Taking Offense...

A number of months ago, during the fall, we were getting ready to pour concrete in the backyard. In preparation, we had torn up a lot of pre-existing vegetation. What we didn’t know was that there was a nest of sun spiders living in that part of our yard, and our activity had agitated them. Over the following few weeks, we were finding the little buggers in our kitchen, on our patio, hanging from walls, and just about everywhere else you’d never want to find a sun spider. We hadn’t meant to take away their humble abode, but that didn’t exactly matter much to them. They were angry, just the same.

I’m actually going somewhere with this, believe it or not. I don’t get my kicks by sharing pointless stories of residential infestations.

But this somehow reminded me of an experience I had years ago when I was a new member. It had only been a few months since my baptism and I was sitting in Elder’s Quorum. We were talking about same sex marriage because, as is typical of Elder’s Quorum meetings, we often got off topic from actual doctrine. Although I don’t remember what the real lesson was about, I recall that I grew very uncomfortable by the new topic. All too recently I had the sad realization that, despite being baptized, I was still gay. As such, it was a bit of a sore subject for me.

I believe that’s why I was aware of Brother Morris’ comment. He was responding to a rise in contention over same sex marriage and although I don’t remember exactly what he said as commentary, I remember noticing how out of harmony with Christ’s teachings it was.

And whether his comment was accurate or not wasn’t the issue. I had been offended and, even now with more than four years separating me from that instance, whenever I see Brother Morris, I remember what he said so long ago. In a way, I’m renewing that offense which he didn’t even knew he was giving.

More recently, I was at a friend’s house playing games. The friend, Gary Tiggle, randomly brought up the conversation of gay people. I inwardly cringed, knowing that no good could come from this.

“Yeah, so President MacBell,” Gary said, referring to our Branch President, “was talking in PEC the other day and in the middle, he just randomly asked us if we know anything about homosexuality.”

Gary laughed, saying, “Well, I told him that I knew that it was an awkward subject.” He laughed again, as did everyone else who was there playing games. I just sat there, trying to think of a polite way to jump to the next topic.

In a way, I felt like those sun spiders that got stirred up while we were preparing to pour concrete. (See, I told you there was a point to that story!) We didn’t mean to upset them. We didn’t even know they were there! But they were unsettled just the same. And, without home, they began hanging out in ours. Not appreciating their presence, we usually killed them. Which, keeping to the analogy, seems kind of weird since I likened myself to the sun spiders.

This leads me to my next story, and the second half of the post.

Recently, at institute, I heard an interesting story. The teacher, Brother Jones, was explaining how he once visited an old friend of his who kept a rattlesnake farm.

“And just as the name suggests,” Brother Jones said, “it was a farm where they raised rattlesnakes. Why would anyone want to raise rattlesnakes? For the anti-venom.” He explained the process how the farmers raised the snakes for the soul purpose of obtaining the anti-venom. And, just for fun, the friend got out a rattlesnake to perform a little experiment for Brother Jones.

The guy held the snake behind the head and while the snake writhed under his grip, the friend told Brother Jones to drop a live mouse in front of the snake. Immediately after the mouse hit the ground, the snake doubled it’s effort to break free from the guy. And all the while, it was opening its mouth, exposing those fangs.

“You see those?” the guy asked, pointing to the fangs. “You see what is coming out of them? That’s the venom. Right now, he’d do just about anything to get at this snake, but just wait a moment.” After a moment, the snake suddenly went limp.

“Did it tucker itself out?” Brother Jones asked.

“No. It’s dead,” the man said, letting go of the snake. “You see, a rattlesnake just stand just about anything, except its own venom. In its anger, the snake actually killed itself.”

And, just as Brother Jones told the class, the point of the story was to that, we too hold a deadly venom in us. That venom is anger itself. We have lots of opportunities to be offended these days. One doesn’t even have to go looking for it. Offense will find you. But what we do with it when it comes is what defines us.

If we allow ourselves to hold onto our anger, it will eventually kill our spirits. We’ll begin to see nothing but the negative in everyone. We’ll get offended at everything.

