Untying the Knot: A Husband and Wife's Story of Coming Out Together

by David L. Kaufman

Overview

By all accounts, David Kaufman, M.D., had a good life—he was married to a woman he loved, had three children, and a fulfilling career as a radiologist. But as the years passed, he realized that he could no longer deny who he was—he was a gay man. However, before he could tell his wife, she told him she needed to talk to him about an important issue. It was then that she confided in him that she had accepted the growing awareness that she was gay. Her announcement surprised him, but made it easier for him to tell her he, too, was gay. In Untying the Knot, David Kaufman shares a unique story of coming out and how he and his former wife have helped each other on their separate journeys into new lives.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781936374908
Publisher:	Addicus Books
Publication date:	12/01/2012
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	185
File size:	1 MB

About the Author

David L. Kaufman, MD, is a radiologist and chief of nuclear medicine at Kaiser Permanente hospital. He lives in Santa Rosa, California.

Read an Excerpt

Untying the Knot

A Husband and Wife's Story of Coming Out Together

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By David L. Kaufman

Addicus Books, Inc.

Copyright © 2013 David L. Kaufman, M.D.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-936374-90-8

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CHAPTER 1

Elementary School

I have a deep-seated unconscious assumption that people won't like me. — Personal journal entry 11/11/05

"Faggot! Faggot! Faggot!"

Forty years after elementary school, those words still sting. Tears still form. There was often more than mere name calling — hitting and punching often accompanied the verbal harassment. Being nonviolent and very passive, I even had bullies who occasionally were much younger than I.

Although I tried hard, it was difficult to find a route walking home from school that would avoid them. There was really no escape from the mocking; it continued in the halls at school, in classrooms, anywhere I might encounter other boys even close to my age. At times I was physically attacked in school.

The school administration either didn't understand what was happening or didn't care. Usually, when they did get involved, the situation was twisted into being at least partially my fault; I was seen fighting with another student (on rare occasions I tended to at least try to fight back), therefore I must be guilty of something. I tried to be strong, to not let it bother me. There was only so much I could do, however, to counter the effect of an assault that was pretty much continuous.

As time passed, I began to walk more and more hunched over, trying to hide within my own body, not understanding that it wasn't my fault, ashamed and embarrassed to even exist at all. The insults were compelling in their constancy and difficult to ignore. I didn't understand why this was happening to me; to the limited extent that I understood it, I was convinced of my heterosexuality.

Over time, the insults and put-downs became more and more internalized. Although I didn't and couldn't identify myself as "homosexual," I always knew there was something really wrong with me. Why was I so different? Why was I so bad?

To a small child, the world revolves around them, everything relates to them, and when something negative is perceived in their environment it becomes internalized as, "there's something wrong with me; I'm a bad person." Sensing at a very early age that I was very different primed me for the shame that would come with these insults. Even though at the time I could not see any truth to their taunting, deep down inside I sensed there really was something wrong with me.

I did what I could to try to stave off the attacks. I developed a keen sense of humor; making my attackers laugh might prevent a beating. Probably also related to this suffering, I developed an insightful ability to discern what people around me are feeling. It was often necessary to be able to tell if someone was about to hit me. The ability to read others' emotional states was critical to survival. I've often attributed the perceived emotions to the wrong cause, usually taking something personally when it has nothing to do with me, but I've learned to be very aware of the emotions of the people around me. The combination of sense of humor and emotional sensitivity has resulted in diplomatic skill, which has served me well.

My mother struggled with her own demons, left by her husband with three small children at a time when divorce was rare had left her with many challenges. Raising children alone is very difficult, and trying to piece together something resembling a complete life while balancing children, finding romance, and keeping the bills paid was difficult.

Nevertheless, she was still somewhat sensitive to my situation.

