Roommate

This was to be the story of a straight roommate who fell in love with me. But, obviously that sort of statement is in need of a lot of qualifiers. Was he really straight? I think he was. Was he really in love with me? My wife thinks he was. Regardless, by all other accounts we were best friends and closer than I've been with anyone except my wife. I would have asked him to be the best man at my wedding, but he disappeared shortly after I left for medical school--no e-mails and no phone calls. Sometimes I wonder why a guy who was closer than a brother would suddenly drop off the face of the earth; why he would go from driving me and my stuff halfway across the country to ignoring me altogether. All I can figure is that he suddenly became aware how tied to me he had become and got scared.

Let me rewind a couple years to the beginning of the story. My wife and I had been dating for years, but parted ways when she graduated and our relationship hadn't progressed. She moved on with her life and I got a job in the real world. I lived in a BYU student approved complex even though I was no longer a student (shame on me) and enjoyed life finally pulling a paycheck and having my evenings study-free. At the end of the year the perennial student turnover emptied most of the complex and a guy from my ward I didn't know too well invited me to move into his apartment.

At first I didn't like the idea--this guy wasn't really a great friend, just an acquaintance. But the fact that I could go from a shared bedroom to a private bedroom sealed the deal. My then current room roommate deserves a whole chapter of his own, but we'll forgo that for now! So, I moved in with Jeff.

I don't remember exactly how the following months played out, but the fact that he had all the cool electronics meant that we spent a considerable amount of time hanging out. For whatever reason, he was really nice to me. He would wash my dishes and clean up my messes in a way that invited reciprocation, and soon we were just always looking out for each other and pretty close. He would use my stuff and I would use his. We traveled all over the country together and took every weekend we could to go camping in southern Utah. We hung out with each other's family. The lines of who owned what in our apartment were blurred in a way that felt like family. We just got really close.

He was brilliant and had landed a high paying job (six figures!) right out of BYU. He got me a job at the same place and with that transition we were together pretty much 24/7. One day a coworker discovered porn on an office computer and I was asked if I had been the culprit. I honestly answered that it hadn't been me, and Jeff defended me. After that fiasco had faded and we were chatting privately about it, he said he had been 100% sure it hadn't been me because it wasn't "my brand." He had become aware I was gay quite a while before as he used my computer in our apartment. I had been less than tidy with covering my internet history. But nothing really changed after he knew. I had no idea that he was even aware.

The nice thing about the experience was that it gave me a chance to be honest with someone and talk about things. I gave him my speculation that part of my problems with sexuality were related to my repressed upbringing. We compared stories and his history intrigued me. When he looked at porn as a kid and his dad caught him, his dad (a bishop) said, "that's my boy," and didn't give him a hard time. The expectation was always there that he not look at porn, but he didn't feel guilty or shamed by the experience. His dad had an openness about things that took the "forbidden" element out. It normalized issues. I, on the other hand, felt I needed to confess to the bishop if my eyes fell on a swimsuit pinup as I walked down the halls of school.

He said he thought I needed things normalized. I needed a brother. Someone who didn't judge me for being gay, or looking at porn, or whatever. Someone who just accepted me and loved me anyway.

We kept hanging out, getting more affectionate over time. We slept in the same bed sometimes. One of us would fling an arm around the other one in a way that some would call brotherly and some would call flirty, and we'd fall asleep that way. I liked him well enough by this point that things could have gotten inappropriate fast except for one thing: he was straight. We discussed it more than once and I held some doubts whether it was really true. But without going into all the situational details, I had seen what turned him on, and it wasn't guys. Sure, maybe he was bi. If he was, he wasn't turned on by me, but he still loved me in a way that was hard to explain.

The summer before med school we planned a big trip with two girls (I married one of them later!). My wife tells me now that it was on that trip that she first really suspected that I was gay. Just seeing us together, how we played off each other, how much we really loved each other, she was convinced that we were BOTH gay. A few weeks later, I came out to her and she told me she already knew. But she loved me anyway. She liked Jeff too, up until the time she believed he was a rival for my affection.

And, there you have it. One weekend in the fall, we piled all my stuff into the jeep and drove across the country to my new home. We slept in the same bed for the last time and Jeff drove off into the sunset never to be heard from again. We had big plans that after I finished med school we would start a business together. Or maybe we would take flying lessons and buy a plane together. We had a good track record of sharing possessions. But, somewhere along the way I suspect he may have realized that he had been changed by our relationship more than he intended. Rather than just me feeling more "normalized," maybe he was brought to consider some gay feelings he never knew he had. I don't know. I still love him and miss him and now that my wife doesn't feel like she has to compete anymore (she definitely doesn't), I sort of wish he'd step back in and pick up where we left off as friends.

Marital bliss

I like it when people I've blogged about come to pay me a visit. I dunno, it just makes me feel important. Maybe Elder Oaks will come comment someday. :-) More likely an impersonator, now that I've said that!

