So I reacted as I typically would when Kit pushed me to the emotional brink: I gave him the silent treatment. Instead of engaging in a knock-down, drag-out shouting match that Kit was always game for, I went in the opposite direction and shut down. It was the same dance we’d been doing for the past almost twelve years. Kit wore his emotions on his sleeve and I bottled mine up. And I did so, in large part, because I was terrified of what lay beneath. If I cracked the floodgates open even just an inch, forty-one-plus years of grief and gay bullying and fat shaming and sexual oppression could
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