Letter to my parents (from 2006)
I wrote this in Gatlinburg, TN, while on vacation with a group of friends. It was a fun trip, but it was difficult to fully enjoy it with all this in my head.
I’ve been in therapy now for nearly a year. It’s been a tough thing to go through, since I’m normally a very independent and self-sufficient kind of person. And after a year of talking to my therapist, I’ve come to many conclusions; one of which being the fact that my parents have no idea who I am. A large portion of the past 20 years is a mystery to them. And I realized that really bothered me. This isn’t about blame. My parents never really asked, and I never really volunteered. I feel, however, that it’s time to fill them in a little. I had planned on talking to them in person, but I’m still not able to. I can’t handle that much emotion. Hopefully someday I can. I had originally planned on writing out random details of random events, but in the end I’ve decided to take a more chronological, or autobiographical, approach. It might not make the most sense, but I think it flows the best. This isn’t a detailed account of my life, however. Many things have happened, both great and small, that won’t be accounted for here. This is more focused on getting some things off of my chest.
Divorce is a part of society these days. While that doesn’t make it any easier on the people going through it, it has at least removed some of the stigma and pain from it. My parents separated, got back together, separated, and divorced, all while I was still young. I think that I dealt with it fairly well. There was open communication in the family, my parents tried to keep me informed and comforted. But there’s only so much that can be done during such a traumatic event.
The one thing I learned through it all, before the divorce, during, and after, was the value and price of self-sacrifice. I learned early on that it was better not to be seen or heard. My mom didn’t need extra problems to deal with. My dad had a short temper. I learned to be self-sufficient. I learned to keep to myself. I learned to lock myself away inside. I learned to be numb inside, to not feel, to not show emotion. I saw what happened to my brother when he misbehaved and was sent away. I swore I wouldn’t be anything like him. I was the good child. I was the one that did whatever it took to keep my parents happy. It took me nearly 20 years to realize that that was no way to live.
Before I turned 8, life felt normal. My parents had divorced when I was younger, but I had made it through. I didn’t understand it, I didn’t like it, but I had learned to adapt. I talked with my parents about it, they talked with me about it, and somehow I felt that it would all work out in the end. Because my parents had divorced, and my mom was working long hours to make ends meet, I spent a great deal of time with my maternal and paternal grandparents. Because I lived with my mom, I tended to spend most of my time with her parents. I loved them dearly, and miss all three of them very much.
Because my uncle, my mother’s brother, was a truck driver and was on the road a lot, he and his son, my cousin, lived with my grandparents as well. It was a three bedroom house only a few miles from my own. While my uncle and I were never close, and still aren’t to this day, my cousin and I got along ok. He was the same age as my brother, and they were much closer friends than I was to either of them. But my brother was old enough to stay home alone, or with friends. And later he moved out.
Since I only had one friend in my grandparents’ neighborhood, I had to rely on my cousin and myself for entertainment. I think my cousin knew that. Since there wasn’t an extra bed in the house, my grandmother had my cousin and I share his bed. It wasn’t a bad arrangement, other than the fact that he tended to be a restless sleeper and the glare from the security light outside shown into his window and right into my face. We would stay up talking until all hours of the night, or until my grandfather would hear us and tell us to be quiet and go to sleep.
It was on one of those late nights that my cousin told me to get up and go use the bathroom, and make sure I cleaned myself well afterwards. I didn’t really need to go, but I did as I was told. When I came back and got into bed, he told me to take my clothes off and sleep in the nude. I thought it odd, but again I didn’t question him. After a few minutes, he reached over, grabbed my hand, and placed it on his groin. I pulled my hand back and tried to go back to sleep. We repeated this a few times. He eventually let me go to sleep. I didn’t think much about it at the time, or the next day, or the day after.
But one touch led to two. Touching led to more intimate touching. For over a year my cousin molested me, raped me, and manipulated me. He had me convinced that I had done something wrong. He threatened and blackmailed me into keeping silent. My dad was 30 minutes away. My mom was working. My grandparents were oblivious. I felt trapped and I had no where to turn.
Once, when I was about 9, I started bleeding from my rectum one morning. While it was painful, I was glad it happened. I figured someone would figure out what was going on and things would change. But my mom took me to the doctor, who said it was just hemorrhoids, and life continued on as before. I often meant to do research into how many 9 year olds get diagnosed with hemorrhoids each year, much less profuse bleeding from them. After awhile, I became numb to the situation. I knew that when I went to visit my grandparents, it was going to happen. And as my mom started working more hours, and I started spending more and more time with my grandparents, it became a more frequent occurrence.
