My Secret Lesbian Life

It was a beautiful autumn afternoon in Melbourne when I finally worked up the courage to tell the truth. My parents were visiting from the UK, and we had spent the past few hours in the garden enjoying the sunshine. Although I had initially tried to hide how I was feeling, Mum instinctively knew that something was wrong; I had been depressed, irritable and moody for their entire three-week visit.
"Is there something the matter, love?" asked my mother, her voice filled with concern "You haven't been yourself since we've arrived." I took a deep breath to steady myself.
"Mum, I've got to tell you something," I replied, surprising myself as the words tumbled out. "I'm gay."
"Oh my God. You're not?" she said, anger, disgust and disappointment all flashing across her face. "What about Tony*?" she said, her thoughts immediately springing to my husband.
"What about me?" I replied, realising that I had been putting everyone else's needs before my own for a long time, and it was slowly killing me.
Looking back, although I was upset by her reaction, I could understand her shock. My announcement must have come from nowhere; at the time, I was 33, and had been married for 10 years with two gorgeous daughters. To an outsider, my life must have looked like the picture of domestic bliss. However, deep down, I had always known something wasn't right about my marriage to Tony.
We first met at a nightclub in Manchester, where I grew up, when I was 22. I was working as a receptionist in an exclusive hotel, and he was a good-looking, dark-haired welder with a stocky rugby player's physique. Despite his manly appearance, he was sensitive, soft and gentle, hardworking and honest.
Over the next few weeks we became very close and soon found ourselves in a relationship. After a year, I unexpectedly fell pregnant with our first daughter, Naomi*, and after that marriage and a mortgage followed in quick succession. And, just one year later, our second daughter, Brooke*, was born.
Looking back, I wonder whether I was ever really in love with Tony. After much soul-searching, I've come to the conclusion that, while I cared for him deeply and enjoyed the security of being in a relationship, I was more in love with the idea of love than with Tony himself.
There were plenty of warning signs that I wasn't being true to myself – sex being the most obvious one.
As a teenager, I never had crushes on boys the way my friends seemed to, and while I liked the build-up and the kissing before sex, I never enjoyed the act itself. Sometimes, I even fantasised about girls and female celebrities, but never considered that I might be gay. I just assumed that everyone had fantasies.
Sadly, sex with Tony was no different; he thought he was satisfying me but afterwards, I'd lie awake feeling lonely and isolated. Most of the time, I tried to avoid it altogether.
We never discussed why I wasn't more enthusiastic about sex; I guess we both just assumed that I had a low libido. We also had an unspoken agreement that, although our sex life wasn't brilliant, our lifestyle and happy family life made up for that. Over the years, we watched friends' relationships fall apart and smugly congratulated each other on our stable, secure marriage – when, in hindsight, our relationship was the most dysfunctional of all.
Then, at 31, I landed a new job as a secretary at a courthouse. It was there that I first met Kelly*, the first openly lesbian woman I had ever met.
She was intelligent and vivacious, with short brown hair, and even though I wasn't initially physically attracted to her, I deliberately sought her out. I think subconsciously I saw her as an opportunity to explore my sexuality. However, as we became closer, I became increasingly physically attracted to her.
We started playing squash together regularly, and then, one afternoon in the squash courts car park a few months after we met, she leant over and grabbed my hand. "We're going to have to do something about this," she said, looking at me intently. "Or stop hanging out together."
I felt an electric current surge through my body, and before I could stop myself, I leant over and kissed her. Her lips felt warm and soft, and my heart beat furiously. I had never felt so filled with emotion, or turned on; I wanted to jump into bed with her, undress her, and explore every inch of her body. We kissed for what seemed like forever, before getting out of the car and playing squash as if nothing had happened – although neither of us could concentrate on the game.
But, from the moment I walked into the house and saw Tony, the guilt set in. What was I doing? I was a married mother of two. If Tony found out I knew he'd be absolutely crushed. I went to bed and vowed it would never happen again.
The following day, Kelly rang me while I was on my way home from work and asked if I would come over to her place. Even though I knew what would happen next – and the potential consequences – it was as if I was powerless to stop myself. The very moment I stepped inside her front door, we started making love. It felt incredibly natural. There were no nerves, just sheer unadulterated passion. Finally, I knew what it felt liketo be in the throes of passion.
