My apologies, folks. I took a couple days off from blogging—not for any dramatic reason, just your standard‑issue writer’s block mixed with a case of garden‑induced serenity. I was busy skipping between a handful of half‑baked blog posts that

couldn’t quite find their endings and soaking in the quiet joy of tending plants. Honestly, sometimes it’s nice to just be outside and not overthink things.

Today’s post is a long overdue wander through the closet—mine, specifically. Not the one in the hallway with winter coats, but the metaphorical kind, complete with emotional dust bunnies and some fairly questionable vintage wallpaper.

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**Last post,** I talked about my trip back to Kansas for a class reunion, and how weirdly comforting it was. No joke: I’d consider living there again. That might surprise some people, given that I haven’t lived there since the late ’70s, but the place still feels like home in a way. The familiarity was eerie—I could still find my way around Manhattan, Kansas, like I’d never left. Muscle memory’s a hell of a thing.

Kansas is also where I first realized I was *different.*

Growing up in the ’70s, “gay” wasn’t a word I heard—at least not in reference to real people. No one said “that’s so gay,” and I certainly didn’t hear the f‑slur tossed around like punctuation the way it is now. I knew I liked boys. I knew I didn’t have any interest in girls. But beyond that? I had no language for it, no map, no guidebook.

Then one day, as my mom dropped me off at school, she casually said, “I need you to know something. Your dad is bisexual.”

She might as well have told me he was part alien. I was 14, and my understanding of human sexuality was… generous, let’s say. I walked into school that day wondering if bisexual meant my dad had both sets of genitals. *(Spoiler: It doesn’t.)*

Later that summer, Dad sat me down and explained—vaguely and awkwardly—that he loved Mom but they weren’t compatible. That conversation, while clumsy, was the first time someone acknowledged—out loud—that people could love differently. And it was my first mirror, however cracked.

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My teenage years were textbook repression. Hormones raging, attraction undeniable—and a strong internal voice screaming, “Don’t. You. Dare.” I had a few “educational experiences” with close friends. The kind of thing that leads to decades of mutual amnesia if you bump into each other as adults.

High school was a performance. I dated girls, because that’s what you were *supposed* to do. It was a front: “How can I be gay? Look, I have a girlfriend!”

The Kinsey Scale—which I later learned about in nursing school—made a lot more sense once I had vocabulary and context. My dad, for example, probably sat around a 5 or 6 on that 0‑to‑6 scale. He married my mom not out of deception, but because at the time, being openly gay and becoming a teacher were mutually exclusive dreams. Marrying a woman was the price of admission to the career he wanted.

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### Then there’s the military chapter.

In 1982, when I joined the Army, being gay wasn’t just frowned upon—it could get you discharged, denied benefits, and slapped with a less‑than‑honorable record. When “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” came around in 1993, it was spun as progress. It wasn’t. It just meant they couldn’t ask and you couldn’t tell… but they could still suspect, accuse, and investigate.

I was accused. My platoon sergeant reported me. CID (the Army’s NCIS) grilled me for hours, hoping I’d confess. I didn’t. They eventually sent me back to my unit. That kind of paranoia sticks with you.

And yet, I stayed in. Voluntarily. Because I believed in service, and I naively thought the Army would “make a man out of me” and scare the gay away. *(Spoiler: It didn’t. Turns out being surrounded by sweaty, shirtless men your age in the barracks is not a cure.)*

I didn’t come out until after I left the Army. I literally walked off the plane in Billings, Montana, saw my mom, and said, “I’m out. And I’m out—I’m gay.” Not exactly subtle, but it got the job done. Mom, to her credit, just nodded. We didn’t talk about it much. She’d already gone through this once before with Dad. I think she accepted it, though part of me wonders if she ever hoped it was just a phase.

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After the Army, I entered a profession that—while not waving rainbow flags—was generally tolerant of my existence. Nursing, especially in mental health, attracts its fair share of square pegs and misfits. I found my place.

And I found my person.

What started as a casual hookup turned into 27 years. The first 17 involved elaborate legal gymnastics to protect our shared property, since marriage wasn’t an option yet. By the time the Supreme Court caught up with humanity in 2013, we were already seasoned partners. It wasn’t always happy. There were moments—years even—that were painful: domestic violence, addiction, and the isolating reality that services often didn’t know what to do with two men who weren’t getting along.

I knew what the books said. I knew how to counsel others. But walking away? That took me six more years. It took trusted friends and colleagues—and finally, the clarity to know that love doesn’t mean martyrdom. I left. And I’ve been healing ever since.

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So here I am: fully out, fully flawed, and still putting one foot in front of the other. No more closets. No more pretending. Just stories, and the hope that sharing them means something to someone.

**As always: be the kind of person your dog and your mom hope you are.**