She opened the door of the apartment where we had made a life together, her eyes steady, but ready to fill with tears. She knew that I had something to tell her, but I had refused to say what in our phone call last night. I had separated the month before and moved into a friend's apartment. She had a pretty good idea of what was coming, but it was hard to believe. I could hardly believe it myself. My suit felt stiff and uncomfortable; my heart was lead in my belly. My mind was whirling with excitement and exhiliration. It was agony; it was ecstasy.
It was November 1997 -- Bill Clinton had been president for ten months. The stock market had crashed days before because of a global economic scare, but had come back the following day to gain a record number of points and for the first time ever one billion shares had been traded on the New York Stock Exchange. Though our relationship was contentious, I loved my wife. I also loved my six year old son without reservation. How could I rip out their hearts?
Coming out of the closet is a process, not a moment in time. And yet, there are the moments. There was the ecstasy: times when I came out joyously and exultantly. There was the agony: times when I came out shamefully and against my will. Some of the moments are glorious, as when I went out into the street dressed in a skirt for the first time, rejoicing like a prisoner who had been let out of solitary after thirty-five years. Everything looked new: the steam escaping from the hot dog vendor's cart as he put the frankfurter on the bun, the construction workers descending into the manhole with monster-sized tools, even the stacks of commercial garbage on the curb awaiting the sanitation workers.
