Letter to My First Therapist

 Dear Brother Redacted, 

In the year 2000 my mission president sent me to visit you after I told him I was worried I might be gay.  We met in your office at Southern Virginia University. I write concerning my memories of the visits and how it affected me. 

I remember you asking a list of questions designed to determine If I was a homosexual. I don’t remember all the questions, but it took a long time to go through the list. At the end of the meeting you told me I was not gay because I had never had sex with a man, and I had these feelings because I was committing the sin of ingratitude for the body God had given me. We frequently described these feelings as “warped” and “unnatural.” You promised I could overcome the feelings. Part of the prescription from you and my mission president included fasting every Sunday.  

I recently found my mission journal and searched for any mentions of our visits.  I have been trying to recreate what happened.  While my mission was difficult, I noticed a marked change after our visits began. I was suppressing everything about me.  I got very anxious. I refused to discuss anything with my companions that wasn’t related to missionary work. Perfect and strict obedience were the only way to overcome this.  I remember driving down a holler during a powerful wind storm, thinking I’m going to die.  I’m going to hell.  

And why was I going to hell. Because I was preoccupied with men. I had never even kissed a guy. I had attractions.  I had natural physical reactions.  But our visits made me feel unclean, unworthy and broken. Broken is perhaps the worst of these. I kept thinking I could do something to fix myself.  Ironically, I wrote down your address, so I could send you a wedding announcement. 

You were the second person I ever told about my feelings, my mission president being the first. After two years I came home from the mission, and went to school.  I was still depressed and broken. And I didn’t even know why. Obviously I wasn’t gay, but what was going on inside of me. I would spend months feeling guilty for walking down aisles at the Wal Mart.  I would confess these to my bishops.  I would go to the temple. I would get so nervous during the day I often would kneel and pray in the handicap stall in the campus library. I struggled mightily to form friendships with men or women. I treated my attractions like OCD. I did go to other therapists, always making sure they were safe.  But you were my first. 

I did graduate college, but I was unable to even apply for jobs.  I moved back into my parents’ house and worked on a farm.  Then I got a job as an on call substitute teacher. 

Why didn’t you tell me I was not the only person like this?  Why did you not tell me my attractions were natural?  Why did you make me feel so broken, so alone, and offer a false hope that still has not come to pass?  You did not have to tell me to leave the church. But I was damaged by our encounter. It took me over a decade to admit this was part of who I was. I went to conversion therapy. I was so confused. Do I blame all of this on you?  No.  but you were there, at the beginning. And the path I chose was based on the counsel of you and my mission president. He was a medical doctor.  You were a licensed therapist. You should have helped me be comfortable with who I am, not leave me damaged and seeking after a unclear path with vague promises.

Electing

 I don’t know how many times I vomited late at night when I was young.  I remember in my drowsy stupor lurching down the hall to the bathroom.  Too many times, I didn’t make it to the toilet; many times, the carpet in the hallway was the ill-fated receptacle.

I never cleaned that up. My mom would somehow be at my side, soothing me, at 3 am.  Helping me find new pajamas, and making the vomit disappear. She was a healing angel those nights. 

But now people call her ignorant, hater, monster, worse than Hitler.

I was scared.  Now an adult I sat in a dark parking lot with a friend.  I cried.  This is how we met, our own homes could not hear our secret.  Struggling to figure out how to be human, when people say you’re an abnormality—when you might believe them.

He told me I was good.  He poured caring salve into the deep wounds in my soul.  He walked me back from the abyss, and helped me feel ok.  For a few moments, he was the mute button of my brain, silencing the anxious reverb. 

But people say he is evil, unnatural, ungodly.

Both these people are angels to me. Their lives seek to make others better.

But, two old politicians decided they wanted power. 

 One angel chose one, the other chose the other.

And now a chorus of voices proclaims one or the other despicable, devilish, deviant.

They are not without flaws—these Samaritans—but they are none of those derisive things. 

The chorus can pound sand.  I will not hate or forsake these good people.

Out Coming

Why do I want you to know I’m gay?

It’s not the overarching facet of my life. 

But it’s also not a minuscule fact.

It’s something I notice many times every day. 

I like men.  I’m attracted to them.  About half my world is like, so what.  That’s cool  NBD or no big deal.

And that’s what I want.  I want it to be no big deal.

So I want to make jokes about it.  I want to bring it up when I’m hanging with the guys and they say “dude, that chick is on fire”

When I’m with guys doing that I feel so normal.  And normalcy is not something I’ve experienced much.

