“No, Andrew. I’m not.” The words are slightly mumbled through my hand, but they are understandable. My resolve is weakening, but the words I’ve spoken are out of my control now. They are alive as I am alive, and they cannot be undone. Even if I were to take it all back and tell my brother about my experiment, the wound of this moment would always remain. My body begins shaking as I wait for the backlash.
I never anticipated that coming out as gay would feel this raw, this emotional, this terrifying. It isn’t a fear that life won’t go on; rather, that life won’t resolve in some way. The questions and the stereotypes, and fear for all of the relationships I might lose, consume me. I don’t want to lose my friends, and I don’t want my family to hold me at arm’s length. I do not want to be the black sheep of the family, or the different gay brother or son. I want to be me. But having been raised in a conservative religious home, I know these hopes aren’t reasonable. Living in the culture of the “Bible Belt” makes the prospect of feeling simultaneously normal and gay likely impossible. I cannot imagine what coming out would be like if I were really gay. One year may seem like a long time, but a lifetime…That would be more than I could ever adjust to.
The look on my brother’s face as he processes my revelation is proof. Nothing about this year is going to be easy.
Then my brother’s wife, Maren, looks at me with the grace of a sister, and Andrew’s face takes on a beautiful look of sympathy and protectiveness. I don’t know why he’s looking at me that way, but it is not threatening. I have never seen it before, and it surprises me, knowing what he must be thinking. Then I feel guilt; not just because I’m intentionally allowing him to go through this with me, but because I am selfish. I am selfish because I treasure that look on his face and what it shows me—I really am important to him. In some indescribable way, I feel that he actually needs me.
Is he afraid of losing me? Why that look?
Why now?
For the moment my nerves calm and my fear abates. My sister-in-law moves next to me and playfully grabs the scruff of my neck. “Were you actually afraid we were going to push you away for being gay?” she asks as her hand rubs my still very rigid back. I can feel my pulse. It hasn’t stopped racing since I told Andrew and Maren that we needed to talk.
“Honestly, I didn’t know how you were going to react,” I reply, still shaking.
Andrew moves next to me and puts his arm around me. I’m in the middle of these two people, and I feel like I hardly know them. Have I been too hard on them, assuming that my brother would react to my coming out the way I might have if he had come out to me? I don’t know what to think. Surprisingly, neither of them asks questions. I have been told most family members ask questions after finding out for the first time that a loved one is gay. But they do not ask me how long I have known or “felt this way,” and they do not ask me if I have a boyfriend. Instead, they just let me be. It is a beautiful thing that in spite of everything I believed would, or at least could, have happened, in our case, blood really does run thicker than dogma.
I hear the sliding doors to the porch open. The sound is a salvation of sorts, as I am ready to go outside and smoke a cigarette. The group of friends walk into the kitchen and immediately engage my brother and his wife in conversation. I slip quietly out to the porch.
It is cold, too cold for anyone without a jacket. I am without mine but unwilling to go back inside without taking a few minutes to myself. I put the cigarette in my mouth and reach for my lighter, but something comes over me before I can light it. I feel physically sick, like I am neck-deep in a pit of quicksand, like I have just committed a murder and am waiting to be found out. My worry turns into nausea, and my nausea becomes a forward movement to the screen door, which I wrench open just in time to vomit into the bushes. My nerves manifest themselves into a bought of physical sickness.
And then I see him, the Pharisee, standing at the bottom of the steps with a disapproving look on his face.
Why are you lying to them? We both know you can’t maintain this lie.
Leave me alone.
I just don’t understand why you think lying to your family is going to accomplish anything. You know lying is a sin, just like homosexuality. Now you might as well be gay.
His continual use of the word lie is intentional, but I’m too overwhelmed to pay him any attention. I look down at the throw up on the winter-stripped bush and start to cry. Deceiving my brother is the hardest thing I have ever done. I feel like I’ve stabbed myself in the heart.
