Choices
are what we all make, constantly, throughout our lives. Most of the obviously
huge ones we all recognize as such: marriage, divorce, babies, changing jobs or
homes, coming out, retirement, suicide. Meanwhile the innumerable tiny choices
we make go almost unnoticed; tea or coffee? Should I watch ‘Gone with the Wind’
yet again or the Bronco game? Or is now a good time for a nap?
Sometimes
we will say, ‘I had no choice’, ‘I’ve run out of options’, which of course is
never true. Except for a few who are tragically unable to make choices, or
incapable of following up on them, we always have options. What we really mean
is, there are no good options to choose from. Our transgendered friend
Margaret, who came to this group for a while, says she reached a point in her
life when she had to change this ‘wrong body’ she inhabited or kill herself.
Period. No other options were available. But still, she had a choice; just not
a good one. I guess that’s how it is with all suicides; heartbreakingly, it’s
their last best choice.
When
I talk of my own coming-out process I sometimes say it never felt like I chose
to come out. It was something that happened to me. I was swept up on this
runaway train, going wherever it cared to take me. But I know that’s not
strictly true. I had a choice. I could have thrown myself, at great risk of
serious psychological injury, off that train. I simply chose not to.
But
choices are not always what they seem. Apparently small ones can turn out to be
huge; literally a matter of life and death.
A
month ago, over three hundred people chose the same course of action.
Hey, lets go to Pulse
tonight. It’s Latin Night y’know?
Yeah, we’re planning on
it.
It was great last
year.
I know Tony and Luis are
going.
Non
of them knew they were choosing a night of terror. Fifty of them did not know
they were choosing to die.
I
am invaded by sadness for the terrible losses of that Orlando night. I am sad,
of course, for all who died, and for the many who were seriously injured. I am
sad for those who loved them. I am sad for all who survived, though physically
unscathed, to live with what must be terrible psychological traumas. I am sad
for the entire LGBT and Latino communities, whose tribes have been attacked. I
am sad for the crazed shooter, so lost and astray that he felt compelled do
such a terrible thing. It was a choice, of course. He could have chosen one of
oh so many other ways to go. But most of all, I think, I am sad for the parents
who found out, in one nightmare moment,
that their son was dead and that he was gay. (I say ‘son’ because the
majority of those killed were men, though lesbians died also.) I can imagine
little worse. I learn in the same instant that my son is dead and that I never
really knew him. And now I never will. What choices of word and deed did I
make, that my son was a stranger to me and I didn’t even know it?
But,
whatever right or wrong choices we might make, our ability to chose is of great
importance to us. Our free will gives us at least some slight feeling of power;
of control over our lives. And for others, power is found in the act of taking
away our ability to chose. The classic example of that battle would be the
abortion issue, which seems as if it will go on forever.
At
this very moment, combining thoughts of choices with my sadness engendered by
the Orlando tragedy, I finally get the connection. My very sadness is a choice.
A terrible thing happened. I can close my mind to it: forget it, shove it down
deep and not think about it. Not good. I can be very very angry. But I’m doing
my best to give up anger. But sadness is OK; not fun, but it seems like a
reasonable reaction. So I chose it. But it came over me in too dark a cloud;
with too much weight. I have felt overwhelmed by it. And now, just knowing it
was a choice has mitigated it’s hold on me. Even as I type, I feel it lifting,
becoming a much lighter, less overpowering, form of itself.
Once
again, writing things out has helped me deal with, lessen, change, and
understand, emotions. But it’s not just the writing. So again I thank you all
for this wonderful group – for your caring and sharing and support. That’s
where the real magic lies.
© Jul 2016
About the Author
I was born and
raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S.
and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder
area since 1965, working for 30-years at IBM. I married, raised four
stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself
as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years.
We have been married since 2013.
