The Black Hole
What my coming out story and ongoing mental health journey has taught me about finding the light in the darkness
Strawberries and pistachios.
That’s what finally lured me out of bed after a week spent on the top bunk in my room during sophomore year of college, watching episode after episode of The OC.
Well, really it was Julia. Holding a bowl of strawberries and a bag of pistachios, she was convinced that some of my favorite foods might tempt me out of what I had started to call ‘the black hole’ to join her in the sunshine of our house’s backyard.
It’s funny how most people think of a black hole as a giant empty space. The truth of the matter (pun fully intended) is that a black hole is almost entirely the opposite. A black hole is an immense amount of matter tucked into a very tiny space, thereby leading to a gravitational pull so strong not even light can escape.
Too much stuff packed into too small of a space ultimately creates total darkness.
I guess that’s how it all started for me, really.
It feels perfect to me that World Mental Health Day (October 10th) and National Coming Out Day (October 11th) are just one day apart. How could they not be? My journeys with mental health and coming out are deeply intertwined with one another; separating the two is like trying to understand photosynthesis without sunlight.
I came out as gay on October 22nd, 2006, just six weeks into my freshman year at Stanford. It was a Saturday night, and Branner — the largest freshman dorm on campus — was gearing up for a big night out. One of my closest friends from home, Karen, was visiting me for the weekend and by 9pm we were deep into beer pong and a power hour.
At the last minute, the girl who I had a (secret) crush on decided to stay in rather than go out with us. Despite being devastated (I had spent most of those early college weekend nights convincing myself that this would be the night she would make a move on me), I did my best to shake it off before my friends and I made our way to Sigma Chi for that night’s frat party — mostly with the assistance of a few more shots of Smirnoff.
Immediately upon entering the dark, overflowing house, I lost Karen. And it was also right at that moment that I happened to run into my old friend Taylor.
Taylor was a friend from middle and high school. We were the type of friends born out of proximity: we weren’t super close (he ran in much cooler circles than I did) but we had taken nearly all the same honors and AP classes for years, as well as served as section leaders together in Concert Singers. At a school with only 110 kids per grade, Taylor and I had spent many hours with one another over the course of six years. So while we weren’t exactly close, per se, Taylor was deeply familiar.
“KELLY!” Taylor shouted with a huge smile on his face, engulfing me in a big hug as the music blared around us. “How are you!?”
A seemingly innocuous question, one that is usually meant as a cursory check-of-the-box, particularly at 11pm in the middle of a frat party dance floor. I gave the equally requisite innocuous answer. “Good!” I smiled brightly, even while tears surprisingly came to my eyes.
I still don’t know how Taylor knew something was wrong. It was dark, and crowded, and loud, and I swear there was no way he could see the changed look on my face. I had, after all, become very good at hiding after four years spent in the closet.
But somehow, he noticed. And rather than do what nearly every other drunk, 18-year-old boy would have done in his shoes — awkwardly hug me and make a quick exit — Taylor grabbed my hand and pulled me across the room, dragging me forward through the crowds and out onto the front patio. He didn’t stop until we reached the low stone wall in front of the house, where he promptly plopped down, pulled me beside him, looked me in the eyes, and said “What’s wrong?”
I burst into tears. Every second of four years of silence poured out of me in sobs, shaking my drunk body and leaving me incapable of speaking any coherent words. I just cried, and cried, and cried, unable to stop. Taylor immediately pulled me to him and hugged me hard, saying over and over again, “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
I still don’t know how he understood, because never once did I utter the words “I’m gay.” It would take me another full month and coming out to six more people before I would be able to say those words out loud to anyone.
I just remember the moment he got it. I remember the grin that spread over his face as the tears flowed down my own. I remember the happy hugs, the excitement in his voice, the reassurance and the kindness and the love. We sat there for hours, as drunk kids stumbled in and out of the house, as the music blasted through the windows, as more and more tears fell from my eyes like weight shedding off my shoulders.
Taylor insisted on calling Jonah, a third friend from high school who went to Stanford with us that year, because Jonah had come out as gay just a year before. Jonah and I had known one another longer than I had known Taylor; we had gone to elementary school together before Taylor joined us in 7th grade. Just like Taylor, Jonah was much cooler than I was in middle and high school. But also like Taylor, Jonah was an ingrained presence: someone I had grown up with, who was with me through 11 years of schooling, through honors math and AP English and everything in between. He, like Taylor, was deeply familiar.
