Many moons go by without a flicker of shame or insecurity about who I am or the identity that is recognizable by my name. I stand proud and justified with the people who stood before me fighting and clawing to be understood and seen as equals. But sometimes the moon and sun stay away too long, casting a voided night on my soul. My guard fades away and my armor that I’ve had with me for a long time feels heavy.
Smells of iron oxide waft with anger to my nose and my skin pinches between chain links and buckles. A word written in blood hovers in the dark sky “Straight”. I taste the O negative omen as it lingers on the top of my tongue, trying to trick the toxicity of society down my throat like a spoonful of expired cough medicine. On those days I try not to swallow. I try to grit my teeth and let the metal spoon scrape against my incisors, clinking and clanking, the nerves send short zaps to my jaw, my toes curl and hands ball into fists, clenching and shaking. And yet some days it makes it in.
The wallow of self-pity and “normality” begin to sink in and spread like the virus it is. The fever of loathing and depression rise, 102.7 degrees Fahrenheit to be exact. Too sick to move, too hot to touch, like radioactive waste. My thoughts spread to my insides and my organs become confused as to what they are doing here if I am not me.
“What if I was straight?”
“Why can’t I be normal, why can’t I be straight?”
“Can you make me straight God? I know I’ve asked a thousand times. But can you do it today? Just once? Just for a minute? Even a few seconds? Can you make me how I was supposed to be made? I know the world is broken God. I know we are fallen, God. But can you fix me? Because I’ve tried everything. I’ve tried loving you the best I could, I fought battles for you, I’ve done everything you’ve asked. Can you do this thing for me? Can you change me? Please?”
“If you do this, it’ll all be okay. People will see this as a win. People will understand that I’m close to you. Because some people can’t see that I’m close to you because of this thing. Some people don’t believe I love you because of this thing. It’s just this one thing. One thing. You can blink and create universes and galaxies. The least you could do is sniff or cough my gay away. It’s so simple.”
“Do you hear me? I’ve tried thought practices and praying and abstaining and refraining and hating and crying and praying and praying and praying and trying and trying. I’ve had to look at people as they told me I wasn’t close enough to you and that I stopped trying to get rid of this thing because I was afraid. I’m not afraid. I’ll do anything. You want my hand, have it, you want my sight, take it. I just need this to go away. Please. Take it from me. Please. Please. Please.”
My voice empties into the abyss. The silence wraps around me like a freezing blanket, I clench my teeth and think to myself, “Who am I trying to love? Jesus or the Christian community? Who am I trying to love, the community or myself? Who am I trying to be? Me? Or a version they want to see?”
And then as these questions fade away, the bloodstained cloud drifts and the sun rises on my tear stricken face. My bony body rises from the grave I unknowingly dug myself into, dirt falls from my shoulders and tumbles down to the ground sending upturned earth fragrances into my nostrils. I jump, my arms hitting the ledge, my hands grasping damp cold soil, I yank and pull myself out, heaving my now naked battle torn body across the dewed lawn.
I catch my breath and stand, knees wobbling, saggy skin shaking and waving from the vapid rapid loss of dignity. I peer into my own gravesite and I see the words “You didn’t try hard enough” etched into the forsaken coffin.
But I close my eyes and take a deep gasp of air. I reply slowly, through quivering lips and thin cheeks, “Expectations aren’t always reality.” I spat, the saliva bomb burst the tomb into pieces like a bursting grenade, sending wooden shrapnel and dust overhead.
I turned and limped away, back to my life. I whispered to myself, “It was a hard day to be gay.”
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