Inked Soul: Echoes

Episode Four: The Unravelling

It wasn't supposed to happen the way it did. In my mind, I had always imagined my coming out to be smoother, perhaps even cinematic—a bit messy at first, sure, like in those movies where parents struggle at the beginning but eventually come around, accepting their child with open arms and tears of joy. I thought it would be like that—a rough beginning, but with a neat, happy ending. Instead, what came out was years of frustration, rage, and emotional buildup, all spilling out at once, like a dam breaking after holding back the flood for too long.

I truly believed that my coming out was going to be smooth. I had imagined it so many times, each version ending with relief and acceptance, and I was finally able to breathe freely. But the truth was, no matter how much I planned it, no matter how many times I went through every possible scenario in my mind, there was still a part of me that clung to fear—fear that maybe, just maybe, things wouldn't turn out the way I hoped. And what scared me the most? My dad's reaction. His approval mattered in ways I never admitted out loud.

The thoughts consumed me. Planning felt like control, but in reality, it was like standing on the edge of a cliff with no safety net. I pictured every detail—how I'd sit down on the sofa next to my mom, how my brothers would be there, watching, waiting, unknowingly on the verge of learning the deepest truth about me. These three—my mom, my brothers—they were the ones I needed to know. Their opinions mattered the most, and their acceptance, or lack of it, would determine if I could ever fully be myself.

But the closer I got to that moment, the harder it became to breathe. Every thought, every imagined outcome played in my mind like a film on loop, and not all of those films had a happy ending. Some ended in silence, with no one saying anything at all—a silence heavier than rejection, the kind that would swallow me whole. Others ended in anger, disappointment, and words that could never be taken back. I pictured them asking me questions I wasn't ready to answer. I imagined their faces twisting into expressions of confusion, or worse, disgust. These were the kinds of thoughts that crept in at night, keeping me awake until the early hours of the morning.

I rewound every conversation I had ever had with them, looking for signs—hints that they might already know, that maybe they would understand. But I found nothing. I felt trapped in my own mind, like I was suffocating under the weight of secrets I was too scared to reveal. And the worst part? They had no idea. No one did. No one knew what I was going through, how the fear and the guilt gnawed at me every day. It was like being stuck in a cage with no way out, the bars made from every 'what if' that echoed in my head.

I kept telling myself, They'll be okay with it. You'll be okay. But I didn't believe it—not fully. Every time I opened my mouth to say the words, my heart would race, and my throat would tighten as if my own body was trying to stop me. There were times I thought about not telling them at all, about living my life in silence just to avoid the possibility of losing them. But that wasn't living, not really. Hiding felt like I was slowly erasing myself, like every part of me that mattered was being swallowed by a version of myself that I didn't recognize.

I hated that I cared so much about what they thought. I hated that their opinions held this power over me. But they did. My dad especially. His approval had always been this unspoken thing I chased, something I never knew I needed until now. I could hear his voice in my head, that stern tone he used whenever I stepped out of line, and I wondered if that same voice would tell me I was a disappointment when I told him the truth.

And my mom—sweet, loving, always there with a kind word or a warm embrace. I thought, If anyone understands, it'll be her. But what if I was wrong? What if this was the one thing she couldn't understand? The fear of losing that connection, of seeing her eyes fill with something other than love, haunted me.