"I was just going through my people. I always did on my drive home. I was going through all my people, and I couldn't think of one human in my life that I was being honest with. Not one. Even the people who knew the truth knew some version of a lie. And I'm a GOOD person.
It’s addictive because you see how easy it is to get people to move on. You just go, 'Oh, yes, I did that. Oh, yes. I took care of that.' Did you go to that meeting? 'Yes, I was there.'
Whatever version of me pleased you, I was that for you.
If you needed me to have told this person I was gay, I was just going to tell you I had. 'Oh, yes, yes. They know. They're fine with it.'
It's the early '90s, and I'm in the closet. I am in all sorts of different closets, depending on the conversation I'm having at the moment. And I'm pretty good at it. Organized. I know the story that you know, the story my mom knows, the story this friend from high school knows, the story this teacher from college knows. I trip up every now and again and get a fact wrong. But people don't listen to you anyway, so honestly, it never really causes an issue.
I’m driving home from work one night on the Ventura Freeway. I’m about to exit south onto the 405, and it hits me how I’ve really tapped out of all the lies I was telling. I remember pulling off the freeway and just bursting into tears and crying and crying and crying.
An hour later, I call American Airlines and book a ticket home to Texas to come out to my parents. I fly home and then totally chicken out. I don't come out to them. When I get on the plane to fly back to Los Angeles, I write them a letter – eight pages, front and back. At the end of the flight, when the plane lands at LAX, I drop the letter in a mailbox on my way to baggage claim."