In the mean time, Ron Schow stopped by recently to clarify his position on so-called mixed orientation marriages. The data for success is unfavorable, and given the recent planned divorces mentioned in the gay Mormon blogs I read, this has never been more emphatically on my mind.

Gushing about how great our marriage is and how happy I am has become a favorite past time on this blog of late, and I'm still standing by that. It's alarming to me how happy I am sometimes. Seems sort of indecent. Seems like I ought not allow myself such bliss while still struggling with so many issues in my life. I wonder whether it appears that I'm not struggling at all anymore--that things are sufficiently resolved (or repressed, depending on your inclination to cynicism) to put me riding off into the sunset. This makes me chuckle a bit, but I've been told I seem to handle everything with "relative ease" before, so perhaps people may get that impression.

The fact is, a couple years ago I wanted out of my marriage too. Not in a formal sort of way that involved conversations and rational thought and solutions (things I tend to advocate), but in a desperate, under-the-surface, frantic sort of way. This was before I had kids. I wanted to be freed from my marital situation in a way that wouldn't involve any pain for anyone involved--no blame, no long conversations, no tears, no betrayals. I wanted out scot-free. I wanted, during my most miserable moments, for my wife to die.

Yes, that is shocking and horrible beyond words.

But it was there, and I've since talked to my wife about it, and I'm telling you now because I tend to say stuff that no decent person ever would. So, I can understand when Laura says in her blog that she couldn't get married and be miserable for the rest of her life, because I was miserable for a while and there was no end in sight. I can understand the reluctance to consider marriage at all and the hopelessness that comes from feeling there are no happy alternatives.

But, somehow I'm still here and I'm now happy, and every once in a while when my wife takes longer than I expect at the store I have a horrible flash in my mind in which I wonder if there may have been an accident. And then I check the messages, look out the door, and fidget a bit until she arrives, safe and sound. If she takes particularly long and doesn't have her cell phone on, I may even start to ruminate on the worst possible scenarios, and they literally bring me to tears. Being a father and a husband makes me cry a lot, it turns out. I cry for happiness mostly, but once in a while it's out of fear of losing any of mine. I can't imagine life ever ever having the meaning and peace that it does without them all in it.

I can't explain how I got from point A (wanting my wife magically out of my life) to point B (horrified that anything bad might ever happen to her), but it surely has to do with Christ and positive change.

Perfectionist

I didn't plan to perseverate so much on the difference between my public self and my secret self, but it's just sort of flowed that way. I've appreciated the comments.

Today in the library I happened to see a book that had been pulled from the stacks and set on top of one of the shelves. It was about gifted children and how telling them they're special can sometimes lead to all sorts of problems. If there's one message I took away from my childhood, it was that I am special. And, really, I suppose it was true in a way beyond the standard "every child is special" line. But just as this book seems to warn, I ended up feeling like I had to perform a certain way to measure up. Constantly performing turned my life into a performance.

Perhaps the best therapy for my perfectionism was med school. I learned to be happy with passing rather than acing tests. Very happy. Thrilled. And as much as I hated it, I had to face the fact that I was no longer the brightest person around, no longer a star, no longer "special". It was drilled into me constantly for four years.

I haven't really lost my perfectionism, but it has been thoroughly tempered. I'm okay with failure in a way that I've never been before. I'm okay with faults. I'm okay with personal fallibility. I can even honestly criticize myself in this blog space--this weird half-life between public and private--most of the time without acquiring bruises that would otherwise make me withdraw.

And while this post is mainly about my past, and what has got me to where I am, I'm happy that I'm in a place that doesn't settle with character flaws but doesn't demand liberation overnight either. I've found the zone well distanced from overly wrought suicidal on the one hand and complacently damned on the other, and it feels sort of... perfect.

When no one is watching

Being duplicitous is a mixed bag. The most obvious effect is that I created a pattern of loosening up my values when nobody was watching. They were still my values, and I still believed in them... but repeatedly edging across the border of behavior's acceptable limit (and never getting caught) allowed me to feel increasingly comfortable with things I should have been ashamed of. Basically, I numbed up my conscience because I was getting all the rewards and no notable negative consequences.

When no one was watching I looked at porn. When no one was watching I considered the possibility of meeting someone for anonymous sex. I started looking at online personals. Somehow, despite that I'm a principled person, I got myself to throw everything I believed temporarily away while I flirted with arousing alternative options. I lost track of what was really off limits by repeatedly violating my own standards. Would I then stop with looking? Would I stop with kissing? Would I stop anywhere? Yes, probably, but nothing was certain when I was (am?) my other self.

There have been some good things from duplicity. I didn't throw away my faith in the name of being "authentic". Sure, avoiding duplicity is a good thing, but not necessarily if the approach is to kill the virtuous part of myself and declare the licentious part the "real" me. People still treat me as if I am a principled person, so I believe them. And, yes, my mistakes represent the "real" me in a sense, but not the me I want to become or the me I believe that I am most fundamentally. Perpetually reinventing myself as a better person rather than accepting whatever "realities" may be is the province of repentance and a principle that I try to let guide my life.

