January 16, 2011

Pressure vs Hope, Part One...

Though I felt it was necessary to explain why I have chosen to do things the way I have (my testimony and other reasons), I would like to continue in giving my personal accounts. In doing so, I hope to paint the picture of my story more fully.

Recently, there was a story on the news of a local teen who committed suicide. It caught my attention because he was LDS. My mom, also catching the boy’s religion, turned to me and said, “You would think that someone who was religious wouldn’t turn to something like that.”

Now, my mom sometimes says things about my Church that makes me feel like we’re in a private sparring match. She’ll lunge, I’ll parry. She’ll stab, I’ll dodge. That sort of thing. Civil, but tiring. Naturally, I try to come to the Church’s defense with a catty remark of my own. This occasion was no different.

After my remark, I added, “There is a book that I own called “In Silent Desperation.” It’s all about this LDS guy who committed suicide. I don’t know if this guy was gay,” referring to the news story again. “But in the book, the guy had struggled for the majority of his life with his same gender attraction. In the end, the book concluded that the pressure of Church-life vs. his temptations were so overwhelming that he simply didn’t think he could go on. Sometimes the desire to conform trumps the need to be happy, and when that conformity doesn’t appear possible, neither does the happiness. And why continue if you can’t be happy? Isn’t that the whole point of suicide?”

“Sure,” my mom consented.

“Well, in our Church, it’s a little bit worse.” I paused. “Worse, harder, more strict? I don’t know the right word for it.”

“There is a higher standard,” my mom offered.

“Uhhuh,” I accepted. “And so much is dependent on marriage that for someone who is gay, it almost seems impossible to achieve those eternal milestones, if you will.” Then I gave her an impromptu example that came out a little like this. “It’s like a teacher saying that in order to pass the math class, everyone would have to do two hundred push-ups without pausing for breath. Not only does the request seem strange at first, seeing as it doesn’t seem to quite fit the curriculum, but there happens to be a little boy in this class who only has one arm. It’s almost as if that request was asked to test this one individual.”

“It might be,” she suggested. (My mom has the kind habit of excepting my weird analogies without batting an eye.)

“And that’s just it!” I told her. “Most people with that kind of ‘disability’ would simply drop the class. ‘Why should I even study for tests or get good grades if I know for a fact that I still can’t pass the class?’ It’s defeating just thinking about it.”

She watched me for a moment, then asked, “Do you ever think about committing suicide over this?”

I sighed, “Sometimes. When I’m thinking too much about it and I don’t see any improvement or hope, yeah. I do think about suicide.”

I think my dad walked into the room at that moment and the conversation, which would have been absolutely taboo to continue in my dad’s presence, was promptly dropped. But I’m sure that it continued on in both our minds. It did in mine, at least. And the more I thought about it, that impromptu example I gave about the one-armed boy was kind of fitting.

When I joined the Church, I knew that I couldn’t exactly continue in my old life style, but it hadn’t occurred to me yet that the pressure to adopt a new one would be so great. I feel that this discussion is at the very heart of my purpose for writing this blog: the struggle and hardship of being a gay Mormon. I’ll be honest, it isn’t easy. It often seems to be futile, trying to live the life that I know I’m supposed to, while carrying homosexuality as an extra weight.

Recently, I was going on a trip to visit some friends in another state. Because weather conditions were going to be unpredictable, it was thought best if I flew. For whatever reason, I have this habit of taking with me as little luggage as possible. If I can, I’ll only take a carry-on. But, since this was going to be a long visit, I was forced to take a large suitcase. My dad had warned me that it looked like I might need a second suitcase for all of the clothes I was bringing. Keeping with my before mentioned eccentricity, I told him that it would all fit, and to my defense, it did. But when I got to the airport, they informed me that it was too heavy. Luckily for me, my dad had brought along a second suitcase to put my clothes into, having foreseen that the single bag wouldn’t be enough and, in my pride, I wouldn’t accept the second one on my own.

From this story, I gained an insight on a couple of principles. What I had first intended to share was the obvious fact that, if left to my own, I wouldn’t have been able to fly and still have all of my luggage with me. It would have been a difficult challenge for me to go through my things right then and there, and decide what things I was willing to get rid of in order to make the weight allowance. This might sound strange, but my mind went into “spiritual mode” and I began thinking to myself, “What if this were Heaven? And what if God were that baggage inspector and was telling me that I had too much weight, too many burdens, too much sin in my bags and that I couldn’t board the plane (or join Heaven) if I didn’t get rid of some of it?”

I’d like to be able immediately say, “Of course! I would get rid of whatever was holding me back!” But then I dig a little further and realize, “Well, what’s stopping me from doing that right now in my life?” And, I’ll admit, there are a lot of things wrong with me. I’m hypocritical, lustful, vengeful… just about everything Jesus Christ told us not to be. That’s me. But even so, I feel like a lot of those problems stem back to my frustration and hopelessness of being gay. (Convenient, isn’t it? Pinning all of my problems on something that I view as unchangeable? “Well, if I can‘t change this, what‘s the point of changing anything?!”)

But, luckily for me, there was someone who stepped in. At the airport, my father gave me an additional bag. I didn’t want it. I knew he had brought it along and it made me upset because I knew I could do this on my own and I didn’t want his help. And when it became obvious that I needed it, it took a lot of humbling on my part to ask him for it. But, keeping with the Heaven’s Gate analogy, I felt that my dad was kind of like the Savior at that moment. Even though I often rebel against Him and push His help away, I really do rely on His assistance if I’m ever to get to where I’m trying to go.

How does this apply to what I started out talking about? In a single word, hope. Yes, sometimes I feel really low. I feel helpless, as though nothing is ever going to work out. But the very first principle of the gospel is hope. It isn’t easy keeping hope alive, but I know I’m meant to.

But is it always that simple? Just have hope and everything will be okay? Well, to be frank, yes. Problems might arise, but you'll be okay in the end. But the real question is, is it always that simple to have hope? And the answer to that is absolutely not.

When I look at my life, I immediately see what I should be. I know that this is probably the worst outlook to have, but I can’t help it! I focus on all of the many things I told myself I’d be one day, and then I compare it to what is real and I rub my own nose into it like a puppy who did its numbers on the carpet. “Bad Michael! Bad! Bad! Bad!”

It’s easy to hold my life up to someone else’s goals and spot all the differences. And when I’m always trying to live by someone else’s goals, A) by own goals aren’t being met, and B) I’m not happy. But whos goals are I trying to live by? That’s my next post…

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