It Gets Better (18 page)

I was also artistic, a born entertainer. I could sing. I could dance. You could see from space that I was meant to be doing what I do for a living today. Yet, back then, the thing that made me extraordinary made me a target.

It took me a long time to realize that I was gay. You don't need to know my long, boring coming-out story. Suffice to say that parts of it were quite dramatic and fun, but it was also quite tragic at times. I eventually accepted who I was and was lucky enough to have pursued a career in music and the arts that I could throw myself into. Though, when I think back on it now, I realize I spent a lot of the early part of my career disguising a deep sadness. Those early experiences of being picked on in high school had an impact. They made me believe that who I was, was wrong, that the happily-ever-after they sell you in the movies wasn't for me, wasn't for gay people. That scenario only applied to straight people. Even then, in my early twenties, I didn't have a role model that I could look up to. I didn't know a single gay person. Yet, in my heart, I knew that I wanted to get married one day, maybe even be a dad, but certainly meet someone that I could live the rest of my life with. And I was led to believe from the people who picked on me, and the society that I lived in, that this wasn't an option for me.

And yet, even though I struggled with sadness and depression, I was lucky enough to have people in my life who loved me for who I was and made me feel confident and secure that being gay wasn't a choice, it was simply the way I was born. It was just who I was. It was really no more significant than the color of my eyes or the color of my hair.

I eventually found love. Richard and I just celebrated our fifth anniversary of our civil partnership here in England. We got married in a circle with all our friends and family and I was lucky enough to hold Richard's hand and my mother's hand, and look across the circle at my sister and my nieces and nephews and all the people who loved me for me—who loved me for who I was born to be. It was the happiest day of my life.

It wasn't always that easy, though, and for anybody who is struggling, anybody who is being made to feel guilty about who they are, I just want to remind you that it gets better. It gets so much better. It gets amazing. I know things might be tough right now but you must never give up. You must never forget that there's a light at the end of the tunnel and, more importantly, that you are beautiful. You are perfect, just the way you are.

PLEASANTON, CA

 

 

 

I
was born and raised a good little Mormon girl in Sandy, Utah, a city about thirty miles south of Salt Lake. I went to church every Sunday and was baptized at eight. I went through the church's entire young women's program. By the time I was in high school, I felt that I had a testimony of the Gospel.

I also developed a crush on the girl who sat in front of me in my sophomore history class. She was super-cute and had been out for two years; and we were only fifteen. I was ill-equipped to deal with my feelings. All I had in the form of education about homosexuality were admonitions from my family and the church that it was wrong and that if you were a homosexual, you were going to hell unless you repented. I remember writing diary entries when I first met my girlfriend about how I feared for her immortal soul and how I needed to try and save her. Well, I told my mom about this girl that I had met and my mission to save her from hell, and her response was that we were not allowed to be friends anymore. I couldn't even talk to her on the phone. My mother said that what she was doing was evil and I was incapable of helping her. What I needed to do was protect myself against the devil.

I was kind of a strong-willed child and didn't really believe that my friend was evil or that she was going to hell. Plus, as I already mentioned, she was pretty cute, and we had a really great time when we hung out together, so we started hanging out more and more, and I started hiding it from my parents. I also started experiencing a lot of anxiety. I was afraid my parents would find out that I was still spending time with this lesbian, and more than that, I was afraid of the feelings that I had toward my friend. I was afraid that this meant either she had succeeded in dragging me down to hell or that there was something wrong with me that needed help—that
I
needed to be saved.

The more time I spent with her, the closer we got, and the more I fell in love with her. We became clandestine girlfriends. We would sneak out of school because we weren't allowed to see each other in the off hours. No one knew about us, aside from a couple of her friends. Certainly no one in my circle of friends was aware. They were all Mormons. I knew I had no support there. They all knew she was a lesbian and they were really curious about why I was hanging out with her. I loved her so we started having sex, and I detailed it in my diary. I remember experiencing brutal anxiety attacks, and feeling totally alone, feeling like I was hiding myself from everyone that I knew and loved. But I didn't know what else to do; I had no other choice. So I wrote it all down.

I'd hidden my diary, of course, but my mother found it anyway. She confronted me and gave me an ultimatum: I was to either renounce my relationship with my girlfriend and any homosexual feelings I might have, repent all of it, go to church weekly, and continue to be a good Mormon girl, or I could leave home and move in with my dad, who was living in Seattle.

I was devastated. I felt as though I had betrayed everyone in my family. I had betrayed God. I had betrayed all my friends. And as a result of my inability to deny who I was, I was now being forced to sacrifice everything. I was still just a kid. I wanted to continue going to my school. I was in the honors society. I was on the debate team. I had plenty of friends. I was a happy, good kid. I wanted to keep all of that, but I had to make a choice and I knew I could not continue living a lie.

So I simply vanished from school the next day. I moved to Seattle and fell into a deep depression for several months. I missed my girlfriend, but more than anything, I felt my family and my friends had abandoned me. I believed that my faith had abandoned me. And I thought that I was being punished for being honest, for being true to the deepest feelings in my heart.

My dad finally agreed to let me go to a youth group in Bellevue, Washington, called BGLAD. He dropped me off in the parking lot and later told me that he came back five minutes later to see if I had chickened out. But I hadn't. I walked into the building and right up to the door. They had this little window where you could look in to see what was going on. I was really nervous, but I saw this semicircle of chairs, and in the chairs were all these kids. Everyone was laughing and joking and so I thought, “What do I have to lose at this point?”