For better or for worse, I don't want other people to define me. I want to define myself. And because I know the self I want to be, it would be nice if I had the personal integrity and strength to always behave the same way when I'm alone that I would if my parents were standing next to me.

The duplicitous guy

I remember being at a friend's house when a movie was on that had an extended nude scene. I excused myself (in, I think, a completely non-self-righteous way) and walked home with my brother. I felt good about being the "good" kid, but I knew that I really had wanted to watch that scene. If only there hadn't been all those other people there that I had to be example for, I subconsciously thought, I could have had a look.

The same scenario played out in other situations. Our family would be watching a movie, and I would support the decision to fast-forward a sex scene or tut disparagingly at a nude scene... unless I was alone. When I was alone I could indulge my curiosity.

I tried not to look into the lockers in middle school where I knew kids had nasty Vanna White pinups... but I flipped through medical books and National Geographic mags to have a look at nudies as long as nobody was watching.

I think this duplicitous nature was directly caused by always trying to appear the "good" boy for my folks. They rewarded me with praise and love for all my good choices, so it seemed (however incorrectly) that I had to keep up appearances. I even excused myself for the show of righteousness because I knew my parents were having trouble with my brothers and sisters and would congratulate me for the good decisions I had made. I didn't want to disturb them more than they were, I thought.

It's easy to imagine how a kid who would never look at porn when anyone was around could suddenly be way over his head once the Internet solved the privacy and access problems for me. I ended up becoming very skilled at covering my tracks on the computer. I was enlisted to monitor others' use and once discovering a fellow RA had viewed porn on our office computer and once caught the Elders' Quorum president at it in the library. I was keenly aware of my hypocrisy, but I wasn't going to volunteer a confession either.

Even now I think the privacy issue and the trap of easy access are key to my addiction and recovery.

The nice guy

I'm thinking about my life and I think I've always sort of taken on the role of the nice guy. I've always known this, but never really thought about how it plays into all the nooks and crannies of my life. I used to date girls who otherwise never would have dated. I used to befriend guys that didn't really have any other friends. I was the guy in school who was nice to everyone, but never quite felt like I deserved the respect of the kids I admired the most.

I figured my best chance of belonging was with the nerdy kids--the smart ones and the musicians. I fit right in with those "band fags"--the kids that held hands in a circle and shared inspirational thoughts before each performance. Like angels with one wing, we told each other, we had to embrace to fly. So, there we were, pimply skinny nerds, hugging and feeling loved. It was good stuff.

On the academic front, I always felt like I didn't measure up to the really smart cool kids. I still remember with a chuckle the time I took a standardized test and was so afraid that I would do so poorly that my smart friends would make fun of me, and then I inadvertently scored higher than anyone in my school had scored in years. I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't been scared of rejection. Hee.

I think being nice gave me a bit of an unrealistic view of myself and how I should interact with others. I thought I had to always defer to the needs of everyone else and that I had to prove perpetually and always that I was a "good" kid. It made it hard for me when I needed some space to figure things out, but didn't feel like I could ever be honest enough with my parents (or my friends!) to show my vulnerabilities. So I just weathered it alone most of the time.

Life was lonely and secret and motivated by a mix of generosity, kindness, secret failure, and overall a show of having things all together.

A Congregation of One, part 8

Landon. That’s who I am. But what part of that identity is necessary? What parts, if taken away would make me cease to be myself? I love my family, and I don’t want to do anything to hurt them or jeopardize the beautiful life we share. We are happy. And that happiness comes from many things, but chief among them is my faith that being married and having children is a situation that will persist outside this world and beyond death—something that I believe is impossible for me in a gay relationship. This decision for myself on how to deliberately address my cognitive dissonance in what I hope is the most honorable way is constantly called into question by life. By family. By peers at school. By yearnings that influence my actions like marionette strings.

And yet, I sit quietly at the back of the gay Mormon congregation. Everyone else may get up and leave. The chapel may fall down around me. But I have the authenticity I seek. The personal insight. The affirmation that what I am doing is acceptable before both myself and God.

Index for A Congregation of One
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part 2
part 3
part 4
part 5
part 6
part 7
part 8

A Congregation of One, part 7

I wasn’t particularly surprised to find the Planned Parenthood presenter a bit off-putting. The last lecturer I remembered from Planned Parenthood staff had played a phone recording from an abortion hotline in which a young woman wailed about the physician who had turned her away. This was the type of thing that brought people to attempt abortions on themselves with coat hangers, we were told. Valid point, certainly, but perhaps she could have emphasized it more with bright lights shining in my face after a period of sleep deprivation.

There was no attempt to address the elephant in the room—what were physicians to do when their personal values held performing an abortion to be immoral? Ignore or change their values? It was an interesting question that was smoothly bypassed giving the impression there was only one answer—physicians were to put aside their personal issues in the best interests of the patient.