One weekend, my cousin did something unusual. He stripped me down in the middle of the day in his room. He had just taken his pants off and climbed on top of me when my grandfather walked into the room unannounced. He paused for a second, told my cousin to come outside with him and for me to get dressed. And that’s the end of the tale. Nothing was ever said; not by my grandfather, not by my cousin, and not by me. I assumed, long after the fact, when I could fully grasp what had happened, that my grandfather had realized what was going on. If not historically, at least what was transpiring at the moment he opened the door. I assumed that he had spoken to my cousin and explained that what he was doing was wrong. All I know for certain is that I was moved into the living room that night and slept there for as long as my cousin lived with them. I know that my cousin made several innuendoes after that, but never forced me into anything or tried to manipulate me. Nor have he and I ever spoken of it.
It’s hard to tell exactly what impact those two years had. I know that it taught me not to trust people. I didn’t trust my cousin because of all the things he did to me. I didn’t trust my parents because they hadn’t protected me. I didn’t trust my grandparents because I felt that they had let it happen. And because of the way my cousin had brainwashed me, I didn’t believe I could tell anyone and have them not blame me for it all. I also didn’t want to cause any trouble in the family or put any more burdens on my parents. It took me many years to realize the truth, but the damage was done. I had no sense of trust in people. I had no self-esteem. I had a messed up view of sex. I was alienated from my family.
Around the time I turned 10, my mom had a new boyfriend. I disliked him on the spot. But, as I reasoned it then, I’d probably hate anyone she brought home because I loved my dad. So I mostly held my tongue. The new boyfriend had a daughter. I disliked her on the spot. Some things never changed. As their relationship developed, I saw my mom happy again. That meant a lot to me because I loved my mother. By the age of 10 I had already started learning to put everyone’s needs before my own. I had already learned to find happiness in other people’s pleasure.
When I heard both of my mother’s parents talk about how much they disliked my stepfather, though, I started to think there might be something to my feelings. I tried to work up the nerve to tell my mom how I felt, but I never could. Sure, I’d hint, I’d mutter, I’d complain, but I never had the nerve to just clearly and bluntly say how I felt. While I often felt my mom chose her new boyfriend over me and her family, I never told her. Then again, I was 10 when they met, 11 or 12 when we all moved in together, and shortly there after they were married. I also didn’t approve of us all moving in together before the wedding, but even at 12 I was a bit prudish and old fashioned. I blame that on all my grandparents. Though, I probably wouldn’t have minded as much had I liked my new stepfather.
Life before we all moved in together was interesting enough. The fighting was minor and localized. After we all moved in together, things went downhill pretty quickly. My mom had four children to raise; my stepfather, my brother, my stepsister, and myself. I don’t think any of us got along. My stepsister was a spoiled brat and didn’t like anyone. My brother and I had never gotten along and he didn’t care for our stepfather. My stepfather acted like a kid half the time and fought with all of us. My mom was stuck in the middle playing referee for everyone. I saw how much it hurt her and drained her and that hurt me in turn.
A year and a half later, when my dad asked me if I wanted to move in with him, things just fell into place. I felt that my dad needed my help because of his injuries and I felt that my mom would be happier with me out of the picture. Years later the situation really angered me. I felt that I, the 13 year old, was being forced to be the adult and the peacekeeper in the family. I felt that my mom chose my stepfather over me, thus forcing me into moving. I resented my dad for needing my assistance. Yet again, I felt abandoned and unprotected and hurt by my family.
After moving to the beach, I felt my dad and I connect and bond for the last time. We spent a rather grueling summer renovating the house at the beach in preparation for my stepmother’s arrival. There was no TV, no air-conditioning, and no frills. We talked, we laughed, we spent time together working on the house, the yard, and we fished. While we’ve done all of those activities since, we’ve never managed to recapture that summer. And I’ve never felt close to my dad since.
Life at the beach wasn’t what I thought it would be. Part of it was the delusion that life would be like a beach trip or a vacation. Part of it was resentment towards my stepmother. I had given up my mother and now she was taking my father from me. I think that is part of what caused us to butt heads from the beginning. She was very strict and old fashioned in my opinion. It took me many years to realize what she taught me and more still to value and appreciate it.