Six months of planning hasn’t prepared me in the least.
June 2008: Six months earlier
I had not heard from Lizzy since that fateful night at karaoke. I didn’t need to, though. I had made an unorthodox decision, a path inspired by her conviction. Something about my thinking was wrong, something about my immediate desire to preach at her instead of comfort her…It had to be wrong, or I would not have felt so guilty. But making the unorthodox decision to come out as gay and actually coming out are two entirely different monsters, and the second was much more intimidating to face. It was late June 2008, and my course had set.
The idea was simple enough, or so I thought: come out as gay to my family, friends, and church, and see how the label of gay would affect my life. It would be the ultimate chance to test everything that two decades of programming in the Independent Baptist Church had taught me.
I’d lived in Nashville since I was two and loved it. Like most Southern cities, we lived at a much slower pace. It was a place where iced tea was the drug of choice and being a member of this church or that was more prestigious than belonging to a country club. It was also a place filled with people who thrived on bringing faith and Republican politics into conversation whenever possible, and I was an expert at injecting my extreme brand of faith into even the most mundane small-talk.
Growing up I was the little boy single-handedly responsible for the success of the clip-on tie industry. I was the kid who logged more hours in church than most pastors. Television shows like the “Power Rangers” were off limits because of the worldly music (not the violence—go figure), as were the movies like Free Willy because of their “environmentalist, liberal agenda.” I was never allowed to believe in Santa Clause or the Easter bunny, and not once on Halloween did my parents allow me to dress up to go trick-or-treating. They said it was an “evil“ holiday, and I was too young to protest. None of this really mattered, though. I’d just wanted to be normal, even though I was not quite sure what normal really was.
One of the earliest Sunday school lessons I remember was “Sodom and Gomorrah.” I could not have been older than seven or eight. I stared in awe at the display board showing the destruction of the city, rendered in felt. The Sunday school teacher placed the “fire reigning from the heavens” pieces on the board with care, like she treasured them. Each piece, including the people, looked like something you’d see in a science fiction movie. It was a disturbing image…until the felt buildings fell off the board. They only stuck half of the time, and my laughing always got me in trouble.
Memories from my childhood had plagued me since that night at the bar with Liz, but none of them held the same novelty as before. Now I saw them for what they might actually be: the spiritual boot camp that taught me how to use the Bible to hurt instead of love. I had been raised a Bible thumper, a homophobe; my decision was not an easy one.
Acting on an idea is not as simple as one might think, especially one that is as deep as adopting the label of gay. I hadn’t expected it to be an effortless process, or anything; I just thought that the mental hurtles I’d have to jump would be a little bit shorter. I thought I would meet the most resistance externally, but nothing could have been further from the truth. I suffered through anxiety, insomnia, and a heightened sense of nostalgia for the things I might lose. I was unraveling before the journey even began.
My first week of sleepless nights followed my decision to move forward with the experiment. I became an inso
mniac zombie, obsessing over every nuance of the experiment. Not only did I suffer insomnia, I became a hermit. My lack of contact with the outside world worried my best friend Josh, who hadn’t heard from me since karaoke, and it didn’t take much waffling before I drove to his house to tell him everything. It was his fault I’d started going to karaoke, after all—and I was going to make him participate, whether he liked it or not!
After some brief small talk, I hesitantly told him. “By the way, I’ve decided to ‘come out’ to my family and friends.”
“What? But you aren’t gay!” He looked shocked, and the confusion on his face almost lightened my mood. “Are you…?”
“Of course not! You know me better than that,” I answered. “You know my story, about how I was raised and everything.”
A look of recognition blossomed, and his demeanor changed. “That’s perfect!” he said without my having to elaborate. “If you walk in their shoes, you might not be such an asshole to them.”
“Hey, now! I am not…Well, yes, basically. But I don’t want to be an asshole anymore,” I said as Josh smiled at me. “It’s just that, well, I’m not sure that I should…” I voiced my hesitation, wondering if he would tell me to drop it or encourage me to go through with the idea.