Now, this new Planned Parenthood lecturer had asserted with complete finality that reparative therapy had been shown to be “ineffective, unnecessary, and harmful.” In an e-mail I requested primary sources for this claim. He directed me to the American Psychiatric Association’s position statement on the topic. I responded by quoting their position statement: “To date, there are no scientifically rigorous outcome studies to determine either the actual efficacy or harm of ‘reparative’ treatments.” Changing tacks, he asked why I was so interested in the topic. I replied that I was concerned that science and not politics inform our medical education. Then, he wanted to know why I was bringing politics into the discussion at all.

Why indeed. There’s nothing political about homosexuality. Oh no, nothing at all.

He suggested if I had further questions to direct them to the course directors. I did, but I never heard back. I didn’t really expect to. I had spent hours and hours—collectively, probably days—filling out evaluation forms, but I had never received any indication that my feedback on sensitive issues was heard or appreciated. Sure, when I suggested they change the date of a test it was given some thought. But when I evaluated FCP’s sexuality course, I imagined they had done the opposite of my suggestion the following year just to spite me.

So, again, I was left to wonder about reparative therapy all on my own. Was it just “psychobabble”, as one of my psychiatry mentors had derisively dismissed it? Irresponsible and unethical therapists preying on desperate gay men with nowhere else to turn, now exploiting guilt and shame to promote their own political agenda while ignoring the diabolical risks of failure, despair, and suicide?

Please. I couldn’t believe the pervasive ignorance on the subject among the ivory tower that was my medical school. I had read some books, and they made sense to me. I had a friend who was undergoing reparative therapy and he seemed far happier than before. I had been referred to a reparative therapist for myself, and he claimed to be a man who had changed his sexual orientation many years before. He had written a book about his experience. I read it. I doubted. I hoped. I wondered.

Was this my coat hanger? Too bad the APA had encouraged therapists to turn me away, to attempt to abort my homosexuality in a closet at home with nobody to watch for side effects. Nobody to mitigate the risks.

Index for A Congregation of One
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part 2
part 3
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part 5
part 6
part 7
part 8

A Congregation of One, part 6

I was not well. Becky, my wife, was in class in the Library and Information Science Lab in the main campus library while I was sitting on a toilet on the second floor. And had been for a while. Oddly, a foot belonging to the man in the next stall inched toward me under the wall. It started tapping slowly and insistently. Deliberately. I recognized the proposition. One of the many skills my 35 grand yearly tuition had paid for. Placing catheters, IV lines, and recognizing anonymous gay sexual propositions.

Human Sexuality was an integral part of the Foundations of Clinical Practice course in medical school. Our small group was visited by a member of “the community” in an educational venture that was criticized by conservative students for its irrelevance and liberal students for its sensational “petting zoo” feel. There we were edified on the definitions and customs of tea rooms, Turkish baths, and “the family” by a middle-aged gentleman who audibly sighed as he expressed his deep regret that barebacking with strangers was no longer safe. When the meeting was over and the physician facilitator was gone, two of my peers began loudly endorsing the lesson, among other things. “I can’t believe people in our class are so narrow-minded. I mean, those guys who left the cerebral palsy video the other day just missed out on the most profound lesson we’ve had in months.” They were referring to an optional video in which sexuality for handicapped individuals was eplicitly explored. During this exchange, the two students steadied their gaze far away from me—a subtle clue that this conversation was being broadcast in my direction. They knew I was Mormon. And, I doubted the fact had escaped them that I was one of those who excused myself from the video. They didn’t know that my reason was a scheduling conflict. Or that I was gay.

Gay, perhaps, but uninitiated. Thanks to my tea room friend, I knew that the main library second floor bathrooms were once the best place on campus for gay pickups. Ostensibly in the past. And yet, there was the tapping foot.

Had I been tripping gaydar? I knew I had in the past. When I left my long-time girlfriend before coming to medical school, I finally decided to level with her. We sat under the stars on the edge of a playground in Sandy, Utah. The playground felt familiar. It felt as if our whole five-year relationship had happened on a playground. We were giggling children—fun, happy, and platonic. I stammered out an explanation on that night as to why our relationship had never gone anywhere—why she had suffered as I retreated from commitment again and again. She replied that she already knew. She hadn’t always, but she did now.

What tipped her off, I wondered? How many people suspected? Would most people be surprised if they knew, or would it have been like me with Jeremy—a confirmation of what had already been suspected.

The foot tapped.

This was ridiculous. I was in a filthy restroom feeling sick, and yet there was a feral urgency in me that wanted to tap my foot back. Something was inexplicably taking hold of my thoughts and desires. Allowing me to wonder what would happen if I tapped back.

After coming to medical school, my long-time girlfriend moved to Iowa as well. We were soon engaged, then married. We had taken the risk despite the weighty realization that only about 6 or 7 percent of marriages with one gay partner last beyond 7 years. We loved each other enough to move forward. The years being married had been difficult not only because of uni-directional sexual compatibility, but also because of clinical depression on Becky’s part. We made it through the depression and being gay, and we sure as hell were going to make it through the disembodied tapping foot.