While I knew I was gay since I was 11, I still remember the first time my dad learned I was gay. When we started renovating the new house at the beach, we uncovered an adult old magazine in the rafters of the outbuilding. In the back of the magazine was an ad to write off for free gay pornography. While I was only 16 at the time, I signed the little form saying I was 18 and curiously awaited the package. Well, I shouldn’t have been surprised when my dad intercepted the package without my knowledge. I still remember the anger and disgust in his face when he confronted me about it. And the fact that it was pornography wasn’t the issue. He had pornography. He knew that I had pornography. It was the mere thought that I could be gay that filled him with the anger and disgust. Obviously I denied any knowledge of the package and blamed it on a disreputable friend of mine that was prone to playing pranks. It was a pretty transparent lie, but my dad wanted to believe it so he did. I swore then that I would never tell my father that I was gay. I valued his love too much to have him look at me like that again.
Unfortunately, I don’t deal too well with lies. During my senior year at NCSSM, I had an emotional and mental breakdown. I stopped sleeping and couldn’t function at the school. I knew I was gay and trying to deny it was tearing me apart inside. The school finally sent me to my mom’s house for a week. After 7 years of denial, and 2 years of outright lying, I finally told me mom the truth. She took it in stride, and didn’t over react like I had feared. We had a pretty open conversation and we both expressed our feelings. She didn’t like the fact, and neither did I. But it was who I am. I didn’t have the nerve to tell my dad. Each time I tried, all I could picture was the anger and disgust in his face. I finally had my mom tell him. He and I talked briefly, afterwards, and he said he was fine with it. I didn’t believe him. Actions speak a lot louder and truer than words.
After coming out to my parents and to my friends at NCSSM, I started exploring the gay community. Since I had been shunned by Sharron United Methodist Church when I talked to the Pastor and certain prominent individuals discovered I was gay, and I had been asked to leave Westwood Southern Baptist Church when I went to the Youth Director for counseling and guidance, I felt lost. I had spent a great deal of time in the Church and I felt that it was one more family member that had turned its back on me. To this day I still have a deep resentment towards Christian churches. My councilor at NCSSM suggested I check out St. John’s Metropolitan Community Church. It’s a Christian church founded by the Rev. Elder Troy Perry in California. He was a preacher who broke with the mainstream Christian churches over the issues of homosexuality. I finally talked myself into going and thought that I had found a home again. It was great to be back in a Christian community that read from the Bible and preached from the Spirit, but at the same time taught the Love of Christ; a community that realized that the edicts in the Bible had little to nothing to do with homosexuality. A community that defused the Evangelical tirade and realized we are all children of God and brothers and sisters in Christ.
While attending St. John’s, I met a nice guy who later became my first boyfriend. But unlike my brother and sisters, I couldn’t go to my family and tell them about it. I couldn’t gossip around the dinner table about who I was dating, or the roses that he gave me for Valentine’s Day. I couldn’t tell them all the wonderful things he said to me, all the promises he made me, and all the plans he and I made together. Had I been able to tell them these things, and talked with my family, I might not have wasted 7 years of my life. I fell for obvious lies and games carefully crafted to exploit my naivety. I was prostituted out, I was used, and I was beaten. A lot more happened while I lived with David, Al and Rob that is too painful and horrible for me to even put into words. Those are my own scars to carry. I cried myself to sleep many nights, wishing I had somewhere to go, someone to turn to, or someone to talk to. I had no friends, I felt my family had turned its back on me, and I sank into a depression.
I eventually escaped from Jordan Lake. It took a near fatal suicide to act as a wake-up call. Rob and got an apartment in Raleigh and life moved on. We set up our own home and we started a new life. While I knew Rob and I made a horrible couple, I had made a commitment to him and I intended to honor it. My word was more important than my happiness. And I also knew that Rob wasn’t capable of taking care of himself. As was my typical method of dealing with things, I put Rob and my reputation ahead of my common sense. I knew my parents didn’t like the idea of me being with someone and I didn’t want to give my dad more ammunition to use against me. I endured for a few years before Rob finally left me for another guy. My dad’s response to my 7 year relationship going up in smoke, my life being turned upside down, and me loosing ten’s of thousands of dollars? “Maybe this will teach you to date women instead. Maybe now you’ll marry a girl.” I had endured his insults of me, his insults of Rob, and his anger and disgust for 10 years. I snapped that day. I wrote him out of my life. To sink that low, to kick me when I was at my weakest, to spit on his own son, was more than I could take. I started visiting less and less. I stopped calling. I stopped answering his calls.
