Happy National Coming Out Day: A Time to Celebrate Who You Are and Not Fear

Today is National Coming Out Day. It is a day where people get to tell the ones they love that they are gay. It is a day that is possibly seen as a bane to existence for the extreme conservatives and a blessing to the liberals. But no matter what your views are on National Coming Out Day, I for one am very grateful that there is a day that can make people of the LGBT community feel less and less broken and more and more part of the conversation.

This first part of my post is the horrendous feelings I had about being gay because I was raised as a member of the LDS church and, as a member, was taught that being gay was a sin. The complex range of emotions that I have suffered through are, in part, because of religious belief and my desire to go to Heaven rather than to go to Hell.

Here I lay, tied to the mire,

And unable to break free of it

For fear that nothing will remain,

And that I will no longer be.

The muck, I have grown accustomed to

And the aromas that linger around,

But to be reminded daily,

Suffering the anguish to know

That if I break free of my chains

I will forever remain undesirable;

Forever remain broken and dirty.

I cannot be reminded daily

That by my simple existence

I am

And will always be one.

The closest I will come to home

Is nowhere near it at all.

By simply being me,

I remain a failure:

The black sheep.

By following all I feel inside,

I remain a sinner.

Since I was a child, the church and my parents talked about the importance of a temple marriage. A family forever, who wouldn’t want that?

            The goal of getting to the temple became a dream of mine. I dreamed of the day when I would take the one I loved into that enormous palace built for the God I loved with all my heart and marry not just for this world, but the next. I dreamed of my future children meeting the one they loved and all of us living and loving together for eternity.

            My dream just had some contingencies on it. If I wanted my dream to come true, I had to change how I felt about men. I had to live a more perfect life and to continue on living a lie to gain access into the temple of God.

            I told my parents when I was thirteen years old that I was gay. I remember asking Mom and Dad if I could talk to them. In their room, they had their king sized bed with a green silk comforter on the top of it and hand stitched into it were roses and clouds. In the very center of the comforter is the Manti temple—the temple my parents were married in.

            In front of their bed was a chest of drawers finished in a black stain with silver handles and knobs. Above the dresser, in a golden frame, was a picture of the Manti temple. The two domed edifice of a cream colored stone on a hill top surrounded by green grass and flowers watched over the room.

            Pictures of the first presidency and Jesus Christ with the words “Come unto Me” stitched and frame were hung on the walls. I felt safe in the confines of their room. It felt like home. It was home and what better place to reveal such a damning secret than in the confines of a warm and welcome home.

            It was Sunday. The cloud speckled blue sky added to the reverence I felt that day after Sacrament meeting, Sunday School, and then meeting with the other deacons. I didn’t feel that I could pass the sacrament that day because you had to be worthy and I was gay and therefore couldn’t be worthy of handling the blood and body of Christ.

            Mom sat on the bed next to me. She was dressed in a red dress; brown nylons with a run up one side of her left leg; and a cream colored cardigan. Her blonde hair ratted in the back and hair sprayed to give it more volume. The grey roots showing through at her part. I have always told her not to dye her hair because she is gorgeous with her grey hair too. She, however, is self-conscious of her grey hair, mainly because people used to ask Jaclyn, Stephen, and me if she was our grandmother. I could tell that that bothered her, so I could understand why she would dye her hair. She is beautiful either way.

            Dad sat in the arm chair kiddy corner from the bed. It looked like a throne. He wore a button up, long sleeve white shirt without a tie. He always took the tie off when we got home from church. He wore black slacks and black socks that he would roll back and forth, on and off as he sat in his chair.

            Mom gave me a side hug and held me close—she has always been able to tell when something was wrong. Dad sat across from us with his arms folded above his protruding stomach. He just waited for me to talk.

            Mom’s hug gave me no courage; the hug only made me feel more nervous. I looked down at the taupe colored carpet and at my feet. How would I tell them my secret? I prayed for courage to tell them. As the butterflies in my stomach got stronger, my tongue loosened. “Do you guys know how the guys at school, on the bus, and at church call me fag, queer, and gay?” I began. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mom bite her lip and nod. Dad looked me in the eyes and nodded.

            “Well…” I hesitated and could feel my throat tighten up. “I think I am gay.” My voice caught on the last word.