For years, I told no one.  For years my mind would cycle over and over like some high speed carnival ride, each rotation included “you’re gay, such a queer, faggot.  If people knew they wouldn’t like you”

Those were the messages I had internalized.

Happily the messages of rejection are false.  I have been accepted by so many friends.  And it feels good.

So that is why I want to come out to you.  I want you to know this part of me.  I want you to see who I am.  And I want to once again know for sure I am safe to be me around you.

I want you to know, because my mind wants to get back on that nightmarish ride.  It wants to tell me you would reject me.  And well, I don’t think you would.  But even if you did, I’d rather it happen just once instead of a repetitive mental process.

So yeah. I’m gay.  Now what game should we play

Best Friend's Girl

You make him so happy. But now you leave and as strong as the sting has been seeing him less, the way you animate his soul makes me wish you would not leave. I gladly give up time with my friend, for his time with you. 

Not that I have much choice in the matter. Twelve times out of ten he’d pick you. As he should.

Short Poem

I laugh and I smile, 
But all the while, 
I’m a creature most vile
There is no denial
My love is on trial

U In?

I only dare write this anonymously. In college i had a strange infatuation with prank wars. i would spend hours day dreaming about the perfect toilet papering or filling someones house with rabid goats.

somehow i got the idea.... and i really don't know what possessed me. Somehow i got the idea that the ultimate prank would involve urine.

at this point i should mention somehow i didn't realize the purpose of prank wars was to get a girl to pay attention to you. seeing how i had not attraction to them, but didn't' know it. i thought the purpose of a prank war was to inflict distress.

anyway. I had a dream. a dream of filling the tub in some poor girls' apartment with urine. Wouldn't that just be the best prank ever? really? i mean they come in and they find 50 gallons of urine dumped into the tub.

yeah......... i don't think there are enough "."s to show how long that pause should be.

so i started saving. gallons and gallons of urine stored in milk jugs. In the bathroom. and while my depravity is certain, someone should also question why my roommates let me. why did they not stop me. if you see someone going down a destructive path, why do you not stop them

so, i became quite fond of my urine collection. It got chunky. i showed it off. I was such a dumb freshman.

one day, after i had amassed 40 gallons of urine, my roommate came to his senses. he begged me not to do this horrible thing. not to destroy these girls tender souls.

i looked at my chunky urine, and realized they did not deserve it. they didn't understand what i'd been through to create the urine.

so I hauled the gallons out to the dumpster.

gentle reader, i apologize for not having a story that ended with the urine being dumped in a tub, or accidentally spilling in my own house. but for 2 months, i had urine stored in my bathroom. i'm not proud of it........... but i am also not ashamed. 

Darkness in the rear view mirror.

Years ago I looked over the railing. Was any of this worth it. Was the pain, loneliness, being so different ever going to lessen. Why was I so different. Why was I so alone. Why can’t I change things for the better.

It was the same railing that today someone else jumped.

And I weep for them.

Their future looked so cloudy. Their pain so great. Why? I do not know their story. Was it the stress of schooling? Was it the pressure of unmet expectations? Was it illness? Did they also feel like an interloper?

When you consider suicide it’s like your life is a merry go round of misery. You can’t find anyway off it. The same repetitive stresses hit you again and again and again. It sucks. And then something happens that makes it too hard to bare. And you think the only exit is death. It becomes a fixation. Each rotation you come back to that thought, “the only way off is to die”

It isn’t.

If i jumped all those years ago i would have missed so much. New friends. New acceptance. New self love. Pains that had stayed with me for decades erased. Phantoms of misery finally vanquished. Had I jumped I never would have known dancing, improv, dungeons and dragons.

Friendships would have never formed.

And lives would have been devastated .

Pain multiplied across the all who new me. From moments of sadness and regret to heart suffocating spasms that want to rip the soul apart. Friends. Families. Always with a dark scar.

Please don’t do it. Don’t jump. You are good. It does get better. I promise. Get help. There are many paths to happiness. Many solutions to puzzles. And more joy that will slay the pain.

Don’t jump. Get help. You don’t have to do it alone. And in future years when you are sitting by a warm fire either with loved ones or just loving your self you will know that it has gotten better. And the way you felt on that lonely bridge will seems foreign.

There are a million paths for you. And joy is in many of them.

It gets better. As long as you stick around.

Isn't it

Isn’t it a little crazy, that a guy like me grew up not knowing about homosexuality.