In the one hour that I was in that meeting, I experienced more compassion from these total strangers than I had felt from my entire family, from all my friends, from everyone who had found out about me prior to walking in that door. I was blown away by the love these strangers extended to me, by how understanding they were of everything I was going through, and how much their stories looked like mine. Some of the kids I met in that group are still my best friends today.

From that moment forward it got better. I realized that I wasn't alone. I realized that there was an entirely different narrative about the feelings I had had than the one I had learned as a Mormon. That, in fact, nothing horrible was going to happen if I continued to love women. I wasn't going to be miserable and unhappy, as was predicted by all of the adults in my life at that time.

I really learned to start trusting myself that day. I learned to stand up for myself, even if my opinions were unpopular, even if what you stand to lose is greater than you can even imagine. Because you just cannot go on without voicing the truth that's in your heart. That's where happiness is. Ironically, this was something we had always been told in church but it wasn't until that day that I really learned how to do it. It was difficult; I'm not going to lie. I'm not going to say that I am totally over it. I'm still very hurt and very angry for that little kid who had so much placed on her, so much judgment and so many expectations that she couldn't fulfill. I'm angry that people in my community didn't reach their arms out to me and show me the compassion that Christianity is so famous for.

If you're in the LDS Church and you're gay or bisexual or transgendered, or just curious, and confused, I want you to know there's a whole other world out there of people who support you, of people who love you. Even your family and friends, who reject you today or you fear would judge you if they knew, even they change with time. My relationship with my mom has improved dramatically over the years. I refused to give in and I refused to give up. I shared my feelings with her and we agreed to disagree over many things. I love her to death and I
know
she loves me. There were times when I was young that I feared our relationship would never recover. But it has. And that's the beauty of it. I can live my own life now, free of ultimatums. I am able to be true to myself and still love, and be loved by, everyone in my family.

It might feel like you have no choices, like you'll be left alone. Maybe you're not as lucky as me; maybe you don't have a place to go; maybe your alternative is to be on the street. If that's your choice, than you might have to wait and make a different choice than I did. That's absolutely okay. Just know that you are not alone. If someone tells you that the feelings that you have, and that you might express through a sexual encounter with someone you love, if someone tells you that's wrong, that's their thing. That's not your thing. You get to decide. You don't get to “choose” in the way that you have to choose your eternal salvation or love. You get to decide what it means. Just hang in there. Please.

SEATTLE, WA

 

 

 

I
grew up in a town called Normal, Illinois. Go ahead, laugh. Everybody does. Here's the thing about being from Normal: You don't realize there's anything funny about being from Normal until you leave.

A typical midsized midwestern town, Normal is home to a state university, the headquarters of a few major corporations, lots of churches, and some folks (some, mind you) who don't much care for gays and lesbians. I wasn't bullied in Normal, but I was deeply in the closet. I was always aware that the wrong gesture, look, or tone of voice could grab the attention of someone who might want to hurt me. And I didn't want to get hurt. So I monitored my actions and behaviors very closely.

Growing up there meant being wary of how my churchgoing family might react if they discovered that I liked boys. We attended a Southern Baptist church that wasn't all fire and brimstone, but it wasn't exactly forward thinking either. I heard rumors of a gay bar in town called My Place, and rumors that guys found going in and out of there were beaten up. Keep in mind that this was the pre-PFLAG, pre-
Will & Grace
1970s—not all that long after Stonewall. Jimmy Carter was in the White House, followed by Ronald Reagan;
The Bionic Woman
was on TV; and the Eagles were on the radio. Change was around the corner but it hadn't arrived for this sixteen-year-old Normal boy. Not yet.

Being out in those days was unthinkable for me. I had a friend in high school who was more effeminate than I was and I remember how we would throw ourselves into school activities in an effort to shield ourselves from being perceived as different. We joined student council, wrote for the student paper, participated in the speech and debate club. And we excelled. I became editor of the paper; he was elected president of the student council. That's how we protected ourselves, and that was the crux of our existence in Normal—being different could get you hurt, could get you fired, could get you in trouble. Neither one of us wanted trouble.

What I wanted was escape.

The closet was all I knew and being in it was killing me. My closet was small and dark and filled with frightening things; but the scary things in the closet were not nearly as frightening as what lay outside it. My crushes on boys left me sick with fear—both because I imagined I'd get beaten up if anyone knew and also because I had come to believe that I couldn't possibly be happy and gay. I was terrified of my adult life and what I would become. I had no images or role models around me to prove that LGBT people could be happy and healthy. I was gasping for air and no one around me had any idea.

As I got older, I began to question the shame that came from feeling different. I had always been a big reader, and as I started reading more sophisticated books, I encountered people whose lives were startlingly different from my own. Happy people. Smart people. Funny people. People who lived in other places and led other lives. People, like me, who wouldn't have felt at home in Normal. I started to imagine a different world, a different place. A Not-Normal. I began dreaming of the day I would leave. I spent countless hours fantasizing about what my life in Not-Normal would look like: where I would live, who my friends would be, what love would feel like. I imagined a safe place, a place where I could stop holding my breath, a place where people around me would love and support me. I had read about these places, so such a place must exist! It must!