There's a lot I could go into today. I'm not exactly sure where this entry will end up, but I do know why I'm writing.
Once again, I find myself without sure footing in the river of life and I have to start making some pretty serious choices. I'm having doubts and doubts lead to feelings of low self worth. Right now, everything is in the toilet and more than ever... I wish I had someone I could talk to about it.
I spend most of my life putting on a brave face. I tackle my problems head on and create the illusion that everything is OK and I'm doing great. But underneath it all, I feel very alone.
Growing up gay in a religious family was a recipe for social disaster. There are so many messed up experiences from my youth I don't talk about. Like my dad asking me when I was 5 or 6 if I was gay and not knowing or having a frame of reference for what that was. I could tell by the way he asked it was something bad, so I said, "No."
It wasn't until many years later I finally had the language to say what I was. Or what the world would come to label me as.
I remember talking to my mom about Hell once. I was scared of burning in Hell for being gay. I hadn't come out yet and I didn't want to tell her I was gay, so I brought it up as a question of dogma. The only thing I took away from that conversation was a statement she made right at the end. She said if all of her children couldn't be with her in heaven, she wouldn't go. She would rather go to Hell then be in heaven without one of us.
Today, I see that statement as a parent trying to create a sense of safety and security in their child. No matter what, she wouldn't leave me behind. But as a teenager, I had a different interpretation. Knowing I was gay and knowing I would burn in Hell, I suddenly had to live with the knowledge I was condemning my dear mother, who I love with my whole heart, to an eternity of pain, torture, suffering and misery.
I carried that with me well into adulthood.
In fact, it's one of the reasons I decided to go on a mission. My church, the Mormon church, usually sends boys over the age of 18 on two year missions all over the world. The young men travel to other countries and their function is to convert as many people as possible to the faith. I didn't have a testimony of the church. I didn't actually believe it. But it was my world. Mormonism in Utah is more than just a faith. It permeates every facet of life. Boys didn't graduate High School and move on to college... No, sir. They went on missions. It was just how life was. Although I had no interest in converting people or preaching religion, I did see an opportunity...
One of Mormonism's little loopholes is the mission. It's a commonly held belief that if a missionary dies on their mission while in the service of the church, they automatically go to heaven. It was a get out of jail free card. And I wanted it.
I remember every single time I prayed during my mission, I would silently beg God to let me die.
Now I wasn't a traditional Mormon anyway. I skipped my farewell in church. I told everyone I didn't want a farewell because I felt it would draw the attention and glory to me when it should be focused on God. And a part of me believed that. Or at least believed that's how it should be. But I also didn't want a farewell because I was a liar. And I saw no reason to celebrate my manipulation to get on a mission so I could die and go to heaven.
So here's the part where I'm going to ask you to imagine my experience. I'm in a foreign country, working to convert people to a faith I don't personally believe in, all the while praying my confused little heart out every day because the child inside thought God would let me die.
But God never answered my prayers. Or so I thought.
I remember one night, while my companion and I were going door to door in an apartment building and it was late. We were already past curfew and trying to finish the building so we could go home. We knocked on the door of a young lady who talked with us for about 35 minutes. She listened to our pitch and then responded by explaining to us about her beliefs and her faith.
She didn't lash out and bash us, or slam the door on us... She offered us genuine interest and shared her very real and meaningful spirituality with us in return. I felt an overwhelming sense of kinship with this amazing young woman. And I focused on how many similarities we shared as spiritual people. My companion, felt the experience was a waste of time and kept trying to end the conversation, but I felt so strongly about it, I asked her if we could say a prayer before we left. She graciously agreed.
I said a quick and thoughtful prayer of thanks for meeting her and sharing this lovely connection... If only for a brief moment in time. As I finished my prayer, she began to pray and thanked God for sending two angels to her door that night. Thank you for your messengers spreading the good word in the world.
My heart sank. All the way home, that line stuck with me and I couldn't escape it. My companion went to bed, but I stayed up and spent the night wrestling with my thoughts and praying fervently to God. I didn't feel like an angel or a messenger. I felt like a liar. A deceiver.
I was filled with a feeling of self-loathing I couldn't escape. And it was during that night I realized, God wasn't going to let me die. He'd already answered my prayer. My soul was crushed. I ran a bath, got in and spent the entire night crying. I was very near suicide.
By the next morning, I'd resigned myself to my fate. I finished the rest of my mission much less conflicted. I did what was expected of me and took an early out so I could go home and escape into an adult life free of the constraints of my family.
When missionaries return home, they're supposed to continue to hold themselves as Elders representing the church until they're stake president releases them. My dad was my stake president and after picking me up at the airport in Las Vegas, we went to my sister's apartment for the night. We went for a walk and it was on that walk, my dad released me. I started crying. I remember he was a bit annoyed by my reaction. I said I felt a change and he said I was imagining it. But I wasn't. That was the moment I let the church go in my heart. That was the real moment I stopped being Mormon.
A short time later, I decided to leave the church formally and began a process that ended with my records being removed.
Recently, I've heard stories about people and their suffering when they're excommunicated or when they leave the church. For me, it was liberating. I felt like a weight was lifted off my shoulders. I feel closer to God now than I ever did before. I try to lead a life that is Christlike but you'll never know it. My actions are secret and private. I never put them out there for people to see or know.
Yet, in many ways, I'm still trapped by Mormonism and the Christianity of the western world. Young people today are finding it easier to accept who they are and embrace their sexuality. My generation was probably the last to really struggle with inequality. So many men my age seem to be against the concept of monogamy or loving a partner.
I think I understand why that is. Up until now, what could you really have as a gay man? You'd never get married. Have a family. Have a real life in society. The love you shared with your partner would never result in something as wonderful as children. You were living in a dead end world. And if the only thing that could hold two lovers together was a promise... Well, that's a joke by itself.
There wasn't much hope for us. No "happily ever after" for me. Although I don't believe that now, I still find it hard to embrace the concept of happiness. I've spent so many years in the dark. Every step I take into the light is blinding; and even now, I face the prejudice of Mormonism in my life.
I've never found a place at the table. Never found a place I truly fit in. I've come close, but never really made it. The only time I really feel connected is when I'm with my nieces and nephews. They seem to love me unconditionally. And I need that so desperately.
I need a moment in my life where I can be soft and weak and lean on someone. Truly lean on someone without having to quickly pick myself up and be strong again. I need a rock in a stormy sea.
I've gone so many years taking care of me and others... Being strong. Being brave.
I want to be free of all of it. Free of the stigma people still dump on me and people like me. I want to be connected to something bigger than just my tiny, average life.
Today, I feel quietly alone.
And very sad because of it.