I had read on a gay Mormon blog once,

In my studies of relationships, I've come to understand that every pairing, after two years on average, settles into things, and whatever feelings of infatuation they had for one another dissipate and either the union crumbles (if there is no fundament of true friendship and real love) or is replaced by a more profound love (if it is founded on true friendship and love). I avoided that entirely. I don't have to worry that one day I will wake up and not be "in love" with my wife because those twitterpations that convinced me to forge a union with her have dissipated... no. Our love HAD to originate from the real and the profound and the deep swellings of actual interpersonal comprehension and appreciation and real communication and mutual desires for true happiness... the things that LOVE truly is.

A few minutes later, the foot walked past me in the library hall while its head glanced sideways and then steadied its gaze ahead.

Index for A Congregation of One
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part 5
part 6
part 7
part 8

A Congregation of One, part 5

“Landon, when are you going to know where you matched?” Mom asked. The fact she knew so little about my current life was testimony to the ever decreasing phone calls between us. I had always been “special” to her in a way unique from my other brothers and sisters. And yet we were growing apart now. And the hundreds of miles separating us had very little to do with it.

As she jabbered away asking questions and filling me in on all the latest Utah gossip, my mind wandered. I could seldom stay focused in conversations with her.

“… the doctor bills for the surgery, and Meg’s epilepsy, and of course, you know about Adam…”

“Uh, no. What about Adam?”

“Well.” There was a conspiratorial pause. She whispered, “He’s a homosexual.”

I hadn’t known that about Adam. Officially, anyway. “Uh… so?”

“So, you can see how that is a terrible stress on his parents. They beat themselves up about it all the time. And he blames the church,” she finished with resignation.

“Well, I think he needs to be true to himself. If he doesn’t believe in the church then there’s no reason he shouldn’t be doing what he thinks will make him happy. He should be with the person he has chosen to love.” Actually, I didn’t say that. I just wish I had. I don’t remember what I said. But it was probably some numb affirmation. I felt sick.

Index for A Congregation of One
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part 7
part 8

A Congregation of One, part 4

“Landon. I’m not trying to give you a hard time.” Jessica was one of the sweetest people in the world, but she was standing here looking me in the eye and pleasantly telling me that the Christian Medical Association was deliberately discriminating. “We love you and want you to be included. But we can’t show the video.”

My neck itched. The sun glared and I couldn’t see a damn thing. “So, it’s not because of what’s in the video, it’s because of where it’s from.”

“Yes.”

“So, it is discrimination then.”

“Yes… if you insist on thinking of it that way.”

I couldn’t imagine thinking of it any other way. A classmate had offered to bring a completely innocuous Easter video portraying Christ’s life to the Christian Medical Society’s lunch meeting and was flatly denied because he was a Mormon. It had nothing to do with the content of the video and everything to do with who he was.

My mind was numb. I remembered how Mormons weren’t allowed to vote in the 1800s just for believing in a church that opposed anti-polygamy laws—not for what they did, but who they were. And this codified religious bigotry was upheld repeatedly by the U.S. Supreme Court. I remembered that Governor Lilburn Boggs signed an “Extermination Order” making it legal to murder Mormons as a political necessity in Missouri. “...The Mormons must be treated as enemies, and must be exterminated or driven from the State if necessary for the public peace….” After hundreds of lives were lost, the Mormons affably chose to leave the state. The law was on the books into my own lifetime. Where were the Mormon memorials along with the holocaust and native American memorials, I wondered? The only time I had ever heard an acknowledgement of such atrocities was from Mormons themselves, never acknowledged by society at large. I remembered hearing from a hospital secretary that Dean Katz had off-handedly quipped, “It’s no wonder Mormons are persecuted when they keep their temples so exclusionary and secretive.” Did anyone in the whole damn college practice the cultural competence they preached in class?

And here was Jessica, smiling placidly. Golden curls backlit with sunshine. A Christian angel.

I sneezed.

Index for A Congregation of One
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A Congregation of One, part 3

I, a tormented and angst-riddled student, sat in the last computer from the door in my student life lounge as I e-mailed the MEDQ co-presidents a question. MEDQ was the GLBT medical student club. I was feeling lonely and depressed, and I really wanted to talk to someone. I needed more support. Perhaps from peers. Maybe someone who had been there. I wrote:

I've got a quick question for you both. In the spirit of your upcoming "coming out week", I was thinking about my situation and why it is that I feel that I have to keep it private. I'm unique in that I have been attracted exclusively to men my whole life, but I have made the conscious decision not to have gay relationships because of my conservative upbringing. Unfortunately, straight relationships just don’t appeal to me. But that’s the decision I’ve made and I seem to feel discrimination from the gay community for it (not to me personally, since I’m not “out”, but against the idea as “wrong”). So, I was just wondering what the position of the MEDQs is. Is tolerance a buzzword that applies only to gays, or does it apply to those who believe, for themselves, that gay relationships are wrong? Does discrimination apply only to anti-gay discrimination, or does it apply to anti-Christian discrimination for a personal moral position? And does coming out for someone like me have to be just as threatening because I fear how my gay peers will treat me? This is not a tirade and these are not rhetorical questions. I’m really interested to see what you have to say.