            Mom hugged me closer to her. She felt, at this point, like she had a vice grip and was not going to let one of her babies go. She wiped at the welled up tears in her eyes with her free hand. I could feel her breathing grow more rapid and her heart beat louder and quicker.

            Dad still didn’t say anything. He looked at me and Mom. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking; I could feel what he was feeling. The only noticeable change was how fast he rubbed his feet together and across the carpet. Also, he moved his arms from folded to placing them on the arms of the chair.

            After a slight pause which felt like hours and made my heart begin to race, my mind began to reel with questions, waiting for Dad to say something. Is he going to kick me out? Do they hate me? Am I salvageable? Will the Atonement of Christ save me?

            “Son, what makes you think that?” Dad asked, now with one arm behind his head tugging on his dark brown hair.

            “I like some of the guys on the football team,” I said.

            “Liking them doesn’t make you gay, Son,” Mom said.

            “I don’t just like them Mom,” I said, “I think they are cute.” I felt embarrassed to tell my Mom something so personal.

            “Son, you know that Satan is making you have these feelings right?” Dad said, matter-of-factly. “These are not natural feelings and this is Satan’s way of trying to keep you from returning to God.”

            “I know Dad,” I said, “that’s why I am telling you. What am I supposed to do?” I started to cry. I could feel the warm tears run down my already reddened cheeks. I hate crying because boys aren’t supposed to cry. None of my brothers cry.

            “Well,” Dad began, as mom held me closer and wiped at my tears and her own, “we need to talk to the bishop, so you can repent and start back on the right path and then if you are willing, I know someone who just graduated with his master’s degree in psychology. If he will take you as a client, will you go up and see him. We can get it fixed before it gets any worse.”

            “Okay,” I said more out of a hope that Dad and Mom wouldn’t hate me or be disgusted by me.

            “I’ll call him tonight,” Dad said, “and we will make the appointment for this week. He is up in Provo, but it will be worth the drive. If we can stop this feeling before you act on them the happier you will be. I’m proud that you would tell us Son. We want you to be able to come to us whenever you are feeling those feelings, so we can help you get rid of them. We will pray, read the scriptures, play a game, whatever it takes.”

            I smiled at Dad, at the word “proud.” I didn’t often hear Dad use that word, so I felt that I was doing the right thing.

            Mom’s tears stopped, but her hugging continued. “We love you Son,” she said, “We want what is best for you and just want you to be happy. And we know what brings happiness.”

            “Let’s kneel down and pray together,” Dad said as he roused himself from his chair and began to kneel down. Mom and I followed his example.

            “Our kind and gracious Heavenly Father,” Dad began, “we are grateful for all of our many blessings. We are grateful for Micah and his willingness to follow in the paths of righteousness and his kind and gentle spirit. We ask Thee to please bless him, Father, that he will be able to fight these feelings he is having and to continue to want to fight the feelings. Help him to fight off the devil’s temptations and the minions of the devil so that he might return to Thee with honor. These things we pray for, if it be thy will, in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”

            Mom and I echoed, “Amen.”

            When we got up, Dad gave me a hug and patted me on the back. Then Mom hugged me to her breast tightly and said, “I love you.” She wiped her eyes.

            “I love you too,” I said.

            I smiled and walked down the hall to my bedroom. I closed the door and picked up my scriptures. I am not sure what I read, but I remember feeling a warm feeling in my chest. I knelt down and prayed for the feelings to go away and the burning in my chest increased.

            That experience was the last time for years that I felt so close to God and the burning in my chest. After that, I looked into an abyss of darkness and tears. I would go through the fires of Hell trying to rid myself of being gay.

            The following Wednesday, Mom pulled me out of class and she and I drove in our bright blue Aerostar van from Carbonville to Provo. We drove through the winding roads of Spanish Fork canyon, passing herds of Elk and spotting a few white tailed deer. Aspen trees and pine trees flew behind us as we sped past them. We listened to Chris Heimerdinger’s Tennis Shoes Among the Nephites series on tape. Mom asked me how I was doing and my simple response was, “I’m okay.”

            I wasn’t okay. How was I ever going to be okay? In the span of three days, from the Sunday I told them to Wednesday, things had changed. I felt numbness. It was like my body was on auto pilot and my mind was on vacation. I don’t know where it was, but it was far far away, possibly on Judea’s plain.

