Jonathan is a 30-year-old active gay member of the Church.
I’ve liked men for as long as I remember. Probably even from before I can remember. Maybe even before I was in utero. Just a plucky sperm flirting with the other sperms. That’s probably why I was the one who won. I flirted them away! Mwa-ha! Charmed my way to the top! Only to find…..an egg. Ugh. It’s like a huge sperm without a tail. But a few other last-surviving sperms were still coming! So I dove in, head first, wiggly tail behind me! I WON! It was yucky and disgusting along the way, but I WON!!! Maybe liking the boys does help me win, after all. Maybe. …
One of my first memories of attraction was when I was nearly four and my family watched Savage Sam, the sequel to Old Yeller. There was a scene in which teenage Travis ran around without his shirt on. I was fascinated. Like a cat on a grasshopper, I leapt flailingly at the television and pointed at him. “Me! Me!” I exclaimed.
“Sit down!” “I can’t see!” “Stop it!” said three of my older siblings, two of which were teenagers themselves.
Feebly, I stepped to the side of the TV, watching with intrigue. When Still-Shirtless Travis (a rejected name for a Harry Potter ghost) flashed back on the screen, I muttered, “Me,” nearly breathlessly. The image excited me so. With my limited vocabulary and limited worldly understanding, as well as the vivacious thrill of the moment, I couldn’t find the words to express my interest in the body I saw. I could only say, “Me.” A significant part of myself was drawn to it and connected with it.
Interesting I should choose the word “me.” I repeated it more and pointed at Disney child star Tommy Kirk, a homosexual.
Through the next year, I continued crushing on boys, especially the strapping young men my oldest brother brought home from the Air Force Academy for spring break, as well as the mischievous, adventuresome six-year-old boy at the end of the street (my mom and seven-year-old brother didn’t approve of him—which, in my spite, only made me want to see him more). All this was soon followed by the first time I came out to my mother. As I sat at the bar in the kitchen eating lunch, the television rang a news ticker about men marrying men.
“I’m going to marry a man,” I easily told my mother.
“Nooo,” she playfully discredited. “Some people pretend men can marry men but they can’t. Only men and women can get married.”
Quietly confident and not wanting to argue, I remained silent. Oh, yeah, Mommy? I thought. I’ll show you. If it can’t be done, I’ll make it possible.
I grew up easily conscious about my attractions to men but considered maybe I would marry a woman. That’s what I was told I would do, and that’s what all the men I saw were doing—in real life and in Disney movies. Belle, Ariel, and Pocahontas were my home girls. Of course, I’d want to marry them!
Eventually, when I was nine, I learned that my man interests were not so unique to myself. Others had these same attractions, too. They were termed “gay” and “homosexuals.” That was me. I was one of them. I don’t remember hearing hateful things about them—just that it was wrong to be in such a relationship. So, I triumphantly determined I’d continue to rely on my social attraction to girls (always had more girl friends than boy friends) to carry me through to a glorious temple marriage that would reunite me with my Heavenly Father—Father in Heaven, the ultimate One with whom to have a relationship and the ultimate dwelling place.
Still, I always accepted my attractions to men. They were just there—an added aspect of life, uniquely me. It never even occurred to me to pray the gay away. That didn’t even make sense. Since I’ve always had these attractions, I didn’t know what life would even be without them. It’s what I knew. It didn’t even seem reasonable for them to just disappear. Regardless, I suspected opposite-sex dating and marriage (and nearly everything else about life) would make more sense when I was older. Grownups knew everything, right? Maturity would manage it all with balance. But no matter how old I got, I always thought it’d make more sense when I was even older…
So, as I waited for my Great Pumpkin of straight dating to show up, a snag caught in the plan. I was eighteen and planning a mission when my bishop advised I come out to my parents. I preferred not to talk to my impatient and volatile father even if we lived in the same house, so I came out to my mother—again.
“I’ve always known,” she said distantly, hinted with an unsure sadness. “I hope you can work your way through it and learn whatever it is you need to learn.”
I confidently believed I could, as my bishop and I planned to send me to a therapist (not conversion therapy, mind you; just a specialized therapist).
