Typically, one would think you’re either in the closet or out of it. But reality is often much more complicated. This is my experience with being both out and closeted for a large portion of my life.
At a young age, I swore I’d never get married. This wasn’t due to a political stance or asexuality (although I’d already rudimentarily grasped that I wasn’t heterosexual). In fact, it’s because I had drilled into my head that I would never be able to exist fully and always have to keep part of myself hidden. It only took moving to one of the most LGBTQ-friendly cities in the world a decade or so later that I eventually began living somewhat openly. Although I’d tricked myself into thinking I’d overcome all my childhood fears and shame, I remained closeted in a significant portion of my world. While there might not be a specific LGBTQ+ term for being both out and closeted, it’s the lived reality of a lot of queer people for at least some point of their lives. This Pride Month, I’m reflecting on this weird limbo that I spent the majority of my life in.
My experience being both out and closeted
Secrets secrets are no fun – especially if they make you hate yourself
When I came of age in Hong Kong during the mid-to-late 2000s, I of course knew that LGBTQ+ people existed. Like any other pre-Netflix ’00s queer youth, I was secretly torrenting gay movies and watching “gay kissing on TV” Youtube compilation videos. However, the few real-life points of reference I had for being queer were whispered giggles, stereotyped peers, and my mum attempting to talk me out of attending a Lady Gaga concert because she “likes gay people.” As such, I internalised the ideas that I needed to keep these aspects of myself hidden and that I was unlovable, so that it’d be easier to accept that I wouldn’t be searching for love – or that love wouldn’t come to me.
Side note: I also had a period where I thought maybe I just wasn’t “capable” of love, but that turned out to be a confused perception of how people were supposed to emote, caused by plain ol’ Autism Spectrum Disorder – a whole other bag of worms. Nevertheless, by the time high school hit, I knew of a few friends and peers that were queer, but I was still firmly in the closet. I was terrified that my parents, who’d lived almost their whole lives in South Korea (far from the pinnacle of LGBTQ+ acceptance back then), would never accept me. I also had a visceral negative reaction to feeling any form of vulnerability. Looking back, I’m not sure if my straight charade was actually convincing, or if my closest friends were just nice enough to not mention anything until I was ready.
Baby gay blues
Even when I moved all the way to New York City for university, my internalised fear and shame was so complicated that I was barely a toe out of the closet for over a year. What helped nudge me out was eventually getting the sense that one of my new closest friends was also queer. But unfortunately, with both of us too nervous to come out to the other first, we spent a whole year playing gay chicken – trading loaded questions like, “have you seen Blue is the Warmest Colour?” Even when I was eventually out in my daily life in NYC and to old friends from Hong Kong, I rarely vocalised my identity or explicitly “came out”, instead just talking casually like I’d been out this whole time without acknowledging it.
Being back in Hong Kong was a whole other story. As I was still convinced that I couldn’t say anything to my family, I kept my other reality a secret. For the two dates with a girl I psyched myself up into going on while back for summer, I’d scheduled at least six MTR stops away for good measure. As my university years went by, being wrapped up in my own shame of being both out and closeted in turn made me fail to notice that my family was changing as well.
Since I was away for most of the year when living in NYC, I was finally dressing comfortably and getting haircuts at my own prerogative. If you look at any photograph of me from that period, you’d think that I was blind or stupid for believing that I was masked in a magical cloak of heterosexuality the minute I stepped onto Hong Kong soil. Although my level of denial was truly mind-blowing, my mother at least could read the tea leaves. But it was only until she explicitly sat me down and began telling me how “the world is different now,” that a light bulb went off for me. Yet, what should’ve been a cathartic and happy moment for me was quite the opposite. I froze and hastily made an excuse to make a beeline out of the conversation in fear.
A long and winding road…
At some point, it became obvious I could no longer tell myself that I was still partially closeted due to external factors, like my environment or my family. But I could barely understand how deeply ingrained my internal shame about my sexuality had become. When you added in the fact that my undiagnosed ASD kept rearing its head to block whatever kind of emotional reflection I attempted, it was a perfect storm of anxiety and depression. Even the people I was trying to date didn’t relieve any stress, as I was so closed off and at times unintentionally callous that I didn’t feel like a “good person” anymore. While I tried to connect with people earnestly, I found myself feeling increasingly empty or confused.
Attempts at personal growth, while hitting a breakthrough with my official diagnosis of autism, also hit a not-so-little snag when Covid erupted right as I was moving back home to Hong Kong. The positive effect of getting a clearer picture of my mental health and understanding of how my mind worked can’t be understated. But constantly being aware of holding a huge part of myself back from my family hung over me. I’d love to say that coming back to Hong Kong gave me the push I needed to stop being both out and closeted, but the truth was it took me a few more years.
The larger truth is that I still haven’t completely resolved all of my internal conflicts, as my coming-out was just a result of a random overwhelming emotional state during a New Year’s Eve family dinner. However, I can only hope that from here on, I don’t have to feel alone with my negative thoughts and emotions. Whether it’s the isolating side effects of my disorder or of being in the closet, being finally open about both is what I think can help me lead a fulfilling life. I’m still not sure if I ever want to get married, but at least now, I know the biggest obstacle I face may be my personality, and not my sexuality.
