By the way, I’m bi
When people ask me about my coming out story, I always tell them, I did not come out.
A part of me tells me I did, but another part tells me it didn’t count. At least I knew it was summer when it happened. I remember the humid air and the stillness. Was it a sharp afternoon or a timid morning—I could barely tell. But I knew I was 18, at the edge of life, barely clinging.
I remember, too, the painting that started it all. Really, how could I forget the genesis of my own woman? A half-naked creation sketched almost shyly beside a bunch of orchids, outlined in the foreground of a striking black and blue. Not my best but the colors made me feel like I had the universe in my hands. Like I was in control.
Spoiler alert: that painting has no message at all. It’s just a simple art that I dedicated hours to delve into. And almost as if to make up for the meaninglessness of my own art, I added a heartbeat line and a text saying, “I’m a conflicted contradiction. I don’t like myself but I also love who I am.”
My mom, whom I call Nanay, entered my room and sat on my bed. I felt the mattress sink slowly from her weight as if the gravity of her question assumed a physical force. She was almost nervous, her eyes betraying a pool of tears yet to cascade as she asked, “Kuya, may itatanong ako sa ’yo. Nakita ko kasi ’yung painting mo.”
I immediately knew what she would ask. Nanay was my only guardian back then. Tatay worked as an OFW in South Korea at that time, providing for the family. Some people would argue that it was a matter of having a father figure, but trust me, it wasn’t.
Nanay then continued, looking at me teary-eyed, “Ganoon ka ba? ’Yung, alam mo na.” She avoided using “bakla” as if it was some kind of an insult. As if saying it to my face felt like poking an open wound.
I was quiet the whole time, but my silence was more of a confirmation than any other word I could’ve said at that moment. Can you imagine coming out with your mouth shut? Nanay knew already, as most mothers do, and didn’t ask any further.
As a person who stutters for the most absurd reasons, I was very in character. I stutter with words starting with certain letters but I do not stammer with Y for yes and O for oo.
The scene was far from what you see in the movies. We did not cry together while hugging nor did she scream at me, angry for being who I was not supposed to be. It was a freeing feeling, yes. I wanted to get this feeling out of my chest, yes. But I felt I was robbed of something.
Number one rule for people who encounter stutterers: Never cut their sentences. Even though I was not interrupted, I still felt like I did not get the chance to speak. Thinking about it, I didn’t feel as free as I thought I was. I was out, but I was not. But I do get it, I didn’t feel the need for people to accept me. So, why am I here?
After that, it was just the same old story, except I had my own world separate from them. I wish I could’ve told them about my past boyfriends. How my romantic escapades, though always cut short by circumstance, were some of my happiest moments. To be held, to belong, to be owned by somebody. I wished they knew I was just as capable of falling in love with a man, and the bravery and courage it took to say it.
Eight years later, I am finally saying yes to that question. Nanay, I am reclaiming my story. I am coming out as bisexual. I love guys, but I also like girls. Although I prefer boys more, that’s just the way it is.
As I am browsing through my sketchpad, I am in awe of how a meaningless painting back then meant so much more now. I really am a conflicted contradiction—always arguing with my inner self about what I want for myself. I want privacy but I also want to share myself with the world. I want peace but I also love the war that boils my mind to tender bits. I want it both, bad and good, the whole of it all without shame.
I might not have officially come out to my Nanay, my family, or to my closest friends. But I can bravely say that I’ve come out to a reader whose lifeline of stories has become my pride and my protest.
Writing has always been my solace, my way of truth. It is the only medium where I can uninterruptedly express myself without long pauses. I am writing this to make it my own. My story does not only belong in the papers but also in the streets. For now, let me shout in text: I am Kyle, and by the way, I am bi.
Kyle Cadavez, 25, is a writer from Quezon province. He does not stutter when he sings songs of his idol, Ariana Grande.
