Friday, October 11, 2013, is a special day for me. But no day in my life has yet been as salient as this past January 12. It was the first time I ever had the courage to admit to anybody — myself included — that I am gay. It took more courage than I have ever needed, but it was also the most natural thing I have ever done. When you hide something you’ve been confused and ashamed about nearly all your life (my first memory of being attracted to another man was when I was four-years-old and had a gigantic crush on Aladdin) it builds up over time. And after a while, it starts to eat away at you. It corroded a lot of important parts of me indirectly — chiefly my confidence, a lot of my personality, and sense of self-worth. Minutes before midnight on December 31, 2012, I quickly thought up silent resolution. I rarely admit to these personal pacts because I claim not to believe in them. I see self-growth and personal development as efforts that know no dates or arbitrary time frames. To me, these efforts are comprised of a mix of difficult, sweet, painful and joyous moments and a lot of hard work. Just eight months before, I had run away from everything and everyone I ever knew –2,332 miles from my Ohio hometown to a dusty little rodeo junction called Pendleton, Oregon, in search this kind of self-discovery, and a new life. I wanted a westward adventure for a lot of reasons — to get out of Ohio, to live nearer to the mountains, and somehow satisfy my need to live unhinged and unbound. But the greatest driving force was my constant urge to go somewhere far away to really figure things out — to give myself a chance to be truly honest about who I fundamentally was and what I wanted. But I could never really get there. I had confronted childhood demons that I bottled up in latent insecurity, started to learn to let things go, and, above all, the value of being honest with myself even when it was very uncomfortable. But I could never quite get myself to feel that sentiment of bliss and security we call “happy.” It was my white whale, and I would go down with any ship if I could only preserve the image I had built up in my head of who I was supposed to be. Kind, scrupulous, intelligent, athletic, and career-driven are a few words that fit the description. But “gay” was not one of them. “Gay” was the word I hid from. It was the thing that I ran from, what I learned to fear about myself sometime around the third grade when I started to realize that something about me was different. By telling myself it was wrong — and hearing a lot of people call it immoral and unnatural — a big part of me began to learn to hate myself. Last New Year’s Eve, all I could think of was how far I had come as a person, but yet how unhappy I was no matter where I lived. Something inside me wouldn’t budge. It left a giant roadblock on my path to that illusive feeling I was chasing. I knew what it was but couldn’t admit it to myself because I had gone so long believing it was wrong. That night, I did not resolve to admit that I was gay. I told myself I would be more decisive — more assured in my decisions and feelings that year. Or in a nutshell, I resolved to be more confident. For two weeks, my resolution was all I could think about. This, and my other subliminal obsession that lasted for about a decade consumed me: that I was gay. Part of me knew I was attracted to other men from the minute I hit puberty. I didn’t understand it, but I felt it. I had become a master at denying that it was true, and even began to believe my lies. But at that point in my life, I had basically run as far away from home as I could while staying in the continental U.S., and was still silently miserable — and damn good at putting up a front to hide it. And I couldn’t stand it anymore. I was wasting a good part of my daily life feeling guilty and dirty for something I simply could not change. And I was tired of throwing away years into a disingenuous existence –especially as I walked around touting those who vilified homosexuality when it was the thing I had learned to loathe about myself. So one Saturday night in January, when my solitary struggle left me in too much of a funk even to venture out with my friends, I tried running errands for diversion. Of course, this was yet another vain attempt to hide the truth. Earlier that day, I had scheduled a Skype call with my aunt that evening. And in the back of my head, I knew it was because I had this one thing I wanted someone else in the world to know so I didn’t feel like it was eating me alive anymore. I got home from the drug store, signed on, hesitated and stuttered, and finally said it to another person for the first time in my life: I’m gay. I didn’t know what to expect. For some reason I had talked myself into believing my friends would disown me for admitting it, that my family might reject me, and that I would have to be very alone for a very, very long time before things actually got better. But all of that was worth not feeling this horrible aching numbness my denial had manifested. Months later, none of the things I feared have happened — although it has been one of the most challenging years of my life and I have learned that educating people about my sexual disposition will be a lifelong process. But I can honestly say that for the first time, I know what “happy” is. And this little feeling in and of itself is priceless compared to what I thought it would cost me. But I have also been far from alone since I came out. People have been more accepting and supportive than I could ever have imagined. And I have made some incredible new friends, to boot. Although I felt alone for much of my life because of how I thought of my sexuality, I am under no illusion that I arrived at this point of openness and self-acceptance without help. The gay rights movement today is perhaps stronger than ever — or at least public sentiment with respect to protecting sexuality under basic human rights has reached its historical nexus. We’ve got Ellen and other television shows which cast gay characters in poignant subplots (Jack McPhee, Dawson’s Creek) that aren’t about sex or drugs or any of the other sad stereotypes about the gay community. These are stories about normal people — like me — who have struggled to come into themselves because they happen to be gay. And I’ve got plenty of research and catching up to do to learn what else has made America so much easier to be gay in than it was even 10 years ago when I first realized my sexual orientation and wondered how I could ever possibly face it. Last October 11 when I heard mention of National Coming Out Day, I quickly scurried out of the room because it felt like a big spotlight was illuminating my greatest insecurity. I clearly remember the feeling of guilt welling up in my chest for all the time I knew I was wasting trying to live a lie. This year, however, is quite different. The feeling in my chest is one that doesn’t mind a little sunshine — or even a big old spotlight. It’s pride for who I am in all the ways that I am me — including my sexuality. It’s gratitude for all the people who have made the world an easier place to be gay, and the incredible folks who held my hand through the challenging months which ensued for the two little words that started this great journey. It’s all the things I vowed last New Year’s Eve, and so much more. This October 11, I’m not looking back, but I’m also not looking forward. For the first time in my life, I am happy just where I am because I am finally OK with who I am.
=
An errant writer. 