The response I received several days later warmed up by quoting the MEDQ mission statement. Then it got straight to the point of politely destroying me. Here is the end of their reply:

We do not believe in discrimination or harassment of any kind. Our group is tailored to providing a supportive environment for GLBT identified or questioning persons in all stages of the coming out process.

We feel that the questions you posed are philosophical questions that you need to answer for yourself, however if you would like to meet with either of us in person to discuss them, we would be happy to do that. We just do not feel that email is a proper forum for these issues.

In other words, go screw yourself. We exchanged one more message each, them remaining firm in their conviction to ignore me unless I met their terms and came “out” to them in person. I thought, how dare they send me their mission statement and then categorically deny it. They seek to “raise awareness of issues concerning GLBT patients and students” unless an issue doesn’t fall in line with their own bias. They promise to “[educate] about healthcare issues specific to GLBT individuals” as long as those healthcare issues are politically aligned with affirming gays. What about the perils of reparative therapy? Who would engage me in a dialog on the subject when I knew damn well that the American Psychiatric Association’s position statement was dripping with political motivation and biased science. Why on that subject do we, as a healthcare industry, seek to dictate to people decisions they should make rather than attempting to minimize the risks of the decisions they have made for themselves? And most reprehensibly the mission statement bellowed, “[provide] a social support network for GLBT and straight people in the College of Medicine” as long as you tow the party line. If you aren’t out and willing to meet face to face though, well, we retract the part where we said “in all stages of the coming out process.”

Also, we hate you.

Index for A Congregation of One
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A Congregation of One, part 2

“Oh, Landon. That shouldn’t have happened.” Bishop Peterson peered intently over his desk. I looked away. For some reason I could never hold eye contact for long these days.

My bishop was a dean in the Law School, and perhaps one of the best men I’ve ever known. The Mormon Church uses a lay ministry—nobody is paid for leading a congregation or for any other work in the church. Consequently, the range in quality and expertise one can find in Mormon bishops is vast. Bishop Peterson was, without a doubt, the most enlightened and genuinely Christ-like bishop I had ever had the privilege of knowing.

My previous bishop had actually been my brother, fourteen years my senior. I had just recounted to Bishop Peterson that while in my brother’s congregation I had met with a church social worker who had recommended counseling to appropriately address my “same sex attraction.” When I showed some concern over the cost, he said the church had a policy to fund such counseling. He would notify my bishop that I had need of counseling services, all while respecting my confidentiality by not disclosing the specific issue, and I wouldn’t have to pay a thing. I agreed. Only a short time later after being “released” from my job in the church teaching the teenage men in the ward did I realize there were probably very few situations that warranted unquestioned subsidization of counseling services by church offerings. Undoubtedly, my release was not coincidental. I had unwillingly been outted to my brother, but not in a way that would ever allow either of us to address it directly. From then on and forever more it would be the elephant in the room.

I have long been very comfortable with my situation. I wouldn’t mind family or church members knowing I’m attracted to men if I could just have a guarantee that they wouldn’t treat me any differently. Some would and some wouldn’t. So I see no benefit and plenty of risk. And I wouldn’t mind my gay friends knowing that I’ve chosen to be married and have a conventional family because of my religion if I could just guarantee that they would be understanding and supportive and wouldn’t try to “out” me for my own good. Or do something worse. There are bigots on both ends of the conservative-liberal spectrum. I was safe from neither.

“Well, bishop, it’s okay. I understand nobody meant it to happen that way.”

“Well, I think it’s inexcusable. However you decide to deal with this, I’m so glad you are willing to let me help bear this burden. I’m here for you to talk to whenever you may need it. And I’ll try to think if there’s anything else I can do.” He paused and leaned back in his chair. “I obviously don’t have any training in this area, but I want to help however I can.”

Unlike some encounters I had heard of between gay Mormons and their bishops, mine had been wonderful. I actually felt better about myself walking out of the room than I did walking in. I felt like a courageous person who was dealing admirably with a challenge that few could ever understand—not just being gay, but being gay and Mormon simultaneously. Really gay and really Mormon. I was managing.

Index for A Congregation of One
part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
part 5
part 6
part 7
part 8

A Congregation of One, part 1

I jotted some experiences down while I was in medical school and I've been meaning to share them for some time. They make a loosely connected narrative of my experience in the last several years making a serial pseudo-story. I thought since I'm quite busy right now and unable to post much or comment much on other blogs, I'd take this opportunity to share.

A Congregation of One

I feel like I’m in a place a little left of reality. Or a little right. I’m happy. And conflicted. Mormon and gay. I’ve been discriminated against by gays and Christians, Mormons and doctors, conservatives and liberals. I belong nowhere. I’m a middle class white male. I’m a minority among minorities.

_________

“Landon. Come on.” She gave me that look. The head slightly tilted and cocked eyebrow that screams, “How oblivious are you?”

