My sister was munching on something in my kitchen. I stood across from her, the counter between us. She was facing away from me. I rolled words around in my mind, trying to construct a sentence that would put her at ease, not evoke disturbing stereotypes about people like me. I had been talking about my stalker, this guy who was convinced I was in love with him and became infuriated when he realized I had a partner.

My mother has always done her best to love me and take care of me, and I know this. But I come from an extremely religious, conservative family—house full of kids and fire and brimstone. I’ve always lived my life in extreme and unusual ways and it scares her. She wants me to be safe. There’s so much I haven’t told her because whenever I try to, I freeze. I was worried if I came out to her while living with her that she and my father would have sent me to gay conversion camp or that they would kick me out of the house and I would be homeless, which had happened to some of my friends. I like to think that she would have accepted me, but I don’t know.

She asked a couple questions about my job. I answered them, still bewildered at her response. I was expecting some concern. I wondered if she was feeling worry or judgement but didn’t want to burden me with it. My sister has always been incredibly thoughtful like this. I remember coming out to her as queer and how excited and happy for me she had been about that too. I’m crying now, writing this, so grateful to have spent so much of my life knowing someone as accepting and sweet as her.

I honestly don’t remember if those were the exact words I said, but I do remember my entire body tensing up up. I almost started crying. I was so worried I would lose my sister, who I loved so dearly. I was shocked when she told me: “I’m glad you’re happy! I’m glad you found a job that works for you!”

I’ve danced around the subject with my mom and she’s danced around the subject with me. She saw some “suspicious” things in my calendar years ago, when I first started working, and called me about it. There was so much anxiety in her voice—“Are you safe?” I massaged the truth a bit, to make it seem like I was still working in tech—a field I left in pursuit of less misogynistic working conditions, more self control, and the ability to work around my mental illness and physical disabilities.

When I think about it now, I think she must already know. My face is all over the internet. Surely someone at our church who looks at porn or sees escorts has told her about it by now, under the guise of concern. I hate that I haven’t told her myself—I guess I am now and I hope she understands that writing this, in some ways, is easier. I’ve tried to, multiple times, but every time I try I freeze. I remember the most recent time we spent together, we got pie. I promised myself I would tell her as we ate. With every bite I took, I tried to say it. Every time, I froze.

I wondered if she could read the tension in my body. I could feel it radiating out of her as well. This tension has always been between us, all these unspoken things. There’s always been so much I felt I couldn’t tell her. I want so deeply to be loved and accepted by her. I want her to know I’m finally happy, after years of struggling with depression and anxiety and physical pain from Ehlers-Danlos syndrome—a disorder that affects my connective tissues and joints—and cluster headaches, that I’ve finally gotten medical treatment that I need, that I’ve been able to spend time healing myself because my job affords me monetary security and, most importantly, time.

When I thought I had stability in the past, I’ve have the rug pulled out from me like so many others

There’s a second closeting that we don’t talk about as much. As a sex worker, with a brand to maintain for my income and under threat of state violence, I’m closeted both ways.