"Let the insults roll off you like water off a duck's back," she would frequently say. Unfortunately, that's much, much easier said than done. My innate sense there was something wrong with me, deep down inside, made it all that much harder to believe her. Believing that I was a bad person responsible for my parents' divorce and feeling a strong sense of shame at being so different made it very difficult to even stick up for myself.

"Jesus says you should turn the other cheek," my mother also said often. Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not Jesus; not even close. That takes a strength of character far beyond what the average school-age child is capable of, and was far beyond my ability at that point (probably beyond it at any point in my life).

My father was also supportive. We saw him very regularly, every other weekend, but he was hard for me to understand when I was a young child. Intellectually powerful and emotionally strong, he was also very eclectic; his sense of household cleanliness was significantly less than what I was used to with my mother. He also tried to support me with advice, but there was little anyone could say to me that would actually stop the bullying. Attempts to comfort me were limited in the face of continued oppression.

Through the hardest years, I had one or two friends. They were on the periphery of the social scene, but they were not bullied like I was. Being a bit removed from my personal struggle, and not suffering from harassment themselves, they were probably not completely able to understand it. In any case, they were powerless to do anything about it. Only much more recently has bullying begun to be understood for the scourge it is. Many, many young people fall victim to this epidemic and suffer emotional scars that last a lifetime. I recently read an article on bullying and was startled to see that the description of the typical victim's emotional response fit me perfectly. Victims of bullies frequently have difficulty trusting others and often lack self-confidence. It's not surprising.

The negative feelings that surround being beaten up and teased were internalized, producing profound shame and emotional pain. Humans are social animals; we're inclined to accept what others think or say about us. My feelings of inferiority, worthlessness, and shame started from an early age, probably long before the bullying started. I had begun to feel different from the other boys; there was a sense that I didn't belong with them, that I was somehow weird. This started at an early age and contributed to profound feelings of inferiority and the feeling that I was being left out. Feeling left out has had a powerful hold on me since those early years. I was an easy target for the bullies.

Although by the time the harassment started taking place I perhaps should have been old enough to rationally counter it, my long-held feelings of worthlessness didn't allow me to see that I didn't have to accept what was being said about me. In an effort to help, my mom also often quoted the old adage, "Sticks and stones may break my bones...." But the statement "... but words can never hurt me" isn't true; insulting words can be powerful and deeply hurtful. That's why we use them.

Even so, I couldn't accept the core truth of the accusations until much later in my life. I could not accept or even understand the insults at that time; I didn't even know what homosexuality was until my late teens. By puberty I thought "homosexual" meant a guy who liked to wear women's clothing; the idea of a man who prefers sex with other men was totally outside my realm of understanding. It was understood during puberty that all guys like girls; presumably even the "homos" who dress like women still like women sexually (and in fact, some cross-dressers do). Before puberty I wouldn't have even recognized the word "homosexual." I didn't hear the word "gay" in this context until much later. At puberty I had no knowledge of any individuals who would fit under the heading of "queer." I only knew of males born in a male body attracted to women, and females born in a female body attracted to men.

So what was all this harassment for? Why did they do it? In retrospect, I wonder now: Did they really even know what I was? Or were they just a pack of dogs, going for the weakest, attacking any way that worked to counter their own insecurities or perhaps just to enjoy someone else's suffering? I actually suspect the latter. By the time I was old enough to know the words "homosexual" and "faggot," I understood even less why I was a target. Believing I must be straight only increased my indignation. Why did they pick on me for something that wasn't even true? I liked girls, I loved girls. I strongly preferred hanging out with girls.

Attempts were made to toughen me up, but ultimately they didn't help much. My mother arranged for karate lessons, but it wasn't of much use. I just wasn't much of a brawler, I'm more a peacemaker. I've always been conciliatory rather than confrontational. Years later I considered law school, but realized I don't have the constitution for adversarial conduct. I've always been more of a diplomat.