The idea of therapy was exciting! I wasn’t sure what to expect. But I was intrigued to learn about myself, my attractions, and other concerns the local church leadership had. I was given a wonderful counselor—a gentle, caring young man—and while I never ended up serving a mission, I did learn how to psychoanalyze. A joyous treat to behold! (<---partial sarcasm)
So, there I was, chuggin’ along in therapy, working at my attractions which I had understood to be purely sexual up to this point when…it happened! I fell in love!!! …And to my horrific delight, it was with a man—Neil. Oh, the warm loveliness. The la-la comfort. It was everything I’d dreamed of. …
…I hated it! I’d found the love of my life and it was a dude. The forbidden fruit. The agony! The pain! I wanted everything of him, even to take his name! ...But I couldn’t be with him. There were more days that I cried than days that I didn’t as I willed myself to not accept Neil’s perpetual offer to be boyfriends. It was first love. And at such a young age, I was not equipped to handle it, neither did I know who to turn to.
LOOOOONG story short: Neil professed his love for another man (…in Ecuador! WHAT?! They met online…psh), and in the course of two weeks, three other guys professed their love to me, all of whom knew that I was tragically in love with Neil. It was all too much! After eight long months of severe anxiety, of crying too much and sleeping too little, I did what any reasonable human being would do: I had a panic attack. It was private, just as everything else concerning my romantic life had been. Never in my life had I been—and still amn’t—prone to anxiety.
The only thing that kept the anxiety at bay was the idea to cut the gay ties I had—none of which I had searched out myself—so I could detox and then to run away to BYU. And that’s exactly what I did.
I loved BYU! After my traumatic anxieties, it was a safe refuge. Even though I had my male crushes, I didn’t have to worry about the potential of acting on them. Other gay boys would be frightened by the Honor Code and would generally keep to themselves. I wouldn’t be bothered by them and could focus on my studies.
After a few months at BYU, I opened contact back up with Neil. He and I remained good friends—seeing each other occasionally and exchanging Christmas gifts. I tried to convince myself I wasn’t in love with him, or even interested in him. I had my studies to focus on, so I couldn’t afford him as a distraction.
Really, I still loved him. As in, one December the monologue I performed as an audition was taken from Jennifer Aniston in He’s Just Not That Into You. “Are you ever going to marry me?” I pleaded to the wall behind the three fate-wielding auditioners. Their favorite work they had seen from me, they said. It was completely honest. It was to Neil…
Three months later, in March, Neil killed himself.
I had been in rehearsals for a play that was to have its few performances at the end of the month. I managed to fulfill my role, completing my thirteen-month streak of constantly being involved with a play. It wouldn’t be for another five years that I’d feel safe enough to step back on stage, when I was in an original sketch comedy show at a comedy club.
The day after hearing of Neil’s suicide, I called my mother to inform her of it. She knew I was close with him (not how close), and she let the rest of the family know of his passing, as he was a family friend years before our informal courtship.
I mentioned Neil’s passing to only a few people, mainly my castmates in case there was a rehearsal conflict with Neil’s funeral. (There wasn’t.) I referred to him as my “dearest friend.”
Arriving home for the summer a month after Neil’s suicide, I took in one suitcase of clothes and left the rest of my stuff in my packed car for a week. In fact, I didn’t leave the house for a week. I didn’t even step into the garage. During the first night, all my stress flooded in. I felt physically ill. My muscles were tight. I was exhausted. My jaw was so stiff I couldn’t open my mouth wide enough to fit a finger between my teeth. (This made eating difficult.) My family figured it was a terribly stressful semester of schoolwork…
Having never met with an academic counselor, I had planned to sneak under the radar and attend another year of college (there were still classes I wanted to experience!), but instead, I hurried and finished that 1.0 credit hour required for my degree in the fall of that year, just to be done with it.
It was hell to leave home for that semester. And my mom said it felt like fighting the devil to keep me there. Several times, I almost quit. What was the point of being there? Why was I doing anything that I was doing? The love of my life had died. And even if I told anyone, would they even care? My love was another man. Therefore, did it even matter?