When I met Keith, my life turned upside down again. I had been with Rob 7 years, but I didn’t love him. With Keith, I finally knew what love was. I was on cloud nine. I met Keith’s family. I loved them and they took me in. They accepted me and loved me. His grandmother and I bonded very quickly. Keith’s father, a trucker for many years, was so much like my dad it was funny. The exception was, he accepted me, and he accepted and valued and acknowledged what existed between Keith and I. Keith’s mother was the same way. They became the family I hadn’t had in 10 years or more. I miss them almost as much as I miss Keith. It was Keith and his family that convinced me to not give up on my own family and to try and grow closer to them. I took Keith home to meet the family. My dad was cold and rude to him, even though my stepmother tried to welcome him. Over the course of 3 years, my dad refused to even acknowledge him by name. He was always referred to as “That Guy”, or “The Guy You Live With”, or “Your Friend”. After Keith and I had been together for 2 years, I thought that my dad was making an effort. For the first time, he actually asked me questions about Keith, even though he refused to use his name. The outcome of the conversation was my dad telling me that Keith was a freeloading bum that I should get out of my life. While I was furious, I took his comments, tried to ignore them, and move on. Keith, on the other hand, was furious at my dad for what he said and upset at me for not defending him by confronting my dad. Keith didn’t desire any further contact with my dad until my dad treated him properly. Since I was unwilling to confront my dad, things went from bad to worse on that front.
In June of 2004, while visiting my dad for Father’s Day, I stopped in at Wilmington on the way home. To steal a classic phrase, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was beaten and raped that evening. The details don’t matter. I ended up in the hospital in Wilmington. The doctors patched me up, ran a battery of tests, give me the all clear, and sent me home. Then I shut down. I closed myself off inside from everyone and everything. I went home like nothing had happened. I tried to pretend as hard as I could that everything was ok. In reality I was a wreck inside and needed serious help. Unfortunately, I didn’t get it in time.
By December, 2004, I had finally realized that I needed to get help. I was still not able to deal with people and function properly. I couldn’t handle human contact, I wasn’t able to function sexually, and my emotions were non-existent. My solution was to get some distance. I cut myself off from my family and from Keith. I felt that if I could just isolate myself I could deal with everything, fix myself inside, and then rejoin the world. Unfortunately, Keith didn’t follow the game plan. He was supposed to go to Chicago for school. I didn’t like the idea of him being gone that long, but I knew I could fix everything by the time he returned and life would move on. But he sensed something was wrong. He knew I was distant, he knew something was upsetting me, and therefore he scrapped his plans and refused to leave my side. It was the sweetest gesture he could have made. And it pushed me over the edge. I couldn’t let him toss away his education like that. I couldn’t let him stay around because I needed to take care of my issues. I panicked and worked out a plan to break up with him, send him to school in Chapel Hill, get myself together, then work things out with Keith to patch everything up after the fact. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way. Keith was so heartbroken over my sudden betrayal of him, that he fled. He packed up everything and moved to Seattle to start his life over. It wasn’t until after he left that I told him the truth. I told him about the rape, the depression, and mental breakdown. He was devastated. He couldn’t believe that he had left me when I needed him the most. He was also furious with me, as he should have been. But it was too late. There was no way for him to move back to NC, and I wasn’t able to move to Seattle. So that chapter of my life closed.
After Keith left, I sunk deeper into my depression. My mom was going through her own divorce at the time and I didn’t want to trouble her with my problems. My dad was glad that we had broken up and said I should learn my lesson and start dating women. So I closed myself up in my house, cut off almost all contact with my friends, and rarely left the house except to go to work and the grocery store. I lived like that for about 6 months. One day I finally decided that life needed to change. I called a psychologist and entered into therapy. Since then, I’ve started to make a turn around in my life. I’ve started dealing with my past instead of avoiding it. I’ve started trying to look to the future instead of dreading it. I still have a lot to work on, a lot to deal with, and a long road ahead of me. I know that. I still have to learn to trust people again. I’ve felt hurt and betrayed by everyone I have ever loved. And because of that I didn’t trust Keith and lost him.
I’ve suffered from a minor dissociative disorder for nearly 20 years and a severe dissociative disorder for about 8 years. Basically, that means I don’t really feel anything inside and have little to no emotional response. My therapist and I are making progress on that, but it’s painful. It also doesn’t help that I feel that I’m alone in the world. Keith meant everything to me, and when I lost him, I lost everything I cared about. My therapist is encouraging me to try and reconnect with my family, but it’s hard. I haven’t been connected with them in over 13 years. I haven’t spent time with my extended family in nearly as long. My mom’s side of the family isn’t local, and the ones that are aren’t on speaking terms. My dad’s side of the family is scattered across the state, and I used to be very close to them, but since my dad forbade me to discuss anything about my life with them once he found out I was gay, I’ve only spoken with them briefly at funerals and the occasional holiday. This letter is a final attempt at trying to rebuild what was lost so many years ago. As I said at the beginning of this, I feel that my family has no idea who I am. We haven’t had a conversation with any depth to it in longer than I can recall. I hope someday to change that. But until then, this letter will have to suffice.