In my case, instead of getting offended over these two individuals for comments that they made, I could have simply seen it for what it was: immaturity. Spiritual immaturity causes us to do and say all kinds of things that do not reflect the teachings of Jesus Christ very well. But, it is a sign of our own spiritual immaturity to become offended at those people. This is something I struggle with greatly. But, with any luck, one day I will learn how to forgive as the Savior taught. “I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men.”

Blending In...

For as long as I can remember, I have tried to blend in. In elementary school, it was playing football. In middle school, it was being in the band. In high school, it was being a rebel. It was not about being cool or being popular. It was about not getting the crap beat out of me and being able to have friends.

When I graduated high school, I began to slowly become out to those closest to me. Most of them confessed to have known all along anyways and were just happy I trusted them enough to finally come out to them. (As a side note, if someone comes out to you, never EVER tell them, “Oh, I knew all along,” or, “Oh, I could tell that right away.” What you’re basically saying is, “You’re flaming. Only blind people who have also lost their sense of hearing could mistake you for straight, that is, if they couldn’t just feel the overwhelming sense of gayness as you enter the room.” Yeah! It’s not nice at all! Okay, that said, I can continue…) From that moment on, I had always been out about my sexuality. Being gay was just an addition to my name. “Hi! I’m Michael and I’m gay!”

This lasted up until the time that I joined the Church. From this moment on, I was back in the closet, and back to trying to blend in. Recently, I was telling my best friend, Carol, that I was planning on putting this subject as a post for my blog. We were speaking over Skype and I had a red legging tied around my head like some kind of 80’s sweat ban. Carol’s roommate saw what I had across my brow and said, “Yeah, that’s blending in!”

We laughed and out of the blue, I picked up a hanger and placed it on my head. “There,” I said. “Is that better?” To which my best friend told me that I should say that trying to blend in with the straight community is like walking around with a red legging tied around my head and a hanger as my crown. Initially, I didn’t like the idea (no offense to Carol), but let’s just say that the suggestion grew on me. Because, really, it kind of is a lot like that. I mean, I wouldn’t consider myself as an ultra-feminine guy, but there are some things about straight men that I try to emulate and it just doesn’t work out quite right.

For instance, dancing. Oh heavens. If you ever want to see me at my absolute gayest, put on some Lady Gaga and show me the dance floor. Holy cow. Another sure way of outing me is to get me to talk about something I’m excited about. Most guys, no offense to straight men, but they kind of talk in this even, almost monotone, voice. If they’re excited, you’d never know it, because their voice doesn’t change at all. It just stays dry and… well, boring. Mine, on the other hand, is all over the place. If I’m happy, my voice is a tenor. If you’ve caught me on a sad day, it’ll be more of a high bass or low baritone. Oh, and I smile a lot. Like, a lot a lot. And it’s a big smile with squinty eyes and dimples and… I guess what I’m trying to say is, I don’t hold back.

The problem is, straight guys do hold back. It isn’t cool to do those things. Or, if it is, it should be done for joking purposes and definitely not frequently. It’s dumb. They should just act how they want, or at least allow me to act how I want without looking at me with their narrow, expressionless eyes.

Anyways, what I’m getting at is that if I want to blend in with straight Mormons, I’ve got to really try hard in order to fit into this tiny little box with the other guys. I think that’s why I hang around girls so much. I can be myself and let my inner-black woman out now and then.

(I’m just anticipating some racist remarks about that one, haha! But whatever. I’ll take that when it comes!)

Basketball, football, soccer… I suck at them. But! I would be willing to play them if I didn’t look so freaking gay doing it! I played football for five years and was the quarterback, center, and a number of other positions. I know how to play the sport! It’s just that I can’t help but move in ways that kind of give myself away.

It’s like that movie, The Birdcage, when Robin Williams is trying to teach Nathan Lane how to be straight. He might as well have been trying to solve the global warming problem - and look just as silly as Al Gore while doing it - for all the good it was doing him. And at the end of the day, he ended up pretending to be the mother anyways. Nathan Lane. Not Al Gore. Heh!