Eventually, I lost my singing voice. Once an avid singer, I now couldn’t even carry a tune. Tone deaf, or something. Two Sundays in a row, I sat closed-mouthed through the hymns, failing to ever find the familiar melodies. Gratefully, my voice came back just in time for song practice in one of my performance classes.
When my convocation rolled around in April, I had no spirit to attend, so I didn’t.
Liking the boys really did not feel like it could help me win...
In that fall semester, I learned what numbness was really like. There were times before that I had thought I felt nothing, but I learned that “feeling nothing” was still feeling something. So often I sat in starkness then. Once, I sat in the student parking lot just north of the Marriott Center for three hours. I did nothing in that time. And I couldn’t bring myself to start my car. I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel sad. I didn’t feel happy. I was just…blank. In shock? I’m a huge music lover (favorite part of driving!). I didn’t want music. I didn’t want music often, lately. I wasn’t delirious. Fully conscious. Just numb. And blank. Eventually, I did leave, though. It got too cold to stay.
And it really was too cold to stay. Neil’s passing became a catalyst to right deep-seeded issues in my life and to correct many sabotaging beliefs that I had been ignoring or had been too afraid to face. I had to stop running. After all, as things now were, I could not stay the same. I had to change, and I needed answers.
Change since then hasn’t always been easy and never has it been congruent. I hadn’t ever seriously considered a suicide of my own, but in many ways, I faded away from existence. I wasn’t sure I wanted to exist. A passive suicide. Change, nonetheless, had to happen.
Through much of the coping (and not coping) Neil’s death, I remained mostly quiet. I stuck to him being my “dearest friend” as the deepest detail I’d give in non-gay circles (though I’m sure some straighties probably saw through it). Sure, looking back, there were some allies I could have shared more with—and even some people I didn’t realize were allies. Still, the questions swirled: If I told anyone, what would I want from them? Not sure? Then, why would I tell them if I didn’t know what I wanted or what I needed? Would anyone care? How quickly would they go about the work of their day as offensively as the grass that continued to grow outside my apartment door? Would I just receive a lecture on the Plan of Salvation (or the Honor Code) and how I loved a man?
All the wrong questions—for me, at least.
Questions of doubt and disharmony. Questions, I believe, Satan would like me to emphasize. Questions that have stalled me and left me alone. Being alone, I’ve often been left without strength and foundation—just chaff in the wind. I’ve suffered much alone without much guidance, all due to these doubts and fears, most of which were directly influenced and inspired by the culture of the most significant group around me—my Church—and then festered by Satan.
So, then, if those questions aren’t for me, maybe they’re for you:
Did my love for and desire to be with Neil matter? Would you have cared?
Through it all, from dealing with my love for Neil until coping with his passing, one thing remained constant and surely dependable: the comfort that came through the Spirit. Tender mercy upon tender mercy piled up—things I had asked for and things needed right then though it wasn’t me who knew I needed them. Growing up, I had already developed a personal relationship with Heavenly Father, but especially through this time, He was my only reliance. He knew me. He loved me. He knew what I was experiencing. He understood. He cared. And with Him and His love and strength, I could make it through.
Even though the people in this Church are not perfect and do not always make it the most welcoming place to be each other’s strength, I know that God loves each one of His children. He will be their comfort. He will be their strength. It has been in and through the Spirit that I have found healing and what it actually means to be healthful and whole. As I have prayed for guidance, that which I’ve needed has always (ALWAYS) fallen into my lap—like, literally—often in the form of a book; or a Youtube video—on the computer in my lap.
As I have prayed for love and comfort, He has ALWAYS granted it. The comfort of the Spirit is undeniable. He gives peace, but not as the world gives. There is peace and stillness that can be found in this world. And there is the active stillness and soft surety—the calming warmth—given by God. He calms the mind, the senses, and the heart.
Through Christ, all healing is available. He will guide. He does guide, even when we don’t readily see it.
Yes, His people are imperfect and there are many weaknesses in this Church. But one thing that does remain constant is God Himself. And by God being constant, I don’t necessarily mean “doctrine.” He is there. He always has been and always will be. Turn to Him. Rely on Him. Cheer up and lean on Him. He is the Great Comforter and He will comfort you.
Maybe, with Him, liking the boys will actually help me win..
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