I’ve been in therapy now for nearly a year. It’s been a tough thing to go through, since I’m normally a very independent and self-sufficient kind of person. And after a year of talking to my therapist, I’ve come to many conclusions; one of which being the fact that my parents have no idea who I am. A large portion of the past 20 years is a mystery to them. And I realized that really bothered me. This isn’t about blame. My parents never really asked, and I never really volunteered. I feel, however, that it’s time to fill them in a little. I had planned on talking to them in person, but I’m still not able to. I can’t handle that much emotion. Hopefully someday I can. I had originally planned on writing out random details of random events, but in the end I’ve decided to take a more chronological, or autobiographical, approach. It might not make the most sense, but I think it flows the best. This isn’t a detailed account of my life, however. Many things have happened, both great and small, that won’t be accounted for here. This is more focused on getting some things off of my chest.
Divorce is a part of society these days. While that doesn’t make it any easier on the people going through it, it has at least removed some of the stigma and pain from it. My parents separated, got back together, separated, and divorced, all while I was still young. I think that I dealt with it fairly well. There was open communication in the family, my parents tried to keep me informed and comforted. But there’s only so much that can be done during such a traumatic event.
The one thing I learned through it all, before the divorce, during, and after, was the value and price of self-sacrifice. I learned early on that it was better not to be seen or heard. My mom didn’t need extra problems to deal with. My dad had a short temper. I learned to be self-sufficient. I learned to keep to myself. I learned to lock myself away inside. I learned to be numb inside, to not feel, to not show emotion. I saw what happened to my brother when he misbehaved and was sent away. I swore I wouldn’t be anything like him. I was the good child. I was the one that did whatever it took to keep my parents happy. It took me nearly 20 years to realize that that was no way to live.
Before I turned 8, life felt normal. My parents had divorced when I was younger, but I had made it through. I didn’t understand it, I didn’t like it, but I had learned to adapt. I talked with my parents about it, they talked with me about it, and somehow I felt that it would all work out in the end. Because my parents had divorced, and my mom was working long hours to make ends meet, I spent a great deal of time with my maternal and paternal grandparents. Because I lived with my mom, I tended to spend most of my time with her parents. I loved them dearly, and miss all three of them very much.
Because my uncle, my mother’s brother, was a truck driver and was on the road a lot, he and his son, my cousin, lived with my grandparents as well. It was a three bedroom house only a few miles from my own. While my uncle and I were never close, and still aren’t to this day, my cousin and I got along ok. He was the same age as my brother, and they were much closer friends than I was to either of them. But my brother was old enough to stay home alone, or with friends. And later he moved out.
Since I only had one friend in my grandparents’ neighborhood, I had to rely on my cousin and myself for entertainment. I think my cousin knew that. Since there wasn’t an extra bed in the house, my grandmother had my cousin and I share his bed. It wasn’t a bad arrangement, other than the fact that he tended to be a restless sleeper and the glare from the security light outside shown into his window and right into my face. We would stay up talking until all hours of the night, or until my grandfather would hear us and tell us to be quiet and go to sleep.
It was on one of those late nights that my cousin told me to get up and go use the bathroom, and make sure I cleaned myself well afterwards. I didn’t really need to go, but I did as I was told. When I came back and got into bed, he told me to take my clothes off and sleep in the nude. I thought it odd, but again I didn’t question him. After a few minutes, he reached over, grabbed my hand, and placed it on his groin. I pulled my hand back and tried to go back to sleep. We repeated this a few times. He eventually let me go to sleep. I didn’t think much about it at the time, or the next day, or the day after.
But one touch led to two. Touching led to more intimate touching. For over a year my cousin molested me, raped me, and manipulated me. He had me convinced that I had done something wrong. He threatened and blackmailed me into keeping silent. My dad was 30 minutes away. My mom was working. My grandparents were oblivious. I felt trapped and I had no where to turn.
Once, when I was about 9, I started bleeding from my rectum one morning. While it was painful, I was glad it happened. I figured someone would figure out what was going on and things would change. But my mom took me to the doctor, who said it was just hemorrhoids, and life continued on as before. I often meant to do research into how many 9 year olds get diagnosed with hemorrhoids each year, much less profuse bleeding from them. After awhile, I became numb to the situation. I knew that when I went to visit my grandparents, it was going to happen. And as my mom started working more hours, and I started spending more and more time with my grandparents, it became a more frequent occurrence.