What I think is exceptionally funny (though I rarely actually laugh about it) is when a straight guy does gay things and it’s all okay. I mean, pink is just a color. Anyone can wear pink, right? Wrong! You see, if a straight guy wears pink, he’s just being cool. He’s adding some color into his wardrobe. But if a gay guy wears pink, he’s such a … yeah. He’s flaming. He’s trying to rub his sexuality in everyone’s faces. He’s loud and on and on. (I’m rolling my eyes right now.) Okay, pink clothes aside, some straight guys think it is funny to act gay. Like, they’ll flirt with other guys, touch them, hang on them, and everything is hilarious. I’m not sure why it’s so funny, because you can bet your bottom dollar that if I tried a thing like that, even if I were totally joking, I’d leave that situation with a loose tooth and a bloodied pink polo. Maybe it’s just because it’s a little “too real” for them if I did it. Perhaps it’s like, “I can act as gay as I want so long as the other participants aren’t really gay.”

Something else that is hard to emulate about straight people, is their crudeness about women. Okay, true, this isn’t as big of a problem since I’ve joined the Church, but it is still prevalent, in a Mormon kind of way. I couldn’t talk about women’s things if I were in an anatomy class. It’s that level of weird/creepy/blah to me! And if that’s what I have to do it blend in, count me out!

I guess, what I’m trying to say, and am only going in circles because this is such an idiotic topic, is that straight guys suck. Sure, I might envy them, but they are either setting the bar really, really high on what it takes to be straight, or they’re setting the bar at an all-time low which makes any effort for a person with the slightest bit of culture or excitement or passion for anything darn near impossible to duplicate.

And the really crappy thing is, all I can think of it now is all the amazing one-liners that are in The Birdcage. But I can’t watch it because my straight friend, Marcy, told me it had to go. Bah!

Why Trust Is So Foreign, Intermission...

Yes, there is a part three. In fact, there is a part four, but I need to put a slight pause on it. In all of the digging I've been doing with my history, I have found myself in some places I haven't consciously visited for a long time and it's uncovered a lot of unwanted feelings. So, while I take a slight pause to this thread, I promise to one day return to it. Just not right now.

Why Trust Is So Foreign, Part Two...

-Instance 2-

About the same time that I began being addicted to online pornography, a girl moved to town. (It speaks volumes about the size of our town that I could even notice when someone shows up who I don’t recognize.) But right away, I knew that I didn’t care much for this girl. She was simple and nothing impressive, in my thrill seeking and youthful opinion. But then one day I got into a fight at school and the only person who tried to comfort me was this girl. Lisa Brine. In an instant, she was my new best friend. We were inseparable, always getting into some kind of mischief together. Hanging out and a bunch of other tomfoolery.

Three years into the friendship, Lisa and I were at a party and I overheard her refer to me as her boyfriend. ‘Boyfriend?’ I thought. ‘Since when?’ But knowing that I couldn’t very well ask her how long we’d been going out, I subtly got her to tell me that our “relationship” had been going on for three years, almost from the time we had met. Right away, that set off all kinds of alarms in my head. I mean, for starters, I'm gay. Yeah, good luck there, Lisa. And I started thinking of all kinds of ways to get myself out of that relationship that I wasn’t even aware that I was in! I knew that Lisa was an emotional girl, fragile and self-conscious, and it was probably these feelings of insecurity that led her to believe that there was more to our friendship than there really was.

While I was trying to slowly back my way out of this new relationship, Lisa began to display some new manipulative tendencies. I say new, but she had actually been doing them from the beginning of our relationship, and I had only become more aware of them from that moment on. She’d do all kinds of things to mess with my mind. For instance, she’d lie just to see what my reaction would be. She’d set up situations where I’d have to pick her over something I really enjoyed. She’d demand physical attention. She’d tell my other friends that I didn’t like them anymore just to keep me to herself. She’d create drama so that I would comfort her. And all the while, I was trying to get more and more distance in between us. Perhaps she could sense it, and that’s why she was intensifying her efforts of controlling me, kind of sinking in the claw when the prey was trying to wiggle away. But whatever the case may be, it took me a little too long to grow wise to the fact that Lisa had some serious issues. Bigger than mine, even! And that’s saying something.