Despite it being 2am on a Saturday night, Jonah showed up twenty minutes later. He showed up to hug me. To show me that he was there for me. And to make me feel hopeful that maybe, just maybe, I was going to be okay.
The best part? He had been in the middle of hooking up with a (very hot) guy when he got the call. So he dragged him along.
Coming out is not a one-time thing. It’s a lifelong story, a never-ending opening of your true self to the world around you. And when you live with deeply internalized homophobia, it’s a story that’s riddled with shame.
I came out over the course of the next few months to my friends and family. In the month between that Sigma Chi night and Thanksgiving, I told six more people without ever saying, “I’m gay.” It wasn’t until the night before Thanksgiving, at home in my bedroom with my childhood best friend, that I finally gathered the courage to say those two words out loud for the first time. It felt a bit like a waterfall for me; within two months, I had told my entire family and set of friends.
Buoyed by the fact that I was met with an outpouring of support, I convinced myself I was fine. Because in a lot of ways, I was. I had a supportive set of friends and family. I had a safe place to live and study. I carried an immense amount of passing privilege in the way I looked, and dressed, such that I could decide to come out to people when and if I wanted. In those and so many other ways, I was indeed just fine.
And so I tried to ignore everything else.
I ignored the fact that I had thought about killing myself when I was 14.
I ignored the fact that I had spent four years in high school silent about who I was.
I ignored the fact that I had sobbed for six hours straight the night I came out to Taylor.
I ignored the intense self-loathing that washed over me when a girl kissed me for the first time.
I buried it all down deep inside me, until one day my body decided it couldn’t bury it any longer. I woke up the first morning back on campus sophomore year with what felt like a black hole subsuming me. I didn’t know what was happening to me. Seemingly out of nowhere, darkness felt like it was pressing down over every part of my body. All I could manage was watching episode after episode of The OC from the top bunk in my dorm room.
Julia didn’t know what was happening to me either, but she did know me enough to know something was wrong. She knew enough to lure me out of bed into the sunshine with a bowl of strawberries and a bag of pistachios. And she knew enough to make an appointment for me at CAPS, the Counseling and Psychological Services department at our health center on campus. She made the phone call when she knew I couldn’t do it myself.
Six weeks later, I’m walking past Julia’s room on the way to my own when I hear, “KELLY!” yelled from inside.
I pause on the rough blue carpet as Julia runs out of the room into the tiny hallway. My eyes land on her flushed face as she stops beside me, grinning. “What’s wrong?” I ask, confused as to what could possibly be so urgent to warrant her racing to meet me.
She hands me a folded piece of paper, her grin getting bigger. I look down at it and see “We ♥ Kelly!” written across the front, each letter of Kelly a different color of the rainbow. I turn the page to find messages from all five of my housemates. It’s October 22nd, 2007: a full year after I sat on that wall outside of Sigma Chi and cried those tears of self-loathing and release. And they’ve written me an anniversary card.