One weekend, my cousin did something unusual. He stripped me down in the middle of the day in his room. He had just taken his pants off and climbed on top of me when my grandfather walked into the room unannounced. He paused for a second, told my cousin to come outside with him and for me to get dressed. And that’s the end of the tale. Nothing was ever said; not by my grandfather, not by my cousin, and not by me. I assumed, long after the fact, when I could fully grasp what had happened, that my grandfather had realized what was going on. If not historically, at least what was transpiring at the moment he opened the door. I assumed that he had spoken to my cousin and explained that what he was doing was wrong. All I know for certain is that I was moved into the living room that night and slept there for as long as my cousin lived with them. I know that my cousin made several innuendoes after that, but never forced me into anything or tried to manipulate me. Nor have he and I ever spoken of it.
It’s hard to tell exactly what impact those two years had. I know that it taught me not to trust people. I didn’t trust my cousin because of all the things he did to me. I didn’t trust my parents because they hadn’t protected me. I didn’t trust my grandparents because I felt that they had let it happen. And because of the way my cousin had brainwashed me, I didn’t believe I could tell anyone and have them not blame me for it all. I also didn’t want to cause any trouble in the family or put any more burdens on my parents. It took me many years to realize the truth, but the damage was done. I had no sense of trust in people. I had no self-esteem. I had a messed up view of sex. I was alienated from my family.
Around the time I turned 10, my mom had a new boyfriend. I disliked him on the spot. But, as I reasoned it then, I’d probably hate anyone she brought home because I loved my dad. So I mostly held my tongue. The new boyfriend had a daughter. I disliked her on the spot. Some things never changed. As their relationship developed, I saw my mom happy again. That meant a lot to me because I loved my mother. By the age of 10 I had already started learning to put everyone’s needs before my own. I had already learned to find happiness in other people’s pleasure.
When I heard both of my mother’s parents talk about how much they disliked my stepfather, though, I started to think there might be something to my feelings. I tried to work up the nerve to tell my mom how I felt, but I never could. Sure, I’d hint, I’d mutter, I’d complain, but I never had the nerve to just clearly and bluntly say how I felt. While I often felt my mom chose her new boyfriend over me and her family, I never told her. Then again, I was 10 when they met, 11 or 12 when we all moved in together, and shortly there after they were married. I also didn’t approve of us all moving in together before the wedding, but even at 12 I was a bit prudish and old fashioned. I blame that on all my grandparents. Though, I probably wouldn’t have minded as much had I liked my new stepfather.
Life before we all moved in together was interesting enough. The fighting was minor and localized. After we all moved in together, things went downhill pretty quickly. My mom had four children to raise; my stepfather, my brother, my stepsister, and myself. I don’t think any of us got along. My stepsister was a spoiled brat and didn’t like anyone. My brother and I had never gotten along and he didn’t care for our stepfather. My stepfather acted like a kid half the time and fought with all of us. My mom was stuck in the middle playing referee for everyone. I saw how much it hurt her and drained her and that hurt me in turn.
A year and a half later, when my dad asked me if I wanted to move in with him, things just fell into place. I felt that my dad needed my help because of his injuries and I felt that my mom would be happier with me out of the picture. Years later the situation really angered me. I felt that I, the 13 year old, was being forced to be the adult and the peacekeeper in the family. I felt that my mom chose my stepfather over me, thus forcing me into moving. I resented my dad for needing my assistance. Yet again, I felt abandoned and unprotected and hurt by my family.
After moving to the beach, I felt my dad and I connect and bond for the last time. We spent a rather grueling summer renovating the house at the beach in preparation for my stepmother’s arrival. There was no TV, no air-conditioning, and no frills. We talked, we laughed, we spent time together working on the house, the yard, and we fished. While we’ve done all of those activities since, we’ve never managed to recapture that summer. And I’ve never felt close to my dad since.
Life at the beach wasn’t what I thought it would be. Part of it was the delusion that life would be like a beach trip or a vacation. Part of it was resentment towards my stepmother. I had given up my mother and now she was taking my father from me. I think that is part of what caused us to butt heads from the beginning. She was very strict and old fashioned in my opinion. It took me many years to realize what she taught me and more still to value and appreciate it.
While I knew I was gay since I was 11, I still remember the first time my dad learned I was gay. When we started renovating the new house at the beach, we uncovered an adult old magazine in the rafters of the outbuilding. In the back of the magazine was an ad to write off for free gay pornography. While I was only 16 at the time, I signed the little form saying I was 18 and curiously awaited the package. Well, I shouldn’t have been surprised when my dad intercepted the package without my knowledge. I still remember the anger and disgust in his face when he confronted me about it. And the fact that it was pornography wasn’t the issue. He had pornography. He knew that I had pornography. It was the mere thought that I could be gay that filled him with the anger and disgust. Obviously I denied any knowledge of the package and blamed it on a disreputable friend of mine that was prone to playing pranks. It was a pretty transparent lie, but my dad wanted to believe it so he did. I swore then that I would never tell my father that I was gay. I valued his love too much to have him look at me like that again.