After a pause: “Jeremy.” Yeah. That made sense. The New Med News article in which he defensively railed on religious bigotry directed toward gays was the tip off. I took the revelation in stride and just said, “Yeah, I had an idea on that one.” It was down time on the wards and our political banter had led to gay marriage and then to gays in our class. I, clueless as a rule, didn’t know any gay class members. Or, rather, I didn’t know who they were.

But now I did. I had speculated as much since meeting Jeremy for the first time as we both sat waiting for Sacrament Meeting in the local Mormon congregation for single students. Mormons are odd like that—divvying up congregations by demographics. Our unknowing congregation of two had settled near the back. Despite that we both had attended BYU, we both had majored in the humanities, and we were both in the same med school class, we never hit it off as well as I would have liked. We were always friendly, but where I was the ardent Mormon, he was the skeptic and seemed reluctant to appreciate someone so willing to fall in line with the saints.

“Hey Jeremy, great article.” I said one day just entering Epperson Research Building from the CCOMF bridge.

“Thanks.”

“I sort of disagreed with a few things, but overall I loved it.”

His face fell slightly. “Interesting. Like what?” We chatted. It was a great discussion. What neither of us knew, but perhaps both suspected, was that each of us secretly being in the gay Mormon congregation had clarified our reasoning on this topic. We both had insights perhaps beyond what you would expect from a typical Christian or a typical queer. We ended up e-mailing on the topic to pick up where we left off the spontaneous exchange.

And then, there I was receiving confirmation during our pediatrics down time. I felt a little cheap. Like a fourth grader wanting to hear who liked who—but unwilling to fess up to his own crushes. Coming out, even though not directly to me, had signaled shifting loyalty in my friend. Or, at least, clarified his long-standing loyalty. My congregation was now officially a congregation of one.

Index for A Congregation of One
part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
part 5
part 6
part 7
part 8

No regrets

I wrote last about a regret I have from my past. Today, being what I am, I want to write about a near miss--a regret I don't have.

I was on a business trip in New Orleans, and as is often the case I found myself mesmerized by the amazing looking men all around me. Bourbon Street was a modestly interesting diversion, but my friends knew I was Mormon and assumed I wasn't interested in more. I probably surprised them with my laid back approach to things they were sure I would find offensive. Later in the trip I excused myself from the bar we were in for some fresh air, and I headed to the gay bars at the far end of the street.

I had never been in a gay bar before, and it took some courage to overcome my reservations. But I could see through the door exactly what I wanted at that moment--hot dancers. Long story made short and boring: I went in, I made some friends, I got pretty hot and bothered and ended up a few hours later in line for admission to a so-called "Turkish Bath". I didn't know exactly what was behind those doors, but I knew it would be gratifying, and at this point someone could have brushed me with a feather and made me explode.

After waiting several minutes in line and speaking briefly to the anonymous older man standing near me in line, I realized how out of control (and out of character!) this was for me. Some younger guys came in and took their place behind me in line. I realized that I was attracted to them, and for the first time in my life, here was an immediate opportunity to actually follow through on that attraction.

I walked away. And I told my wife. And life was hell right after that, as you can probably imagine. And now, quite a bit later, I am very happy I had the courage to choose the path I did. I exchanged the long term regret of having gone in, for the lesser and immediate regret of not getting off that night. And the pattern of exchanging gay regrets for family regrets has brokered me quite a good life currently. I have a beautiful little son who I can't get enough of, and an open-minded and brilliant wife who is as understanding as she is hilarious. And for this, I have no regrets.

Regrets

Something very very very good happened to me today. I found out where I will be spending the next five years of my life--where I matched for residency. And that place is on the East Coast in an area I'm crazy about, doing exactly what I want to do, getting paid for it (gainful employment has been avoiding me for a long time), and, in short, living my dreams.

It reminds me, actually, of a quote from John Barrymore: "A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams." I'm not that old, although sometimes I feel like it. And I still have plenty of dreams!

But, unfortunately, I do have some regrets mixed in there. I regret that I spent all that time volunteering instead of masturbating... no wait, that's not it. Seriously now, I regret losing a friend. My roommate from college was my best friend for years. We were "joined at the hip" and everyone said our names in rapid succession--never one without the other, but I haven't heard from him in over 5 years (since starting med school). I've heard about him--we still keep in touch with mutual acquaintances--but we don't speak anymore. And we probably never will.

Let's call my friend Ben. Ben and I loved each other in a completely appropriate, beautiful way. When I was busy being stressed out about my thesis, he would make me dinner or rub my shoulders. When he was under the wire I would help him with his laundry or whatever. We became the kind of friends that shared everything, could usually complete the other's sentences.

It was when I was his roommate that I decided to explore my gay side--although I was 'out' to nobody. I went on a date with a guy I met online. I was looking at porn. I was thinking about the possibility of moving my life in that direction. But I didn't. I never once thought there was even a remote possibility of being with Ben, since he was straight and was very into the church.