It got so bad that, towards the end of the relationship, I was pretty sure she would kill herself if I broke up with her. She had grown so dependant on me, so attached, that I was afraid for both our sakes what would happen if we would separate. So, it took me a long time to work up the nerve to sever the relationship. We were together, in total, for five dramatic years.

From that relationship, I learned a lot of bad habits. First and foremost was my utter distrust in people. People were manipulative, possessive, and would do anything to make themselves happy. I already distrusted my parents somewhat, but now I was beginning to think that I couldn’t trust anyone. Perhaps this was just how the world was and if I was going to get through life, I’d have to either become a manipulator as well or I was going to have to develop some seriously thick skin.

The second habit I acquired was distancing myself from friends. Even today, I can make friends easily. Keeping them is another problem. I push them away (sometimes consciously, sometimes unconsciously) in an effort to avoid having someone dependant on me or me dependant towards them. I never want a repeat of Lisa Brine. Ever. And I don't care what I have to do to make that happen. (Did I mention that it was a bad habit?)

As a result of pushing people away from me, I have kept people at a distance that could generously be described as comfortable and convenient. On the one hand, I don’t have to worry about any serious feelings being formed, good or bad, because I’m not investing enough of… whatever into the relationship that would make me get worked up or overly excited. It means that I can be friendly without being dependable, kind without being trusting. Inevitably, this doesn’t always work. I've crossed the line many a time and befriended people too much. It's as if I have momentarily forgotten my trust issues. Unfortunatley, that is an issue that isn't forgotten for long.

The last habit I’ll mention is that I’m always looking, always keenly alert for any flaw that my friends might have. It isn’t that I have high standards that I hold everyone up to, not really. It’s more like, I’m waiting to see if this person is going to hurt me. With Lisa, I got very adept at spotting a trap, or a lie, before she actually sprang it. So, in other relationships, I spot things that would appear "trap-like" and I gingerly step around them. Do I seriously think that everyone is out to get me? No, but eventually, it gets tiring always side-stepping obstacles (real or otherwise) and so I'd rather just pick up my tent and camp somewhere else where there aren't as many stones. I’ve become so overly critical of the people in my life that it almost isn’t enough to spot problems they might have, but I am almost searching for them. And once I find one that just rubs me the wrong way, I drop them like a rock.

Of course, there are a number of reasons why this isn’t fair, not the least of which being that I have faults too. I’m not blind to my hypocrisy. But it wasn’t about fairness, it was about self-preservation. The instance with Lisa taught me that friends, especially women, were to be watched carefully. It was safer being on guard all the time rather than paying the consequences. The instance with my father taught me that family wasn’t all that different than anyone else.

Why Trust Is So Foreign, Part One...

-Instance 1-

When I was younger, probably about thirteen or fourteen, I began looking at pornography on the computer. I had already been lingering in the underwear department, pretending to be a serious shopper of men’s undergarments when I was really just oogling at the little pictures on the packs. This “step up” to technological gratification, however, was a whole new leap for me. Had I known that it would become so addictive, I probably wouldn’t have done it at all. But I was young, naïve, and as you’re about to find out, easily distracted.

So there I was, looking at… well, stuff that I shouldn’t have on the computer. It being the summer, my parents were both at work. Naturally, I felt safe in my solitude. At some point in time, I think that someone came to the door. I left the computer room, looked to see who it was. One thing led to another and I got distracted.

Later in the day, my mom came home from work and a short while after that, she began yelling my name. Now, as a child, you become a pretty good judge of determining the level of trouble you’re in, simply by the way in which your name is shouted. From the sound of it, I was in some deep crap, but I couldn't figure out what I had done until I found which room my mom was in. The images were still on the screen, haunting images which weren’t supposed to have been there. I had forgotten to exit out of those sites.