Unfortunately, I don’t deal too well with lies. During my senior year at NCSSM, I had an emotional and mental breakdown. I stopped sleeping and couldn’t function at the school. I knew I was gay and trying to deny it was tearing me apart inside. The school finally sent me to my mom’s house for a week. After 7 years of denial, and 2 years of outright lying, I finally told me mom the truth. She took it in stride, and didn’t over react like I had feared. We had a pretty open conversation and we both expressed our feelings. She didn’t like the fact, and neither did I. But it was who I am. I didn’t have the nerve to tell my dad. Each time I tried, all I could picture was the anger and disgust in his face. I finally had my mom tell him. He and I talked briefly, afterwards, and he said he was fine with it. I didn’t believe him. Actions speak a lot louder and truer than words.
After coming out to my parents and to my friends at NCSSM, I started exploring the gay community. Since I had been shunned by Sharron United Methodist Church when I talked to the Pastor and certain prominent individuals discovered I was gay, and I had been asked to leave Westwood Southern Baptist Church when I went to the Youth Director for counseling and guidance, I felt lost. I had spent a great deal of time in the Church and I felt that it was one more family member that had turned its back on me. To this day I still have a deep resentment towards Christian churches. My councilor at NCSSM suggested I check out St. John’s Metropolitan Community Church. It’s a Christian church founded by the Rev. Elder Troy Perry in California. He was a preacher who broke with the mainstream Christian churches over the issues of homosexuality. I finally talked myself into going and thought that I had found a home again. It was great to be back in a Christian community that read from the Bible and preached from the Spirit, but at the same time taught the Love of Christ; a community that realized that the edicts in the Bible had little to nothing to do with homosexuality. A community that defused the Evangelical tirade and realized we are all children of God and brothers and sisters in Christ.
While attending St. John’s, I met a nice guy who later became my first boyfriend. But unlike my brother and sisters, I couldn’t go to my family and tell them about it. I couldn’t gossip around the dinner table about who I was dating, or the roses that he gave me for Valentine’s Day. I couldn’t tell them all the wonderful things he said to me, all the promises he made me, and all the plans he and I made together. Had I been able to tell them these things, and talked with my family, I might not have wasted 7 years of my life. I fell for obvious lies and games carefully crafted to exploit my naivety. I was prostituted out, I was used, and I was beaten. A lot more happened while I lived with David, Al and Rob that is too painful and horrible for me to even put into words. Those are my own scars to carry. I cried myself to sleep many nights, wishing I had somewhere to go, someone to turn to, or someone to talk to. I had no friends, I felt my family had turned its back on me, and I sank into a depression.
I eventually escaped from Jordan Lake. It took a near fatal suicide to act as a wake-up call. Rob and got an apartment in Raleigh and life moved on. We set up our own home and we started a new life. While I knew Rob and I made a horrible couple, I had made a commitment to him and I intended to honor it. My word was more important than my happiness. And I also knew that Rob wasn’t capable of taking care of himself. As was my typical method of dealing with things, I put Rob and my reputation ahead of my common sense. I knew my parents didn’t like the idea of me being with someone and I didn’t want to give my dad more ammunition to use against me. I endured for a few years before Rob finally left me for another guy. My dad’s response to my 7 year relationship going up in smoke, my life being turned upside down, and me loosing ten’s of thousands of dollars? “Maybe this will teach you to date women instead. Maybe now you’ll marry a girl.” I had endured his insults of me, his insults of Rob, and his anger and disgust for 10 years. I snapped that day. I wrote him out of my life. To sink that low, to kick me when I was at my weakest, to spit on his own son, was more than I could take. I started visiting less and less. I stopped calling. I stopped answering his calls.