Long story made short and boring--we became so close that the backrubs turned into full body massages, turned into making out, turned into both of us going to see the bishop. I won't give you the mechanics of it all, but I still believe he's straight, it was just an odd thing you do with someone you trust who let's you down because of selfishness (that would be me doing the letting down). Once we worked it out, we ended up getting into trouble a couple more times. Never anything "serious," but enough that Ben decided we couldn't be around each other anymore. And that was it.

And I regret that.

Now, I hope that I am wise enough to see that although there are many beautiful, wonderful, desirable things in my path, only measured care and the advice of Someone who knows will help me to discern which will have untoward consequences, and which are really worth pursuing. I see mistakes made all the time, I just hope they can be avoided by myself and those I love. And I sincerely believe I love many of you who will read this.

My Wife Rocks!

After nearly slipping into a coma after reading my last thoughtful post about Mormonism, I decided to go a different direction for now. Unfortunately, my life seems pretty darn boring most of time, so I either have to make stuff up or go with the stuff you would never hear from me in person--you know, the juicy bits. I'll go with the latter.

Being gay means I have a hard time reciprocating my wife's sexual interests. I'm pretty much on the gay end of the Kinsey scale. And that, as I'm sure you can imagine, complicates life. But far from the gay Mormon man's marriage portrayed in HBO's Angels in America, ours is a lot more fun, understanding, and yes, even sexy.

I grew up feeling extremely sexually repressed. I never stole glances. I never looked at porn when another kid had it. And I never played doctor (maybe that explains my decision to go to med school... ha!). Which is why I find it really surprising that my wife and I are so comfortable with all things sexual. We talk about everything. She knows how I feel, she knows about porn, she knows about everything. It's too bad I couldn't have told her several years earlier that I was gay and then I wouldn't have broken her heart repeatedly at BYU when I never managed to take our relationship to the "next level". I didn't want to get too close and hurt her, but she was already closer than I ever imagined. She wasn't surprised when I told her I was gay. And she didn't care.

She's the best wife a gay Mormon could ever ask for! She's more gay friendly than I am. Her best friend in high school was a gay guy. Her best friend in college came out at BYU and has been a happy lesbian ever since. And then there's me. The queer guy she fell in love with before she knew I was gay.

Unfortunately, (and you all probably saw this coming) the marriage and honeymoon haven't been as smooth as we both hoped it would be sexually. I couldn't "finish" sex without resorting to hands for the first six months of marriage. I even went to a doctor about it (the dimwit). It got better over time and as we became more honest with ourselves and each other.

As has been observed in other blogs, the Mormon church is big on the prohibitions to gays, but not so big in the area of advice and creative solutions to the problem. So we're trying to work this marriage out the best way we can think of. She says she just wants me to be happy--she would even divorce me for my own happiness if I really thought that's what it would take to make me happy. But I assure her it is not. What will make me happy is her and our family. Other than the sex, it's a dream come true.

Knowing that I'm turned on by guys, we tried to think of acceptable ways to modify our sex life. My wife suggested we film ourselves having sex because she knows I like watching people have sex. Unfortunately, I would rather watch nice looking people have sex, so that didn't really work too well. She offered to let me masturbate whenever I want--as long as she's there. We even once discussed having a threesome with a man. Oooh la-la. My goody-goody side vetoed that one in a typically confounded gay Mormon way. I figured we would both enjoy it and it would probably serve some of the ostensible churchy purposes of sex--making us closer--but because I thought it would be bad for the third party's spirituality I regrettably nixed (I sure saved that whore, didn't I?).

I never did manage to get her to offer to watch porn with me. Now that would be the best of both worlds! We could both watch some hot guy peeling off his clothes and both be satisfied. Right? Well, when it comes down to it, she's turned on by me and she wants me to be turned on by her. She knows she can't expect it, but I can tell that's what she really wants.

So for now, we live as the odd couple. Me leaning conservative, her liberal. Me having voted for Bush (dumbass that I am), her for Kerry. Me reluctant to endorse gay rights issues, her vehemently outspoken in favor of them. Me married to her partly because of my faith, her with a wavering testimony and supporting gay affirmation.

I love this lady and I can't imagine living without her! But I want to have sex with every non-obese 20-something male I see with reasonable hygiene. So, what's with the paradox? If, like her, I didn't believe in the church and believed in affirmation I wouldn't have even married her! We help each other through our respective trials, and ultimately, I'm really happy with that. So happy, it's probably worth not having the best sex.

Probably the most amazing thing about it is that our relationship has been the result of a lot of deliberate work. I think it's something I could have built with a man, perhaps more easily, but I didn't. And now I've got what I've got. I think the term "making love" should refer to what my wife and I do on a regular basis that has nothing to do with sex--increase our love through conscious effort. At certain times, I could wish my troubles on everyone, because this is a good life. And reflecting on what Elbow recently said about growing old with a gay companion, I see my wife as the best companion imaginable. Now it's just a matter of what to do about the sex... anyone want to come over for a threesome?