I couldn't understand then, and don't totally understand now, why I was victimized. But I didn't talk about these experiences much over the years; being the school punching bag, for whatever reasons, is not something to brag about. Discussing it would open old wounds, and the scars go very deep. But I had no idea then how these experiences would affect me later, no idea of both the turmoil and triumph that would ultimately result.

... but the poor duckling, who had crept out of his shell last of all and looked so ugly, was bitten and pushed and made fun of, not only by the ducks, but by all the poultry ...

The ducks pecked him, the chickens beat him, and the girl who fed the poultry kicked him with her feet. — The Ugly Duckling, Hans Christian Andersen

CHAPTER 2

The Neighborhood

As a child, I lived in a very poor neighborhood in an extremely conservative part of the country, even for the Midwest. Although both my parents had graduate degrees, they were not in high-paying fields, and multiple marriages and divorces on both sides ate away at family finances. A big old house in a poor neighborhood on the edge of the inner city was all we could afford. But we always had enough to eat, although it was simple and finances limited how much we ate. Later, when this was no longer true, I had to face that bit of my history and learn to control my weight. We had basic inexpensive clothing and an old car. We never had color TV or a microwave. The house was old, but had a lot of character. It was spacious, with plenty of room for running around and playing games.

I lived there with my younger brother and occasionally my older sister. She had run away from home in her mid-teens following a beating by a mentally ill stepfather. My younger brother moved out in his mid-teens to live with a friend. I lived with my mother until I married the first time; I didn't have the fortitude to strike out on my own.

My brother and sister and I played together endlessly. We played the usual games, built forts, and spent a lot of time cooking in the kitchen. The neighbor kids were fun to play with, and in that era, we could safely wander all over the neighborhood.

Our mother worked during the day as a high-school English teacher, and was often grading papers or out on dates in the evening. My older sister filled in somewhat as a maternal figure. As much from our father as our mother, we learned some basic cooking, nothing fancy. To this day, that style cooking represents comfort food to me: macaroni and cheese, peanut butter sandwiches. I learned to cook well with basic ingredients — ground beef, potatoes, rice, and macaroni. We essentially never went out to restaurants or to the movies. In early adulthood, I was very intimidated by restaurants, not having had any experience with them. I never even saw cooked lobster until my mid-teens while working in a restaurant; steak was also unheard of in our household. Chuck roast was as close as we came to that.

I have many happy memories of fooling around in the kitchen with my sister and brother, creating this or that from the basic staples my mother was willing and able to purchase. I'm amazed at people who say they don't know how to cook. To me, cooking is a fundamental human skill, like reading and writing. To not know how to cook seems a form of illiteracy.

For kids our age, the house was pretty special. The kitchen was warm and inviting, but the dark basement had a gigantic gravity furnace that had been converted from coal to natural gas. This huge octopus was foreboding and lent a particular scariness to the basement. In the yard were gigantic oak trees so the house was perpetually shaded, like deep woods, helping stave off summer heat, but also contributing to a sense of gloom that frequently matched my mood.

This was a very conservative neighborhood. Many of the neighbors were ultraconservative Dutch Calvinist — the kind of people who believe drinking is wrong and oppose liquor licenses for restaurants, but drink in their homes where no one can see them. Any visible activity on Sundays could invite criticism for "working on the Lord's day." Anyone not of their way of thinking was suspect, but there weren't many of these. The saying was, "If you're not Dutch, you're not much." I had been brought up fairly liberal protestant, with a strong sense of social justice, so there was a general feeling of religious oppression in this environment.

The neighbors were otherwise reasonably sympathetic and supportive to us and generally with each other. Danger, however, was only a few blocks away. It wasn't north toward the black inner city; the black kids left me alone. It was the poor white kids a few blocks away who caused all my torment.

CHAPTER 3

Always Different

Although I always knew I was different from other boys, I couldn't quite fathom why. I was very passive and non-aggressive. In general, as a child, I'd rather play with girls than boys. I wasn't into playing with dolls so much, playing house was better, but in general I found the girls much easier to understand and get along with. They just thought the same way I thought and were so easy to talk to. I truly didn't understand boys.