But my mom was in no mood to talk. She had the phone to her ear. And just guess who she was calling… my dad! I left the room, taking refuge in my bedroom until my mom found me in there. “It’s your father,” she said, handing me the phone.

I didn’t want to take it, but I knew that the longer I made him wait, the worse this was going to be. So I said hello. His voice was soft, due to the fact that he was at work, but there was a force to his words that defied the low volume. “When I get home,” he said, “I’m going to get the paddle-”

Yes, we had a paddle. They spanked us children, and even though I hated it at the time, it was probably the only thing that really frightened me. But I was about to gain a new fear associated with that wooden board.

“-and I’m going to shove it up your butt.” (I’m actually not sure if my memory censored him, because “butt” just doesn’t sound like a word my dad would use when he’s enraged.) He continued, “I’ll take the paddle and put it up your butt because that’s how gay people like it. Do you want to be gay? I have the paddle waiting if you do.”

I didn’t. I hadn’t. I never wanted to be gay, but how could I explain that to this man? My father and I had never really gotten along with each other but I think that this was a major defining moment in our relationship. About a year ago, I recalled this story to him, hoping to get an apology or at least an explanation, but he only said, “Yeah? And?”

He might as well have said, “And I’d do it now if I thought it would turn you straight.” Oh, daddy dearest. I do love that man. But I have no sense of relationship with him. I don’t trust him. When I obviously needed him the most, he didn’t simply turned his back, he attacked me.

Later down the road, I had told him that I was unsure if I was gay or not. In my head, I knew exactly where I stood, but I had wanted him to be able to grow on the idea that his son might be gay before I just threw the startling truth at him. He told me that, so long as I don’t 1) bring anyone home, 2) tell any of our friends or family, or 3) get some incurable disease, we’re okay. Oh, and don’t ever talk about it in his presence. Ever! This just didn’t set well with me. So, I got upset and told him that I had already told most of our friends and family and that the only reason he was the last to know is because he’s the only person who could possibly make me feel bad for opening up to them.

Like I said, we had a crappy relationship.

I’m not sure how it is in most families, but when I felt as though I couldn’t talk to my dad about something which seemed like the most pressing matter in my life, it really started to eat at me. I got depressed. I got angry. I began writing as my only means of expressing myself, since I didn’t trust my parents with my feelings. My dad made it clear how he didn’t want to hear it, and my mom was the one who turned me over to him, so even though she was undeniably kind and caring, she would have just handed over any I told her to my father as "evidence." I’m sure that this wasn’t exactly how it was, but that’s how I saw things.

Despite my father’s aggressive solution to homosexuality, I still struggled with online pornography. I think that the reason why it is such a bad thing is that it is addictive. For me, it took one time. I saw it and immediately wanted to see more. It didn’t matter what I had to do, I was hooked. In fact, this was about the time when I began sleeping around a lot. And for a small town, we had an abnormally high percentage of gay folk. I won’t get into detail, but I once tried to make a list of people I had messed around with and at number forty-something, I finally gave up. I could write chapters about how destructive pornography has been in my life, but I’ll just needlessly say that I was addicted to sex.

The reason why I include you in this chapter of my life is that I began to seriously distrust my parents. I had good reason to question their motives to each other, seeing as they each had a long history of infidelity. But until this moment, I had never gained distrust by any action directed my way. It was the beginning of a long road of bumpy relationships and really horrible people in my life...

Pressure vs Hope, Part Two...

This is how life should be for the normal Mormon male. At the age of 18, you begin making your life perfect so that, by the age of 19, you can promptly put in your missionary papers and then get shipped off to some exotic location like New Zealand, the Dominican Republic, or Germany. But even if you’re called to Buffalo, New York, life is still pretty grand. You serve for two wonderful years, eating a lot of food no one at home has ever heard of, taking a lot of pictures no one at home will really understand, getting dumped by your girlfriend, and saving the world while you’re at it. Then you come home, find a new girlfriend, engage in a week, and get married in 3 months. If you’re not popping out children in exactly 9 months, it’s only because the baby is late and all is well. You raise eleven children, juggle your calling, your job, and your weekly FHE lesson, while making sure to remain humble to the fact that you are living the best life anyone could possibly imagine.