When I met Keith, my life turned upside down again. I had been with Rob 7 years, but I didn’t love him. With Keith, I finally knew what love was. I was on cloud nine. I met Keith’s family. I loved them and they took me in. They accepted me and loved me. His grandmother and I bonded very quickly. Keith’s father, a trucker for many years, was so much like my dad it was funny. The exception was, he accepted me, and he accepted and valued and acknowledged what existed between Keith and I. Keith’s mother was the same way. They became the family I hadn’t had in 10 years or more. I miss them almost as much as I miss Keith. It was Keith and his family that convinced me to not give up on my own family and to try and grow closer to them. I took Keith home to meet the family. My dad was cold and rude to him, even though my stepmother tried to welcome him. Over the course of 3 years, my dad refused to even acknowledge him by name. He was always referred to as “That Guy”, or “The Guy You Live With”, or “Your Friend”. After Keith and I had been together for 2 years, I thought that my dad was making an effort. For the first time, he actually asked me questions about Keith, even though he refused to use his name. The outcome of the conversation was my dad telling me that Keith was a freeloading bum that I should get out of my life. While I was furious, I took his comments, tried to ignore them, and move on. Keith, on the other hand, was furious at my dad for what he said and upset at me for not defending him by confronting my dad. Keith didn’t desire any further contact with my dad until my dad treated him properly. Since I was unwilling to confront my dad, things went from bad to worse on that front.
In June of 2004, while visiting my dad for Father’s Day, I stopped in at Wilmington on the way home. To steal a classic phrase, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was beaten and raped that evening. The details don’t matter. I ended up in the hospital in Wilmington. The doctors patched me up, ran a battery of tests, give me the all clear, and sent me home. Then I shut down. I closed myself off inside from everyone and everything. I went home like nothing had happened. I tried to pretend as hard as I could that everything was ok. In reality I was a wreck inside and needed serious help. Unfortunately, I didn’t get it in time.
By December, 2004, I had finally realized that I needed to get help. I was still not able to deal with people and function properly. I couldn’t handle human contact, I wasn’t able to function sexually, and my emotions were non-existent. My solution was to get some distance. I cut myself off from my family and from Keith. I felt that if I could just isolate myself I could deal with everything, fix myself inside, and then rejoin the world. Unfortunately, Keith didn’t follow the game plan. He was supposed to go to Chicago for school. I didn’t like the idea of him being gone that long, but I knew I could fix everything by the time he returned and life would move on. But he sensed something was wrong. He knew I was distant, he knew something was upsetting me, and therefore he scrapped his plans and refused to leave my side. It was the sweetest gesture he could have made. And it pushed me over the edge. I couldn’t let him toss away his education like that. I couldn’t let him stay around because I needed to take care of my issues. I panicked and worked out a plan to break up with him, send him to school in Chapel Hill, get myself together, then work things out with Keith to patch everything up after the fact. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way. Keith was so heartbroken over my sudden betrayal of him, that he fled. He packed up everything and moved to Seattle to start his life over. It wasn’t until after he left that I told him the truth. I told him about the rape, the depression, and mental breakdown. He was devastated. He couldn’t believe that he had left me when I needed him the most. He was also furious with me, as he should have been. But it was too late. There was no way for him to move back to NC, and I wasn’t able to move to Seattle. So that chapter of my life closed.
After Keith left, I sunk deeper into my depression. My mom was going through her own divorce at the time and I didn’t want to trouble her with my problems. My dad was glad that we had broken up and said I should learn my lesson and start dating women. So I closed myself up in my house, cut off almost all contact with my friends, and rarely left the house except to go to work and the grocery store. I lived like that for about 6 months. One day I finally decided that life needed to change. I called a psychologist and entered into therapy. Since then, I’ve started to make a turn around in my life. I’ve started dealing with my past instead of avoiding it. I’ve started trying to look to the future instead of dreading it. I still have a lot to work on, a lot to deal with, and a long road ahead of me. I know that. I still have to learn to trust people again. I’ve felt hurt and betrayed by everyone I have ever loved. And because of that I didn’t trust Keith and lost him.
I’ve suffered from a minor dissociative disorder for nearly 20 years and a severe dissociative disorder for about 8 years. Basically, that means I don’t really feel anything inside and have little to no emotional response. My therapist and I are making progress on that, but it’s painful. It also doesn’t help that I feel that I’m alone in the world. Keith meant everything to me, and when I lost him, I lost everything I cared about. My therapist is encouraging me to try and reconnect with my family, but it’s hard. I haven’t been connected with them in over 13 years. I haven’t spent time with my extended family in nearly as long. My mom’s side of the family isn’t local, and the ones that are aren’t on speaking terms. My dad’s side of the family is scattered across the state, and I used to be very close to them, but since my dad forbade me to discuss anything about my life with them once he found out I was gay, I’ve only spoken with them briefly at funerals and the occasional holiday. This letter is a final attempt at trying to rebuild what was lost so many years ago. As I said at the beginning of this, I feel that my family has no idea who I am. We haven’t had a conversation with any depth to it in longer than I can recall. I hope someday to change that. But until then, this letter will have to suffice.