The more I tried to ignore these thoughts, the more they consumed me. I became angry and apathetic, downtrodden and depressed. I became frustrated, by sex and with myself, and I spent many nights alone, crying myself to sleep. But still I pushed on. In silence. Ashamed. This, I decided, was my lot. This was my life. Plus, I had (and still have) a loving husband and two children, and while my house lacks a white picket fence, I have the perfect life. So I wasn’t a lesbian. I couldn’t be a lesbian. In March, I told my husband I was bisexual — days before COVID-19 permanently altered our lives.