            We reached Provo at about 4:30 pm and we reached Scott’s office at 4:45 pm. off in the distance I could see the Provo temple. It looked like a carrot cake with a big carrot stuck in the middle. I was reminded of my dream of eternal marriage and families forever, before I walked into Dad’s friend’s office.

            It was a brown building on Freedom Boulevard next to some trees behind a fence on the left and an ambulance garage on the right. The hospital was off to the right a distance away. Mom would always remind me that Utah Valley Regional Medical Center was where I had my kidney surgery when I was four.

            I walked up the carpeted creaking steps and to the left. Dad’s friend was waiting for me. He had Dad’s build, with a protruding stomach, plaid shirt, slacks and a tie. The only thing that made him different from Dad was his vest he wore and he was bald on top of his head. He looked like those monks you see in pictures with the bald head and hair on the sides.

            He extended his large hand and with a deep voice said, “Hi Micah, I’m Scott. It’s nice to meet you.” He also stuck out his hand for Mom and said, “Hi Bonnie. I’m going to just meet with Micah by himself. If you’ll just wait here,” motioning towards a leather couch, “we shouldn’t take too long.”

            Mom took my hand and squeezed it, then, letting go, she sat down. “I’ll be right here Buddy.”

            Scott took me into his office. To the right was a brown leather sofa that crinkled as I sat down on it. Scott’s desk was littered with books and papers. A lamp in the corner was the only source of light in the room besides the dimming sunlight coming through the slated shades on the window. A tall bookshelf with books and books galore decorated the wall. Scott sat in a leather arm chair with thick wooden legs to support his weight. Several fake green plants and trees were scattered around the room. It was quiet in the room, but not uncomfortably quiet.

            “Your Dad has already talked to me a little bit,” he said, “about your problems and issues. I want you to talk a little bit about what’s going on, and then I will ask you some questions.”

            “Okay…” I started. I had no idea what to say next. What did Dad already tell him? What had Dad said about me? What does he think of me? I felt dirty and I felt betrayed. This stranger knew my dirty, sick secret. I knew I was coming here to talk about it, but Dad had already told him. There was emptiness in the pit of my stomach like when you are starving and can’t find anything to eat.  I felt sick and didn’t know how to keep telling him what I needed to tell him.

            “I’m gay,” I said, quickly and in whispered tones. He didn’t laugh at me, didn’t kick me out, and he didn’t point and mock; he just sat there. He looked at me and just waited for me to continue. “I’m gay,” I said a little bit louder, “and I don’t want to be. I know that it is not natural and I know that God doesn’t make mistakes. I know that Satan is making me feel this way. I don’t want to be gay. I want to get married and have children. I want to go to the temple and be a family forever. I want to die and go to heaven and not go to the fiery pits of Hell.”

            My thirteen year old form started to shake as I started fitfully crying. I hoped and prayed that my mom couldn’t hear me. The tears rolled down my face and the snot streamed from my nose. I grabbed for tissue that I hadn’t noticed was there before. I wiped at my eyes and blew my nose.

            I continued on, my pre-pubescent voice cracked as I spoke, “I’m afraid of looking at myself in the mirror because I hate who I see. I hate looking at the faggot looking back at me through the same wired frames that I wear. I hate seeing the sinner and knowing he is me. I avoid looking in the mirror whenever possible. I cry after I pray at night wondering why I haven’t felt God’s warmth ever since I told my parents. I don’t want to go to school because the boys at school don’t like me. They always call me queer, fag, fudge packer, and whatever else they want to because the teachers never say anything.”

            I wiped at my eyes again and looked down at my small hands, remembering what Stephanie Simmons said after measuring from the base of my palm to the top of my middle finger, “You know what they say about small hands?” she laughed. “Small hands, small penis.” She and her friends laughed. I just hated myself even more.

            I looked up from my small hands and kept talking, “I hate my girly voice that is so high that some people think I am one of my sisters. I tried on one of my sister’s bras the other day to see what I would look like as a girl. It was ugly. I was ugly. I’m not a man or a woman. I’m a thing. I’m ugly and God hates me because I am gay. I will never get married in His temple and He will send me to Hell.”

            I began sobbing. The idea of doom grew stronger and stronger as I continued to talk. I continued to dwell on the teasing and my own personal hatred for myself began to grow.

