Closets and Skeletons

Being in the closet has the detrimental effect of making people feel like strangers to those closest to them. Like liars. Like imposters.
I remember being at my own birthday party, laughing with my friends, and suddenly wondering how many of my friends would be there if they knew the truth.
After all, there are scary things like skeletons in closets.
I'm out to most people now as gay--certain conservative family and friends no longer within my closest circle remain. (There are also a few people with whom it simply hasn't come up.)
And then I found myself back in the closet, once again restructuring sentences, and I discovered a new pain to the closet.
When you have a partner you haven't told anyone about, you can't share the joys of a new relationship, the learning process of its progression, or the sorrow at its ending.
I broke up with a lovely woman today, and cried alone.
Only now, as the relationship is ending, am I finding the courage to say I dated two wonderful women at the same time, they knew about and cared about each other, and I have been doing one of them the occasionally necessary disservice of not telling anyone about her.
Well, hardly anyone. By my count, seven people besides us three knew. (This is the scientist and the poet in me clashing.)
And so I made her things. I can't take any credit for technical ability--you too can make these on weavesilk.com, but they do mean things, and this is, after all, a blog for art.


So I'm taking a moment off from research to mourn a romantic relationship and celebrate a friendship and make things and be a little pissed off that I can feel safe as a lesbian now and fear being seen as poly. There's a rant to be had there, but I don't have it yet.