After all those pretty colors on the cover, I couldn’t just sink back into boring old black, so here goes the red pen. I want you to know that you are one of the best friends I’ve ever had, and you pretty much mean the world to me. I mean, who else’s thoughts can I read so flawlessly (well, most of the time)? I’m so proud of you for being so brave and honest FOR A WHOLE YEAR! I know that you’ve spent HOURS thinking, crying, and yelling about this, but the best hours are those you spent giggling and gushing about which girl you have a crush on this week. Let’s do more of that this year, yeah? I mean, I think I’m pretty good at checking out girls too, so I’m totally down for girl talk (I guess it’s always girl talk). Or, as you already know, I’ll talk to you about whatever, whenever. So keep on talking. I know you get sick of being the example sometimes, but I honestly can’t think of a better person who can talk about the issues and bring light to the stereotypes (I still don’t get the short nails thing). You’re doing an amazing job. And when you start to think you’re being defined by your sexuality, just remember: you’re not our gay friend. You’re our tree-hugging, eyebrow-hating, informed, loveable, courageous, people-reading, Pinkberry-loving, happy, smart, brunette FRIEND.❤ Julia
Okay so I get jipped on space. What can I say? You know I love you. Unconditionally. And I respect & support you through anything.❤ Melissa
Kelly — I’m so grateful for you each and every day. But even more today, as it’s now been a year since you’ve come out…I’m so proud of you and I hope you know how much I’m here for you if you ever need anything, even though I might not be able to exactly relate…I love the fact that we have the exact same type (minus the gender thing) and I love how awesome a friend you are. I hope you enjoy your 1 year and have an amazing day. ❤ Kim
Kelly — I love that we’re such great friends this year and I get to help you celebrate things like today! I’m so proud of your strength and courage — I really admire how you can embrace your identity even when it’s difficult. I also thank you for your compassionate understanding — I hope we can have lots of talks this year like the other night. We can be allies — so congratulations! I hope every year gets better and better. Love, Alison
Kappa — Thank you so much for putting up with me. I should let you know that you have definitely been a big (if not, the most big) part in opening up the world for me. I’m glad we can have these dialogues — they really help. In some ways, this is exactly who you are — my enthusiastic, patient, and understanding friend. Recognizing that being gay is not the defining characteristic of who you are, breaking down so many stereotypes, and questioning my beliefs about so many things — I guess I am growing up, after all. I’m so lucky to have you in my life. I don’t think I’ve told you this, but I admire you for being such a strong woman. Happy 1-year Kelly. I’m glad we can celebrate it together. I love you babe! ❤ Sarah
My journey with caring for my mental health didn’t start with therapy. It started with Taylor noticing. Jonah showing up. Julia making the call. It began with the people who loved me teaching me by example that how I’m feeling matters. That I deserve to be seen, and heard, and cared for. That I am loved, exactly as I am, for exactly who I am.
I wish so badly I could tell a story of a perfectly linear path toward prioritizing my mental health. I wish I could say I fully dealt with all my internalized homophobia and shame in therapy that fall. But that story isn’t the honest story. The honest story is it took quite a bit of false starts and avoidance before I was ready to face the truth of my journey.
I did spend the first ten weeks of sophomore year in therapy. But looking back, I can see how avoidant I was of the pain that had been living under the surface for a long time. I barely broached the subject of my sexuality, spending maybe a session or two talking about coming out the year before. I did what so often happens in therapy; once I felt a little bit better, I convinced myself I was healed. In reality, I can now see I was too terrified to look the black hole fully in the face. It was a lot easier to turn away again, to slightly outrun it. So after using up my 10 free sessions, I stopped going.
Somewhere deep, deep down, I knew the truth. The truth that since I was 14, I had spent most of my life running away from the black hole that felt like it would consume me. The idea of stopping to face it felt like near-certain death. It would be eight more years, two more brief therapy experiences, and many more moments of depression before I finally felt ready to dive more fully into the truth of my feelings — to finally stop running.
I’ve been back in therapy for three years now. Three years of exhausting, painful, gratifying, intense work, some of which has centered on facing the deep self-loathing and loneliness generated from years of shame in the closet. Turns out the process of carving new pathways from the well-traveled ones in our brains is a lifelong journey riddled with many roadblocks and restarts.
As of this month, it will be 15 years since I first let someone see a piece of me that I had been locking up tightly for a long time. My journey isn’t linear, nor is it over. It’s not everyone’s, nor is it singular. But it is mine, and it’s a story I’ve stopped running from.
So this World Mental Health Day and National Coming Out Day, I’m thinking of Taylor, who taught me to notice my feelings. I’m thinking of Jonah, who taught me to show up for myself. And I’m thinking of Julia, who taught me to make the call for help when I need it.
But most of all, I’m thinking of that 14-year-old girl inside of me, whose shame kept her locked away in the dark for far too long. Listening to her voice has finally taught me what’s been inside this black hole I’ve been running from all along: her deep longing for love and belonging. And my grief that she never received it.
I buried those feelings all those years ago in the tiniest of locked boxes in my heart. As it turns out, too much stuff packed into too small of a space really does create total darkness.
So today, I say to that girl: Take my hand, little one. I‘m ready to stop running. Let’s come out together into the light.