Isn’t it a little crazy.   God made things this way.  That a boy could actually change from hating the gay. 

Isn’t it a pretty good thing.  The way things can change.   Men liking men becomes less super Strange

Isn’t it amazing.  God finally changed me.  Not the way that I asked for. But the way that I need

Open Heart

Let me cut a slit in my skin and show you a bit of my heart. Let me remove it from the cage i keep it on. See it. Feel it. The beats; like yours? No protection. With my heart lay bare a swift punch would wound so deep I may not recover. When you see the heart beating. Pumping blood. Will you cut it. Will you honor it.

Why do I show it. It needs completion but not by you. I have a heart. Perhaps a different model but it serves the same purpose. My heart has scared me. I know its beats are not like most. But look. It is still a good heart. Is it really so alien? I show it not to the masses. Not yet. Someday they will know. For now I show it to you. What do you think? Is it really all that bad? I wish I did not have to tell anyone. But we all talk about our hearts. It gives us our power. And the cage I kept mine in was to small. And atrophy will kill it.

So you. As one of the first to see my different heart are you surprised? Are we still ok?

Dear Lady

Dear lady, I write concerning the allure of your husband, to put your fears of me to a quick end; your man , while one of my best mates to hang out with, I’ve never had much desire to make out with. Now don’t be offended that I think your beau is ugly, I just hoped to end your apprehension of me. I won’t try to seduce your mate to the path of the gay side, don’t fear when we go out for a day ride. We’re just doing what men have done for years. Being bro’s, hanging out, so don’t listen to your fears. Your man is as straight as they come and has eyes for none other; but while we’re on the subject could I have the number for your brother?

Unbound

there is a freedom found in being different, if you can fully grasp what it means

you don't have to follow the norms around you, the ways you've always seen

when you give yourself permission to dye your hair chartreuse, or wear a pink cape to Walmart, regardless of abuse

you'll have found the freedom granted when nature said you'd be this way

you'll start to be thankful when the normals call you gay

He Leaves

He leaves.

Not a ton of sadness. There was potential. We laid a good groundwork.   Started to be friends.  Played frisbee.  You sent me girls to date.

I dropped the catalyst.  I didn’t need to.  I had kept it in reserve. 

It was a powerful catalyst that I had in abundance.  The abundance made me discount its power.  And it’s volatility.

So many of the reactions had been perfect.  I lobbed the element out to anyone I passed.

Except work.  Work could not have that. I knew the reaction would be poor.

So you were like many others.  Or so I thought.

One night I cast the catalyst at him.

He sent me girl after girl I could date.

I told him my desires for girls was inert.

I threw in the phrase.  I am gay.

It was by text.  So I couldn’t even see the reaction.

He said. “Cool man. Good night”

We didn’t talk any more.

I felt shame almost immediately.

I had no idea what he thought.

But. Things had changed. He was distant. Never mean. But distant.

I’m sure I didn’t help him.

And now he’s moving.   Just a few months after he moved in.

So. I’ve lost a potential friend.  Not a long term one.

But I’ve lost someone who could have been friendly.

I don’t know why.  But I guess my secret though less volatile, still has the potential to react poorly.

It’s not the end of the world.  It’s just the loss of a maybe.

unopened packages

I love game stores. I love walking around.  Seeing all the board games, and the potential inside them.  Often i'll buy a game.  Too often.  I have scores of games, and sadly a good number of them are unopened.

I think back to some of the happiest times in my life.  It was when i was gaming with friends.

I buy games, to bring back those times.

But i don't need more games.  I need friends.  all the games in the world are worthless without someone to play them with.  

Out Out Damn Bigot

If they knew I was gay they would mock and defame.  They would add in derision when they speak my name. They would turn away quickly and always despise.  They would glance at anything other than my faggity eyes.  They would hate me and worse they would make me cast out. They would forget our old friendships they lip would remain stout.

Except. They do know--almost all have seen my secret. I like men. That’s a fact and there’s been no throats slit.  They still smile when they see me.  They still look at my eye.  Some of them talk with me deeply about liking the guys.  They still play disc golf and Ultimate.  They still chat most all day.   They still turn on the ‘tendo and invite me to play. 

So I guess the dark voices that fertilize fear really shouldn’t have much of a place left in here.  The voice that should rule is the one that is kind. The meanest voice about the gay is the one in my mind. 