Josh saw my hesitancy. “If you don’t do this, I’m going to find someone who will. This is the best idea you’ve ever had, and it needs to be done. Tim, this is your chance to question everything you’ve ever been taught! It’s your chance to grow a heart. This is going to change your life!” He knew me too well.
I knew I didn’t have a choice.
Josh leaned against the wall of his balcony, twisting the hair of his black goatee between his thumb and index finger. His expression was pensive, and I knew he was working out what exactly he wanted to say next. I looked off the balcony at the lights of downtown Nashville and lit a clove cigarette. The sweltering June heat, and the humidity even so late at night, had me consistently wiping my forehead with my t-shirt while I waited for him to speak. The cigarette was nothing more than a tar-soaked filter and my shirt was damp before he finally spoke.
“Tim, you know if you do this, you’re going to have to establish some pretty strict rules for yourself.” Josh’s exultant expression had turned serious.
“Like what?” I said.
“Well, for one, you won’t be able to date women. You won’t even be able to flirt with them! That’s what will make or break this project,” he said, taking another hit of the clove nestled between the fingers of his left hand.
“Why not?”
“For several reasons. First, the duality of this experiment is hinged on the fact that while you’re out as gay, you’ll be in the closet as straight. You’ll be completely imprisoned to this new life—repressed like gays and lesbians are, before they come out. It will bring you closer. Also, it minimizes the risk of being found out by everyone. People talk, and if you’re dating someone, they won’t be able to keep things a secret. Plus, you’d be cheating yourself out of the most important part of the story if you did. Relationships just complicate things. You wouldn’t be able to handle it.”
Josh was right, as always, and with his words the burden on my shoulders became much heavier than before.
“I understand,” I said, looking down at my feet.
“Do you?”
“Yes, I really do. It’s going to kill me, but you’re right.” I felt powerless.
“No relationship drama for a year. It’ll be a blessing in disguise. I promise.”
“I guess,” I said.
“So when are you going to ‘come out’?” he asked, putting his hand on my shoulder.
“I really haven’t given it much thought.” The idea alone had been almost more than I could process.
“You’d best get those details hammered out, bro.” Josh tossed his clove over the stairwell and I watched it fall, the cherry dimming as soon as it made contact with the damp leaves below us. “Come inside and we’ll figure it all out.”
January 1st, 2009
Maren’s sudden presence on the porch startles me. She hands me a can of Sprite and tells me to come inside where it’s warm, her hand patting my back reassuringly. I don’t know if I can. I don’t even want to move, even though I’ve lost the feeling in my nose and ears. I feel tears and snot frozen on my facial hair.
“Tim, you can come inside. Don’t be afraid. What you told us isn’t going to ruin the rest of the party.” Her hand still rubs my back reassuringly, and I feel connected to her for the first time. She is my brother’s wife, my sister-in-law, but until now I hadn’t see her as my friend. I follow her inside, tossing the cigarette into the ashtray, unlit.
I spend the rest of the morning sitting quietly with everyone, sipping coffee and trying not to fall asleep. I’m exhausted and feel like sleeping for days, but before I can sleep, I still have to come out to my mom and stepdad. The thought presses me even further into despair, and I fight the urge to throw up. Again.
And then before I know it, I’m saying goodbye to Andrew and Maren. Both hug me and tell me they love me, and I reciprocate. As I hug my brother, I pull his head down and kiss the top of it. It is something I’ve done for as long as I can remember, but as I pull away and say goodbye, I hope he doesn’t think I do that because I’m gay. The paranoia is already beginning. I get into the car and drive away from the house. I lean my head against the window and feel warm tears contrasting with the icy cold window against my cheek. It is 11:34 a.m. on January 1st, and I have 364 ½ days to go. The calendar on my phone looks more like Mount Everest to me than a simple list of days.
I don’t know if I’ll make it.
