Once I stopped participating in the Catholic home schooling group, my social opportunities became severely limited. If I remember correctly, my mom placed the blame squarely on me, insinuating that the reason for my lack of friends was because I didn't want to be part of the group. Her philosophy has always been "all or nothing."
Truth be told, she was partially correct. I didn't want to be part of a Catholic home schooling group. Why would I? Those involved were deeply entrenched in Catholic ideology. As it was, already being forced to go to church week after week left me feeling bitter and angry - that is, when I didn't find it claustrophobic to the point of having trouble breathing. I sent the majority of my adolescence hoping against hope that a miraculous, unseen male¹ entity would "cure" me of my "sinful" homosexual² tendencies.
But nothing happened. My prayers were met with radio silence. Maybe it's because, you know, there is nothing wrong with being gay. But there was nobody in my life who could relay that message. In fact, outside of internet chat rooms, only three prominent figures remained in my life: my mother, my brother, and my friend from Catholic school.
Most of my time was spent with my mom, a fundamentalist Catholic whose beliefs increasingly bordered on alt-right and conspiratorial. The funny thing about her is that, while she was raised Catholic, she left the faith for many years. Instead, she leaned heavily into astrology.
When my brother was growing up, my mother was a liberal, free-spirited hippie, who likely would have had no problems with my sexuality. She often told me I convinced her to return to church in 1992. I question the validity of her claim, but shame on me if I was responsible for her transition into a closed-minded bigot.
My brother (half brother, actually, from my mother's first marriage) and I had a close relationship. We participated in a father-son bowling league, so we saw each other weekly for a few years. He was my best friend growing up, although I was hesitant to tell him about my same-sex attraction because I wasn't sure if he shared the same social views as our parents.
Finally, there was my friend from Catholic school, who I will henceforth refer to as Brandon. As I mentioned previously, Brandon and I only saw each other infrequently - maybe once or twice a year. While I never told him I was gay, I once came close in 1997-98. We were having a sleepover, and I told him something to the effect that I thought I was a horrible person, but I wouldn't say why. I had secretly hoped he would just guess what was on my mind. But when he finally came right out and asked, "Are you gay?" I chickened out and denied it.
Now, you might have noticed my dad hasn't really come up as a point of discussion. That's because we never had a great relationship. My strongest memories involve him being a strict, racist, xenophobic, by-the-book mainstream conservative who I generally regarded as untrustworthy. If I told him something in confidence, I could be certain it would become my mother's business and that she would have choice words to say.
While my dad believed in corporal punishment,³ my mom's words stung far worse. In later years, I've been conditioned to avoid conflict and confrontation at all costs, because
fighting with my mom left me feeling depressed and emotionally drained, wondering: "Is it something I did?"
In reality, arguments were typically one-sided. Any kind of discord would result in my mind going blank, unable to argue my point until well after the conversation had ended. And don't even get me started on one of her most famous tactics: Out shout whomever you're disagreeing with, so they give up and you "win" by default. It is for this reason that I express myself much better through writing.
However, at that point in my life, I couldn't rely on the written word. And the primary thing on my mind was my sexuality and how I didn't have anybody I could open up to.
I'm gay. I'm gay. I'm gay.
These words became a mantra, of sorts, playing on repeat. The permanence of ink would render the words all to real, so I traced them with my finger throughout the day; on my pillow when I would wake up, in the air while doing homework, and on the car seat during extended trips (while my parents argued over inane shit like why my dad passed up a garage sale my mom wanted to go to).
I was gay and deeply in denial. And the longer I spent dwelling on it and the fact that I had to keep it a secret for fear of rejection or worse, the angrier and more depressed I became. It's not something I'm proud of, but I frequently lashed out verbally at my parents.
When I was 14 or 15, the tension between us reached a breaking point, and I believe my parents gave me some kind of ultimatum to open up about the source of my anger. I had no choice but to come out. But I feared my dad greatly, and the thought of saying anything to him created unbearable stress. Instead, I decided I would tell my mom.
Decades have passed, and I have long suppressed my memories, but here's how I remember it playing out:⁴ I told my mom I had "feelings for guys" and that I didn't want to (I couldn't work up the courage to say the word "gay" and I figured it would soften the blow if I said I didn't want to be this way). And then I asked her to keep it a secret from my dad.
Her reaction was nowhere near as extreme as I expected. Don't get me wrong: It was far from ideal, but she also didn't kick me out. More than anything, I think she was surprised. She stated (heavily paraphrased) that she believes same-sex attractions are learned behavior often borne of a lack of "masculine" activities (such as sports) or role models, or a result of sexual abuse. She then asked me if my dad had ever abused me. While he never did, it bothered me that she would even pose such a question.
Perhaps the most harmful thing she said is that she can see why "people like Ellen DeGeneres" were gay, due to the way they look or act. But, in her mind, I didn't present myself that way, so she couldn't understand why I felt the way I did.
These details are important, because her words directly caused me to foster internalized homophobia well into adulthood. "Maybe if I act straight, my mom will come to accept me for who I am" became a frequent thought that crossed my mind.
Check back soon for part four! This mini-series is playing out over the course of more posts than anticipated, but I want to share my experiences in as great of detail as possible. Why? If you're stuck in a similar family situation, I want you to know that you're not alone. Even if you don't have family or friends in whom you can confide, you're not alone. I have lived it. Countless other people have lived it and, even if you don't know it, we're all rooting for you.
Notes
¹ Why is the Christian god is almost exclusively presented as a cisgender white man and never a woman or nonbinary?
² Given its negative connotations, I dislike the word "homosexual" and am only using it in the context of how the Catholic church views the LGBTQ+ community.
³ When "necessary," but is it ever?
⁴ I could be confusing events and recounting things that happened the second time I came out to my mom. More on that later.
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