I’ve been called a faggot by no one but me.  I’ve been sent down to hell by the voice inside me.  I’ve heard the words I fear most no from friends or dear kin.  The words tipped with poison have come from within. 

The acceptance i need isn’t in life’s crowded hallway. It’s the bigot within I must struggle to slay. 

Corinthian Glass

I stand here in stark openness. Clothed yet naked. You have been given a grand key. The master lock is open. You know.

And here I stand. The first time since you found out my secret. What do your eyes search for? Are you looking for clues? Some evidence you should have seen previous. Do I look the same to you? Or am I courageous, or sinful, or contagious, or alien.

Am I still human to you.

Am I still family.

Please! What do your eyes see.

Do they still see me?

Death of the Party

I see you.  I behold all of you.  Your little party.  Your feigned joyous vocal ejaculations upon seeing each new guest.  “Oh how have you been?”   “Oh my look how preggers you are!”

Partaking of food, of drink, I sit her, perched in the corner.   I hear you, I comprehend your motives.  You, broad shouldered rugby type, you want to go home with her.  Your smiles are bigger for her, your eyes, though distracted, re-calibrate constantly with her at the center.

You, oh how big and rich you are.  You telling about your job, and how everyone jumps at your command.   And you telling about your boat, your vacation, your family.

Oh now you’re all talking about your hot molded bodies, under the guise of fitness hints.  

What a scene.  I sit in the corner. And now I strike.   Each of you analyzed, each of you primed to fall.  With the a paring knife I slice through the tethers you’ve been so gently weaving throughout the night.   The girl you want?  I distract her with culture.  You fume.  She laughs.  I have no need of tethers.   I deflate your dirigible by talking about your companies scandals.   Oh sure I don’t mention your company, I just mention in passing something I heard in the news.   Now your blimp is limp.  The hot molded bodies.   I cannot destroy that, but I can talk about how you were.  Bring those memories back to everyone.

You come to me, “how have you been?”  I talk about my rashes and poor job performance.   Quietly you shuffle away.

Things are more quiet now.   Slowly I have been putting the party to sleep.   Slowly you leave.  I return to my perch, pick up a novel, and finally breath.

1-2-3

The ones like the twos. The twos like the ones. The cleave to each other like silverware stacked in a drawer. 

They think I'm a one. Most do. But I'm a three. I walk past twos and ones all day. I like the ones. But they don't like me. They like the twos. Some twos like me but I don't like them. 

Then one day out of the ocean of ones I found another three. Then I realized we all had been hiding among the ones. The odds were never in my favor but just knowing that in the sandy beaches of ones a few threes hid, made it bare able. I can never tell if someone is a three or a one. But I can hope. 

So which number are you?

Lost Retreat

There is a place with peaceful breeze; a clearing rounded by ancient trees. A place where streams run clear and deep.  A place where peaceful is my sleep.

There is a place set in my soul. A place where I don't often go.  Where gay and Mormon are well known friends.  A place where the bitterness is end.

I'd like to go to this forest retreat.  I'd like to see those old friends meet.  I'd hear them share their hidden fears.  I'd see them hug through joyful tears.  My soul has the map but I cannot see the path to get there through the tree. But I know a place does exist.  And it's a place I sorely miss.

If you find the way will you take me there?   So I may partake in the peaceful fair.  This battle makes my heart weary.  This battle makes it hard to see that someday I will find the path.  And no longer will I have to ask how a man can be both Mormon and gay.  For God will show me the gentle way.   The scars of battle may form the map....  how did I never think of that.

Response

While it is true I have affinity for glorious masculinity I don't think you can get rid of me without approaching divinity who will rebuke your bigotry and years of bitter enmity and when we see electricity no doubt you think it aims for me but cut short you despotic glee for the smoke shall issue forth from thee

Letter to a Friend's Girlfriend

I send a request without hope of redress  that you may have some mercy.

You own the  heart of a man I care for.  we were just friends but I had settled for that tiny sliver of my yearning.

In the times of lower conscious he is so much more but I knew he wouldn't give it to me I was a magnet he is just a piece of iron. But I was fine with just friendship and then you came in and took it like  ten thousand women before you, you've taken my friend's attention.

You two are compatible; the magnetism goes both ways. I don't want to deny my friend a match.  I cannot and  our unspoken agreement was just for friendship after all.

But I would hope every now and then you could enjoy a night out with the girls and I could have my friend again. it's in your hands I know I can't win this fight so  I just beg  for Mercy.

 Even the dogs sometimes getting scraps from the table.