Of course, this isn’t all true; some people have ten children, heh! But, in all seriousness, what I’m getting at is that so many people think it is true! They think that this is exactly what is supposed to happen and get extremely bummed out when it doesn’t.

Prime example, in the Church, there is a lot of pressure to get married. As soon as you’re back from your mission, you had better already have your future college, your future job, your future home, and your future bride all planned out. And, what’s more, you should have them all in about a year. Unfortunately, some people don’t get married right away.

I can almost hear their mothers saying, “But that’s no problem! You’re sure to be married next year. No? Maybe three? Well, good heavens! Let’s not wait too long! Time isn’t exactly being kind to you, ya know.”

Some people go on to school or get a job, hoping that they’ll find that special someone on the way. And some do. Some, however, don’t. Some people don’t think marriage is possible for them at all. And for a certain few, it may not be. There are those who, through no fault of their own, will never find a spouse in this lifetime. It’s sad to think of, but I’m sure it happens all the time. But what’s worse than them being alone? Them being blamed for it.

Before I get to ranting, I’d like to explain that, while the Church is perfect and true, the people aren’t. It’s life. People stink sometimes. Most of the time, they’re kind and courteous. But sometimes, when no one is really paying attention, members begin to create their own standards and live their lives by them. The problem comes when they try living other people’s lives by them too. This alternative standard is called Mormon Culture.

Mormon Culture makes you feel bad when you left on your mission at age 20 instead of 19. Mormon Culture makes you feel guilty when you aren’t married by the age of 26 (which is actually pushing it). Mormon Culture doesn’t mind quick engagements. In fact, they promote them! “Any wedding that takes longer to create than it would a baby is just too long!” This isn’t a standard of the Church. This is a standard of the people that attend it, and it sucks.

Let’s be honest. Marriage is a good thing. I know that. I’m not raining on the whole notion of families or even on getting your life in order by an early age. I’m really not! But this Mormon Culture doesn’t recognize the possibility that people are different. It doesn’t take in consideration that problems arise or exist that might hinder a person’s plans. They say, "Everyone should get married. Everyone should have children. And there are absolutely no exceptions."

There is a special program in the Church called the YSA (the young single adults). Now, for all of you who are like, “Is that like the YMCA?” No. It’s basically Church where the whole congregation is made up of young single adults, just like the name suggests, but with an added emphasis on the “single” part. What is really great about the program is that young adults learn how to take on callings that they wouldn't likely obtain otherwise, leadership callings for example. And, in an age where more people are comfortable texting over having an actual face to face conversation, this environment is perfect for helping them work on their people skills.

Unfortunately, not everyone likes going to a YSA ward, or in my case branch. They feel that its soul purpose is to serve as a dating service, and they’re uncomfortable with being an entrée on someone’s menu. I’m not going to argue with semantics but their debate is a very nearsighted one. Regardless, there are a few things different about YSA wards than with your average family ward. The most obvious is that, besides the bishopric, there aren’t a whole lot of old people. For that matter, there aren’t any babies crying in sacrament meeting. This is because there is an age “limit” for when someone can join the YSA ward, and an age appointed for when they are “recommended” to leave. I put these words in quotations because the Church would never disallow people to attend, no matter how old or young they may be. Those ages are flexible guidelines to ensure the best experience for each member.

But even so, Mormon Culture now has a “measuring stick” to give us the cut off date of a person’s datable existence (which is age 30, by the way). At age 30, you are banished from the YSA ward, deemed unworthy for marriage, and must live your life contently with a lowly calling, a lowly income, and acne for the rest of your life! I’m not sure why I added in acne, but it sounded just as ridiculous as everything else.

The truth is that this is all bogus. Do you really think Heavenly Father is up there thinking, “Hurry it up, kid or there won’t be any cake by the time you get to the dessert table.” No way! God understands the situation better than we do. And that is my point. Even though Mormon Culture says that if you don’t marry by 26, let alone the horrific age of 30, you’re doomed to be single all your life; the gospel says otherwise. In fact, there is no age given by which a person should be married by nor when they can no longer be given in marriage.

