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I decided that I would check all of the rooms up here to be sure that no homeless people had moved in. I checked the room I was sure my sister would want. It was spacious and had it's own walk-in closet, but was completely empty. I left my room for last, and walked to the only other door that was up here. The same door that had been open when I had went down stairs. It was now closed, and as I put my hand on the knob, it felt warm to the touch. I mustered up all my courage and swung the door open. I was greeted with a cold blast of air. There was no one in the room, but there was a box of personal items in the far corner. Deciding to investigate, I walked to it, leaving the door open behind me, in case someone jumped out at me. As I looked at the content of the box, I noticed that it was all older stuff, from at least the eighties, maybe even earlier. There was a newspaper clipping that detailed the murder/suicide of a local man and his son. The father had apparently snapped one. Or he'd climb on my lap and cuddle, knowing little affections like that always lifted my spirits.The first steps in my coming out revolved around my inner struggle. I had to honestly admit it to myself, and then I had to come to grips with my own notions, prejudices, and expectations of what being a lesbian meant. That's not as simple and straightforward as it sounds; at least it wasn't for me.None of this was helped by the fact that, without knowing it at the time, I was suffering with a deep and dark depression. Many nights, I could hear the Banshees wailing. During the darkest times, the only thing that kept me from killing myself was my son. He didn't know then, nor does he know now (I think) that he kept me going. How could I deprive him of a mother, and in the most painful way imaginable? I couldn't, so just by being he kept me alive.An inevitable part of my coming out process was telling the people who needed to know. My "need to know" list was very small: My ex-husband, my.
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