromantic” label, when a significant point occurred to me.

Yes, I was bi; but in a certain way — a very important way — I was gay, too.

I didn’t have a choice between men and women. I couldn’t just go either way, when it came to long-term, romantic relationships.

I was gay. And it was okay. I could use that term.

I could stop fighting it, as I had for two years. (Or, depending on how you look at it: as I had for 10+ years.)

As I let this understanding and acceptance settle in, I bit my lip and breathed slowly, taking tremendous willpower not to react visibly and powerfully right then to the freedom — the frightening, beautiful freedom — I’d just given myself.

Tightness in my chest and a dazed distraction followed me until finally I was alone in my car.

And my composure crumpled.

“To a certain regard,” I said out loud, my body tense with fear, “I am bi. But also, to a certain regard…” A long, hesitating pause. There was a rushing in my ears. At last, I pushed through, forcing the words out:

“I’m gay.”

G a y.

The word was softer on my lips, and much less scary spoken out loud, than I’d expected.

I’m gay

I’m bi(sexual).

But I’m also gay (romantically).

And that’s okay. That’s okay, that’s okay, that’s okay.

Take that, society that made “gay” into something I wouldn’t want to be.

I am bi.

I am also gay.

And I won’t be afraid of that word any longer.

Photo credit: Featured image by Yannis Papanastasopoulos on Unsplash.