Before going to my mom’s house, twenty minutes north in Hermitage, Tennessee, I stop at my friend Hope’s apartment. I slept very little the night before, and I need to rest for a few hours before I see my mom. I walk inside and wash up before going to the kitchen. Hope pours me a shot of vodka while I am in the bathroom. She hands it to me, and one gulp later and my chest warms as the clear liquid moves through my body.
“What’s next?” she asks.
“I’m going to ask my mom if she’ll go to coffee with me, and then I’ll tell her.”
“Sounds good. You going to rest awhile?”
“I don’t think I can.”
“You need to try,” she says.
“I’m going to call her in a few minutes and try to get her to meet up with me,” I say.
After another shot and some small talk, I dial my mom’s number and press the phone to my ear. It feels like an eternity before my mom answers her cell, and I feel my eyes glaze over, resigned to the possibility that I could break her heart.
“Hey, mom, can we get some coffee or something, later? I need to talk to you about something.” A part of me wonders how she’ll respond. I cannot help but wonder if she’ll even believe me.
“Tim…I know what you’re going to tell me.” Her voice, usually whimsical and high-pitched, sounds somber. It sounds like she’s been crying, her voice hoarse and broken.
“What are you talking about?”
“I know you think you’re gay. Andrew called earlier.” She seems to be waiting for confirmation, so I give it to her.
“Think I’m gay? Mom, I am gay.” I can’t help but respond defensively. Why would she say think? Thinking, as she put it, would leave room for error and doubt, and if I know anything, it is that no one would have the gumption to declare their orientation to the world if they just “thought” they were gay. It is too life-changing and painful to do haphazardly. Not only that, but it also negates the declaration in itself, a declaration that takes time for anyone who makes it.
“Just come home, Tim. We’ll talk about it here.” The edge in her voice is gone, and I reluctantly give the nod to Hope that it is time for me to leave.
I arrive at my mom’s house. As I pull into the driveway, I see her standing on the front steps waiting for me. She has never greeted me like this. Part of me feels r
elief at the thought that she already knows; but another, larger part feels angry that I have lost the opportunity to tell her myself. I get out of the car, grab my bag, and walk towards her. As I reach the top step, she holds her arms out to hug me.
I fall into them like a child who has just scraped his knee, and she holds me.
“Tim, I love you. You know that don’t you?” she asks while my head rests on her shoulder. I can’t help but be proud of my mom. This is how I should have treated Liz.
“Yes, but I know this isn’t something you want to hear from me.”
“We’ll figure it all out. I’ll love you no matter what. Just give me some time.”
“Okay.” I can’t say much in response. I am too tired, but happy that she is making an attempt to show me she cares. We walk inside and sit on the couch, saying very little as we both adjust to something new. Eventually she speaks.
“Have you told your dad yet?”
“Not yet. I’ll email him. I don’t have the energy to have another conversation today.”
“You don’t have to do this all in one day,” she says.
“I know,” I say.
I try to imagine how much harder things would be if she and my brother hadn’t cared enough to show me they love me still. My heart breaks for those who have actually lost family after coming out of the closet. I cannot imagine feeling this vulnerable only to be abandoned by the people who are supposed to be there no matter what. I think again about Lizzy that night at karaoke, six months earlier, and I wish I had known. I wish I had known how this feels, I wish I had wrapped my arms around her and grieved with her, and accepted her in her pain. Overcome by guilt, shame, and sadness, I walk upstairs to go to bed. It’s 4:26 p.m., but I’m ready to sleep.
Anything that incites the kind of fear that I’ve felt this day requires courage to overcome. I had never believed coming out was an act of courage. Until today, coming out as gay has always represented cowardice and a sense of giving up. I believed it was an easy out for people who didn’t want to overcome the perversion and sin in their lives. But if today has shown me anything, it is that the act of coming out itself and risking the life you have always known is a courageous thing, an act worthy of respect.
The Cross in the Closet Page 3
