G rowing a queer child in the woods in Pennsylvania, I am no stranger to secrets. The world I grew up in was unforgiving, unknowing, and sometimes violent towards people like me. I kept myself quiet and small, trying not to draw attention to myself or my identity. I dreamt of a day when I could live authentically without fear for my safety and happiness. But the truth is, while also battling my inner self, there was a second battle happening in my own home.
I wish I could say there was a defining moment where the sun, moon, and stars aligned in perfect harmony, and the truth about my parents was fully revealed to me. But in reality, there were breadcrumbs. Small instances confirmed a belief I had held my whole life, but just lacked the words to describe effectively when I was young.
I had no solid understanding of sex and relationships. Masturbation was not something in my vocabulary. Sex was a taboo subject. We were Catholic. We went to church on Sundays and CCD classes in the afternoons. I was taught to fear how others would treat my body and protect it fiercely.
All of this conflicted with events in my own home.
It started with adult-only parties. My brother and I would be shuffled around on a regular basis with any available caregiver, and in every case, we were not allowed home. If we called home, it would ring and ring, and ring until, our parents' monotone voicemail would start. If we cried and begged to come home, our calls would go unanswered until we were picked up the next day. If we were sick, we would be drugged with whatever non-prescription medication was in the cabinet. If we cried and protested (which we often did) that we wanted to stay home, we would be picked up and sent away, usually after a fight, with no explanation.
And when we returned, the house would be a mess, our mother would (usually) be drunk, everything would smell like old food and spilled alcohol, the trash bags would be full of beer bottles. But worst of all, our beds, clearly untouched.