My feelings have ADD.
I sit on the bed in the back room of my friends’ house with my two dogs, reliving the day into which I managed to pack three major life events. But because I’m a lesbian who somehow forgot how to date, this story cannot begin here.
The twists and turns of life that led me to this point resemble the wad of emotions in the bubble above a confused cartoon character’s head. Or maybe it’s my head.
I grew up on such a sheltered, isolated patch of West Texas, attending an extraordinarily conservative church three times a week that the concept of homosexuality never appeared on my radar until I was a senior in high school. This despite a childhood in which (a) I often longed for the day I would become a boy so I could live as wonderful a life as my older brother; (b) I rejoiced that my younger sibling was a girl, to whom I could bequeath the ridiculous number useless dolls I’d been given in my six short years; and (c) my mom clarified to a new friend who asked about the genders of her children by saying, “I have one of each.”
So as a freshman in college, when I first kissed a girl—for 45 “non-straight” minutes—I shook for an equal amount of time in the dorm’s community bathroom expecting either to go to hell or to get thrown out of my church-affiliated school in short order. I spent the next decade in spiritual turmoil, trying to ignore my gayness while dating my first two girlfriends.
The tactic didn’t work. I was supremely irritated at God, so we (God and I) broke up. I moved to Seattle, never went to church, and began dating a woman from southern California. Several months later she moved to Seattle, and a few years after that we moved to Illinois so I could pursue a career opportunity.
Then the unthinkable happened: at a time when I could telecommute, she landed a job in the second-most conservative city in the nation, in my home state (to which I swore I’d never return), in West Texas. The life in my heart contracted like the cracked acres of desert land in summer.
Then the unimaginable happened: I met more lesbians than I had in Seattle. I met more Democrats than I had ever known. And I met more God-loving liberals than I had let myself consider existed, primarily through a pastor, scholar, and listener named Ted.
Ted began advancing social issues at his first appointment as a Methodist minister, prodding farmers to buy shoes for their migrant workers’ children so they could attend school. Then came integrating churches, women’s rights, feeding the homeless, and the heretical idea that God might actually love gay folks just as we are. It became clear God sent me to Lubbock to meet him, for only a man of his spirit, wisdom, and intellect could convince me to consider that was true. Around Ted I felt for the first time, and thus became interested in, a God of overwhelming, unconditional love.
My partner of 11 years and I split (so amicably we should have held a clinic), in part because her time in Lubbock needed to end yet I was at the height of my professional development to that point. She returned to southern California. I should have attended a clinic on how to date. About the only thing I did right was wait a year and a half before beginning again.
It felt like I was ready. I think I was ready. I know I wanted to be ready, and this witty woman with a sultry voice reeled me in too close before I realized her overly anxious nature clashed fiercely with my overly adventurous self. At least we had not moved in together.
Too shortly thereafter, a friend introduced me to a woman who’d just had her heart broken. She was the saddest person I’d ever met, contrary to her kind, positive Facebook postings and pictures that highlighted the most radiant face, sparkling blue eyes, and vivacious spirit I’d ever seen. We started dating around Christmas. By spring I was convinced I would eventually look into those eyes and say “I do.” The evening of the longest day of the year—which happened to be the day before my birthday—she left me for a doctor. At least we had not moved in together.
After a dehydrated month, what with all of the sobbing, I reconnected with an acquaintance on Facebook. She lived in Austin. I was fed up with my town, my work situation, and myself. She possessed more confidence than my past two girlfriends combined. I liked her aura. She invited me for a visit. I broke my two steadfast rules: never quit a job before you have another, and never, ever move in with someone before you’ve experienced four seasons with her.
We drove the literal U-Haul to her house—the very day she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Our motto of “We’re in this together” lasted several months, which puts a positive spin on the fact that it didn’t last longer. My writing business was gaining momentum, but it wasn’t supporting me yet. She encouraged me to move out as quickly as possible. The only reason I didn’t hyperventilate was my very good friends’ offer of free room in Knoxville. They no doubt would have thrown in a good bit of board as well. I love my friends. I love the beauty of Knoxville. We could have biked and hiked and skied and splashed in the pool.
But it didn’t feel right. It just didn’t seem like I was finished in Austin yet. I needed to ride it out alone instead of run to safety.
So I moved into an apartment. I found a great church. I walked miles each day with the dogs, exploring various trails, creeks, and woods. Business picked up just enough to pay for my miserly existence. But I was withering emotionally because I could not gain a foothold on the social scene, primarily because subconsciously I had sequestered myself in fear of yet another hasty relationship. The emotional and financial trauma was taking its toll.
And then Ted began to die of bone cancer.
To explain his impact on me (and others) would require a book—which I am working on. Suffice it to say it cannot be overstated. So I spent most of Thanksgiving to New Years in Lubbock, attending his last church services at the retirement home where he taught (calling it preaching doesn’t do his Biblically contextual, historical, and practical messages justice). I followed him around town to speaking appearances, holiday parties, and his listening room like a puppy dog follows its human when they haven’t seen it in too long and want to make sure the separation never happens again.
But I knew that it would. Ted was already a hospice out-patient, which meant within a few months he would be listening to Jesus and asking him how he felt in the tabernacle and in his dad’s workshop and in the garden when his best buddies fell asleep during his supreme distress.
I spent so much time in Lubbock, simultaneously grieving and reconnecting, that those liberal, God-loving folks began asking if I had or was considering moving back. The notion resided so deeply hidden from my realm of possibility that not until the fifth asking did the question wallop my head like a 2x4 and loose the idea. Just as the universe slotted every gear perfectly for me to move to Austin in record time, it began the reversal process.
Six weeks later, here I sit, reflecting on this day in which I moved back to Lubbock, attended Ted’s service, and spoke at a fundraising event for my new job. I am pondering the marvel of life; of learning lessons; of growing; of experiencing different perspectives.
And of the magical, mysterious, and maddening timing of it all. I don’t know if it’s irony, or coincidence, or what, but:
- Ted’s life brought me to Lubbock the first time. His death brought me back. I am both sad he is gone and supremely grateful for the nine years I learned about love from him.
- My new (professionally a stretch) role at a breast cancer organization would not have been possible without going through the trauma that led me to, and that which occurred in, Austin. I am appreciative for both the opportunity and the relatively quick discovery about the purpose of the trauma.
- Unbeknownst to either of us until the deals were done, I will move my belongings back to Lubbock in the very same month as my ex with whom I first moved here. I am simply shaking my head in amusement, with nary a cell in my body interested in getting back together.
- The week before I began the interview process in Lubbock, I met a “woman of interest” in Austin to whom mutual friends had been trying to introduce me for six months. I am sad, thankful, confused, curious, disheartened, and yet, against the odds, feeling a glimmer of optimism that is most likely optimistic.
But, I have gotten to where I am today—and it is one of the most solid places, metaphorically, I’ve ever been—by being optimistic, by embracing all that life offers, by seizing opportunities, by being unapologetically goofy. So I will continue to do so while at the same time practicing the concepts of taking life one day at a time and trusting myself.
If this blog survives the stringent editorial review, perhaps I will share more someday.
-Zoe Tucker