So where do we get this from? Mormon Culture, that’s where. It’s like peer pressure for older people. It’s the same peer pressure that makes people’s heads swell when they get a “cool” calling, or makes them slump in their chairs when they have it taken away. It’s all about how they look in the eyes of their peers.

Okay, so what does this have to do with me? Well, isn’t it obvious? Last time I checked, I’m gay. And this pretty much equates to No Marriage Ever.

“So? What’s wrong with that?”

I’m glad you asked. As I hinted before, the only thing worse than being single the rest of your life, is being blamed for it. No one would ever admit to doing this, but Mormon Culture not only dictates when a person should be married by, but it also says that failure to produce the desired results in the desired timeline is the fault of that individual. That’s right! Not only does it suck because I’m supposed to be married (a post for a later time), but if I don’t get married, something must be wrong with me! I mean, I guess there sort of is, but that’s not for them to decide!

Okay, okay. Reality check. Does every Mormon subscribe to Mormon Culture? No. Do even the majority of them? It’d be judging of me to even guess. But the point is, it exists. Second reality check. Who promotes Mormon Culture? Just like any kind of peer pressure, the people who promote it are really the people who are being hounded by it. Let’s face it, if I didn’t let it bother me, would there be any pressure? No.

“So, what’s the big deal, Michael? Just stop caring about public opinion!”

Okay, Mister I’ve-got-to-have-the-coolest-car/clothes/house/job/spouse/children/anything else I can possibly end this sentence with! You give up your false sense of priorities and I’ll give up mine! It isn’t that simple. And, for me, who has always been trying to live a life of blending in, this presents an extremely difficult challenge. As you might guess, I view my chances of getting married as being a little… nonexistant. (But like I said before, that’s a post for a later time.)

The point is that when you’re trying to keep up hope, public opinion can really get you down. Do I hope to get married one day? Sure. Do I hope to have a family? Absolutely. Do I hope to be completely normal? Doesn’t everybody? But, again, hope is a fragile thing when compared with the status quo. And things like Mormon Culture make it even more fragile. Returning to the previous post about committing suicide… Do I know why that kid did what he did? No. It could have been a lot of things. He was happy, according to the people the news interviewed. He was popular, captain of the football team. So what happened? Why did he choose to end his life?

It would be unfair for me to blame this on Mormon Culture or even the high standards that people create for themselves. So I can only answer with my own reasons. Sometimes, there are pains that you go through that you never really let go of. Sometimes those pains can grow until they dominate your very existence, making it very difficult to find happiness in anything. Sometimes the idea of going to people for help doesn’t seem like it will help. Maybe those people won’t understand my issues. Maybe they’ll blame me for them. Maybe it’ll just cause more pain and suffering. And maybe, just maybe, it would all be better if the burden was lifted. Since there isn’t any obvious way to terminate the virus without terminating the host, the new focus is set. And once that thought has entered onto the battle field, it is pretty darn hard to brush it aside.

But I guess, when it comes right down to it, that all depends on which spirit you are listening to more. I’ll admit, when I’m feeling glum, I tend to listen to sad songs, watch sad movies, and generally do things that promote those negative feelings. In short, I’m becoming a more receptive tool of the devil, listening to his lies, and agreeing with his opinions. But the problem is, his opinions are miserable. And, as we all know, misery loves company.

But you know who else loves company? The Holy Spirit. And He also uses whispers in order to speak with God’s children. If I’m drowning out those whispers with my "cries of lamentation" then I won’t hear His soft voice telling me of all the things I have to be grateful for. And when you really think about it, the quickest way to disband despair is to be grateful. There are few things in this life that can compare with the joy you’ll receive when you honestly look at your life and list off all of the blessings you have. They could be big or they could be small. They could be obvious or they might be subtle. But everyone has at least one thing to be grateful for, one thing that they can be happy about. And that, my friends, is reason enough to keep on going.

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…