Today is National Coming Out Day. I’m not sure that I had what you’d call a “traditional” coming out in the way that they did on Doing Time on Maple Drive — which I cried like hell for, admittedly! — but rather, a series of unconnected moments that I associate with the process. For most of the people in my life, it was like one morning everyone in the world seemed to know I was gay without making any announcements, and hey, life went on. But there were three brief moments of disclosure that I still render as more crucial than the others.

I.

By 1997 I had managed to be as openly gay as you can be without actually saying the words, “I’m gay.” I mean, people knew. I talked about hot guys. Everyone was careful not to use gendered pronouns around me. I was 23 years old, and looking back, I was still a little scared. Being gay and saying you’re gay are like two different things. It’s a life-changing moment of identity formation.

The first time I said it, then, I was on a plane. Shelter had asked me to do a run of tours around America, Europe, and Japan in 1998, and at that time, playing guitar for a living is what I did. There were several flights on that tour — Los Angeles to Hawaii, Hawaii to Osaka, Osaka to New York, New York to Frankfurt, and so on — so it’s unclear to me exactly when it happened. All I remember was sitting next to Porcell and talking about the hardcore scene. A friend of ours from going to shows at the Anthrax club in Norwalk had come out a few years before, and his name came up in conversation.

“I mean, besides Adam,” Porcell said, “I really don’t think I know any gay people in the scene.”

I looked at him curiously, and asked, “Are you sure?”

He said yes, and I realized that this was a very literal moment of truth for me.

Slowly and clearly, I articulated a point that I had yet to make: “I’m gay, Porcell.”

“No way!” he said, rhetorically speaking anyway. He knew I was telling the truth, but he was just as taken aback to hear it as I was to say it. We talked about it for five minutes before I excused myself to use the restroom.

At that point, in an airplane lavatory, I realized the significance of what I had just done: When you say it, it makes it real.

II.

I moved to Chicago later in 1998, and one of the first things I did was visit my friend Jason in Milwaukee. Jason and I had just come off tour together the previous year — me with Texas is the Reason, and him with The Promise Ring — and I felt as strong a bond with him as I did with anyone I’ve ever toured with. Within a year, Jason moved into my apartment in Wicker Park, and on one of those first nights, we took a walk to the Empty Bottle for a show.

It was dark, and we were talking. I have no idea how it came up, but with my best sense of passive-aggressiveness, I mustered up the nerve to mention that I’d seen an Advocate magazine in his old apartment.

“Was that yours?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“So you’re gay?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Oh good!” I replied. “Me too.”

We laughed about how the guitar players for two of the more popular “emo” bands of the moment turned out to be gay, and how critics of our bands would have a field day with that fact. We also didn’t care: Coming out with Jason was a shared experience, and I still feel like, on some level, we went through a specific part of that process together. We both live in Brooklyn now, and he’s still one of my best friends.

III.

It gets better. How many times have you heard that one?

Unfortunately, it’s somewhat disingenuous to insinuate that everything will work out if you just come out. Because while it’s true that everything will work out eventually, it may not work out in the way you wanted, the way you hoped for, the way you envisioned it. You may come out to a loyal assembly of family and friends, whose love for you is unconditional and to whom your sexuality is a nonissue. But you may also lose some friends. And in some of the most extreme cases, you may even lose some family. There’s no sense in making that palatable for the sake of a made-up holiday.

I was almost 30 years old when I finally came out to my mother. She responded to this news by willfully cutting off all contact with me, and shortly after that, I found myself severed from everyone in my immediate family. I have not spoken with any of them in over seven years. This was wholly their decision.

I grew up in a family of fundamentalist Christians, who seem to hold on to that whole “vengeful God” thing tighter that whole “merciful Jesus” thing. I grew up believing that gay people were sick, perverted, sinful, and completely lacking of any hope for redemption. The way my mother talked about it, you’d think that the worst thing I could do was kill someone, and that the next thing down on the list would be to love another man. So while I knew she wouldn’t congratulate me for coming out, I’m not sure I expected to be so easily discarded. Like an inanimate object that had worn out its usefulness. I didn’t think I’d have to begin a new life — without blood relatives, without a mother and father, as flawed as they were.

But I don’t regret telling the truth. There isn’t a day I’ve ever regretted it.

Coming out means being free to live an honest life, not a perfect one, and every meaningful truth comes with its fair share of wreckage. But today, I have hundreds of brilliant friends, an unrelated “brother” and two godsons, and an inconceivably valuable long-term relationship with an incredible man — none of which could have ever been sustained in a closet.

It didn’t turn out the way I wanted, the way I hoped for, the way I envisioned it. Even though it may not look this way, it’s better than that.