I didn't understand the masculine attraction to things like firecrackers, guns, or pointless destruction. I didn't enjoy any kind of rough play and tended to avoid it as much as possible.

I had a total lack of interest in any competitive athletics, particularly those involving some kind of ball. And I was completely clueless regarding team sports. I still don't even know the rules of football or basketball, and couldn't have played them if I'd been asked. I was somewhat familiar with baseball, but found it ridiculously boring. Instead of watching a sporting event on TV, I would rather be in the kitchen cooking. Actually, I'd really rather be in the kitchen even if I'm just washing dishes. Dismal performance in every aspect of gym class generally meant I was intentionally left out of any neighborhood ball games. I wasn't particularly sorry about that, but the inevitable humiliation during physical ed was excruciating. I recall that during highschool volleyball, my nickname was "statue" because all I'd do was stand there, whether the ball was coming at me or not.

As a child, I played with cars and trucks, but not the way the other boys did. I didn't actually play with them, I took the mechanical and electrical ones apart to understand how they worked. At least that seemed manly; engineers and mechanics are usually men, right? I have always had an intense fascination with machines and electronics and that's usually a man's world.

So I generally tended toward hanging with the girls, and then later with women. I assumed, of course, that this was because I was attracted to them sexually. Actually, I now realize that I have always been drawn to women, generally preferring their company to that of men, at least straight men. This probably has a lot to do with conversation. Women tend to talk about things that are interesting to me. Straight men, less so. Straight women have an approach to life that's similar to mine, much less competitive than straight men; they seem to exhibit less need to prove themselves.

Other factors contributed to my introversion. Starting around the age of six, I developed extremely severe environmental allergies and asthma. I was basically allergic to everything alive outdoors except possibly reptiles and insects. We had to get rid of the cat that I loved, and my father ultimately had to get rid of his beloved Siamese cat. Outdoor play often meant an exacerbation of asthma, and therefore resulted in my being confined indoors for a while. This only reinforced my dislike for team sports; they could literally make me sick. At the time, the medical advice for those with exercise asthma was, "Don't exercise."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Untying the Knot by David L. Kaufman. Copyright © 2013 David L. Kaufman, M.D.. Excerpted by permission of Addicus Books, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Acknowledgments,
Introduction,
Part I — Personal Background,
1 Elementary School,
2 The Neighborhood,
3 Always Different,
4 First Marriage,
5 Marriage to Cathy,
6 Survival,
Part II — Revelation,
7 Heading West,
8 Sick in Peru,
9 Transgenders,
10 Conversation with Cathy,
11 The Two of Us,
12 Immediate Reactions,
13 Initial Coming Out,
14 Pondering Sexuality,
15 Worsening Illness,
16 I Am Going to Live, and I Am Gay!,
17 Coming Out,
Part III — Later,
18 Who Am I Now?,
19 The "Jewish Thing",
20 The Dinners,
21 Bobby,
22 HIV and Drugs,
23 Cathy's Moving Out,
24 Halloween Billy Gathering,
25 Jason,
26 The Interview,
27 Feeling Down,
28 New Year's Gathering,
29 Ending My Relationship with Jason,
30 Jealousy,
31 Anger,
32 Depression,
33 Loneliness,
Part IV — Acceptance,
34 Recovery,
35 Buddhism,
36 Manuel,
37 Bulimia,
38 Gay and Sexual Orientation,
39 Gay History and Stonewall,
40 Reflections on Being Gay,
41 Conclusion,
Epilogue,
Appendix,
Phases of Gay,
Time,
My Lists,
Bibliography,
About the Author,

Editorial Reviews

"Living in a world of 'normalcy' and total acceptance by society, to then living as a minority and listening to the judgment of others, is just the beginning of Kaufman's true account of his journey from both sides." —Contextions Magazine

From the Publisher