            “Do you think God hates you that much?” Scott asked. He looked at me with sympathy and pity.

            Is he expecting me to answer? I asked myself. “Yes…I mean no…I mean I don’t know. The scriptures don’t seem to show much love and kindness for the people of Sodom and Gomorrah. He burned them up and they were gay. That’s what they say happened to Sodom and Gomorrah, so if he burned them for being gay, won’t he do that to me?” I looked at Scott with complete seriousness.

            Scott looked at me and said, “Yes, that is true, but the people of Sodom and Gomorrah were unrepentant sinners. You want to change don’t you?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then you aren’t unrepentant and God is not going to destroy the unrepentant. So, let’s work on the processes in your mind that will help you change the way you think.”

            “Okay, what do I have to do?” I asked eager to change.

            “It’s not going to happen right away and you will probably fight these feelings for the rest of your life.”

            “Really? Then what is the point in fighting them? Why not give up?” I was becoming physically drained and broken.

            “Because you want to change and you want to be righteous, right?”

            “Yes,” I stammered.

            “You want to return to God with your family and live forever right?”

            “Yes!” I almost screamed it.

            “Then you have to keep fighting. You have to endure to the end. It will be worth it. What’s that saying?” he thought to himself, “Oh yes, ‘I didn’t say it would be easy. I just said it would be worth it.”'

            Immediately, I thought of the picture of Christ with his arms outstretched with that saying underneath him. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll try.”

            Scott looked at my hazel eyes and said, “Do or do not there is no try.” He smiled and I smiled thinking of Yoda, that cute little green man who is very wise, but speaks funny.

            “I want to see you twice a week for a while, and then we will cut back to once a week, and then when you are ready, twice a month. Is that going to be okay?”

            “I think so,” I said, “but we should probably ask my mom.”

            “Okay,” he said, “But one thing before you go, I want you to pray and read your scriptures every night. Okay?”

            “Okay,” I said. I already planned on it because in order to get a good grade in seminary, I had to read my scriptures every night. However, if that was going to help me not be gay, I was going to try that much harder.

           I continued to pray and read my scriptures, but my attractions for the guys at my school weren’t going away. They just seemed to be getting stronger and fiercer. Why wasn’t it working? Why wasn’t God fixing me? If I do everything that God asks of me, will he cure my disease? Will he fix me?

           I have yelled so many times inside, Some people get tried with small sins and mine is going to send me to Hell if I don’t endure to the end. My demeanor and outlook on life changed. I saw an angry and cruel God that was like a child with an ant farm. He was playing with a magnifying glass, making us writhe in agony in the magnified glare of the sun.

            I wore two faces very well. I learned to take one off and put the other one on without hesitation. I became two people though with one soul. My soul was torn between the two desiring to be one person all the time.

                                                                              *  *  *

          Now, for the "It Gets Better" part of my message. For those of you that suffer through the self-hatred and distaste for the person you see in the mirror, I am here to tell you that, after years of suffering, we become the pearls that we are meant to be. 

          There is a lot of hatred and cruelty in the world because of a lack of understanding. However, there is a movement going on in our nation and in the world where there is more conversation going on and more people caring about understanding.

          Today, as contrary to the past experience and contrary to my feelings expressed in my coming out story (or rather part of my coming out story), I am a stronger man because I believe that I am who I am without mistake or error. I am stronger in my beliefs in life and I am seeing beyond the formative years and living a life I was meant to live. The universe has a plan and we are all part of that plan--gay and straight alike. We are luminous beings that are full of love and beauty.  

          I guess what I am trying to say with this post, in spite of how some of it may appear, is that it does eventually get better. We learn to surround ourselves with the people that will love us in spite of how they think we should be living our lives and love us for us. We become forces for change and forces for good if we allow ourselves to learn from the past and live for today. If we can keep going and "endure to the end"(if I may borrow the phrase I so often heard in church), the rewards of life and love will be endless. We always have suffering no matter where we are in life, but the love that we can experience will balance out the suffering if we let it.

          Don't be afraid this day to be you or any day after today. Be you and don't let anyone make you feel inferior to the pearl or the diamond that you are. Be all you are meant to be and more. Live your life and shine on into the darkness that threatens to make you despise you and the life you live. Shine on and shine bright. Namaste.