Over the next few months, I lived two lives; in one, I was a caring, if distracted, wife and mother; in the other, I'd lie to Tony and sneak out to lesbian bars and clubs with Kelly. I was amazed by the broad spectrum of gay and bisexual women; there were all types of gorgeous women, and even a few celebrities. It was a far cry from the butch gay stereotype that I had always imagined.
But gradually the guilt won out. I was constantly worried that I'd be found out and I tortured myself by obsessing over the fact that I was a bad role model for my daughters. And then there was Tony. Even though I was beginning to realise our marriage was a sham, he didn't deserve what I was doing. As the guilt set in, my sex drive began to wane, and I started drinking more often.
After about six months, I was sitting in the lounge room watching television with my second glass of wine when Tony sat down and quietly asked why I was drinking so much during the week.
I knew I couldn't lie anymore. Taking a deep breath, I told him I needed another drink to explain. I sat down on the chair while Tony sat on the sofa, a worried expression on his face. I felt physically sick, knowing I was about to hurt him.
"Tony, I might be gay," I said, carefully watching him. As I explained about Kelly, he started crying – something he never did. I felt as though I was being dragged under by a giant wave of shame and guilt and, as I watched him wipe away tears, I started to cry, too.
As I confessed, I spoke about the affair as if it was in the past, and when I finished talking, we sat in numb silence.
The angry recriminations I was expecting from Tony never came; instead he seemed unable, or unwilling, to accept the implications of what was happening.
He told me he needed time to think, but we never discussed it again properly. Instead, Tony became even more attentive, cooking more, doing the shopping. It was as if he thought that by being a better husband he could keep us together.
In some ways, this solicitousness was even worse than anger. Every time he brought me a cup of coffee or offered to make me dinner, the look on his face begged me not to leave him.
But I was in denial, too. One warm summer night while standing in the garden, I felt Tony come up behind me and wrap his arms around me. "It's going to be OK, we'll make it through," he tried to reassure me, and in that moment I wanted to believe him. As I stood there, in the comforting embrace of the man that I knew so well, I realised I didn't want to give up my family and my comfortable existence. I didn't want to have to face my friends and family and explain that I had made a huge mistake. So I went into denial, willing myself to believe I could make the situation work.
Kelly became increasingly frustrated with my reluctance to come out of the closet and she slowly faded into the background. A few months later, Tony suggested we move to Australia for a fresh start and, naively, I leapt at the chance. But escaping to Melbourne didn't help. My affair with Kelly had revealed everything my marriage was lacking, and Tony's sincere eagerness to make it work weighed on me heavily.
Over the next six months, I started visiting lesbian bars and meeting women on the internet. I'm not proud of the way I behaved, but, in my defence, I think I was trying to work out who I was.
Slowly, as Tony realised what was going on with me, our marriage started to unravel. The sex stopped completely, and then the atmosphere in the house became miserable and stifling.
Finally, after nine months, Tony admitted defeat. Even though I was devastated at the loss of our marriage and the fact that I was losing someone who had once been so special to me, I also felt relieved. I remember thinking, "Thank God, he's finally accepted what was happening." It was incredibly cowardly of me, but I was waiting for him to close that door so I could finally admit I was gay.
The next 12 months were a blur of changes and explanations. Tony and I decided to share parenting, and had to explain to the girls what was happening. They both went bright red, but were also incredibly accepting, which came as a total surprise and a huge relief.
Ten years to the day that Tony and I were married, he moved out. I'll never forget watching him load cardboard boxes, filled with all his possessions, into his car. As a 24-year-old bride, I could never have imagined this scenario.
However, while it was heartbreaking to watch Tony walk out of my life, it was also liberating – it set me free.
Over the next few weeks, I gradually began to realise that my secret hadn't shattered anybody's life and that nobody hated me. The kids seemed happy – and after a while I realised that even Tony was happier out of our relationship, too. Mum also became more accepting, even if she did cry nonstop for four days after I told her the news. My dad has never quite come to terms with it; even though we speak regularly on the phone, he has never once mentioned it.
Then, a year after my divorce, I met and fell in love with Teri*, a general manager. We were introduced at a dinner party. Not only was she gorgeous – athletic with big blue eyes – but she was also personable, open and honest. After living a lie for all those years, it was a relief to be with someone with whom I could truly be myself. We have been together for three years now and the girls absolutely adore her.
Since I've come out, I've grown as an individual and I'm calmer and happier than I have ever been before. I can now look to the future and see a passion-filled, loving path, not one mired in guilt and shame. However, the main thing I have learnt is self-acceptance.