It can never be said that I didn’t do everything I possibly could to keep people from knowing. I dressed the part, adopted the mannerisms, and made all of the comments generally associated with a typical heterosexual male. I did everything right. There was just one problem; I was gay.
I was raised in a non-traditional Catholic family, living with my mom and step-father and their two children in Walton, a small town in upstate New York, in the valley of the Catskill Mountains. My dad and step-mother lived in New Jersey. I was able to visit my dad frequently enough, at holidays and summers and special occasions. My parents were officially divorced when I was in third grade. I’ve heard that there is a certain burden of guilt that is carried by a child of divorce; I was lucky enough to have escaped that, realizing that a divorce is sometimes the best thing for a family.
Living in a small rural town had its ups and downs. It seemed as if no one had any privacy, as gossip spread quickly, not only through our school system, but through our entire community. The one thing that can be said for life in the country, though, is that everyone knows everyone else. I can say that there were 100 people in my graduating class. I knew each and every student that was in my grade, and that makes me smile. There’s just a certain camaraderie that goes with a small school. While this is an opportunity for many to truly express themselves, I often found myself feeling trapped by the size of my town.
I try to look back and remember the first time that I realized that I was gay. I surely have to look further back than high school, and middle school. I know for a fact that I expressed homosexual tendencies as early as elementary school.
Before living in Walton, I did live in New Jersey, and it was there I first realized that I was gay, around the age of 6 or 7. It was never a big deal for me; I just knew that I would rather look at boys than at girls.
It would confuse me, though, that my parents were always setting up play-dates for me with a little girl named Katie. I figured they just wanted me to have a friend, so that’s what I thought we became. Katie would come over to my house and we’d do homework together, and things were fine. One day, though, Katie asked if she could kiss me. I did what every young boy, regardless of sexual orientation, has done since the beginning of time. I kindly explained to her that I would not be kissing her, because she, of course, had cooties, and I certainly didn’t want them. Looking back now, I can see that this was really the place where I started to think of reasons why I chose not to be intimate with one girl or another. Katie was confused, but I told her that I just wanted to be friends.
Flash forward to high school. At that specific point in my life, the majority of my friends were male. This was by chance. I didn’t pick my friends; we all just kind of found each other. I was always on edge, though, feeling that perhaps I would show some sign of attraction to another guy, or give even the slightest of hints in regards to my sexual orientation, and that my carefully constructed façade would crumble, exposing my true self to the people around me. I did what I felt I had to do in order to protect myself from criticism, and shield myself from ignorance.
In reality, there were probably many options that I could have pursued that would have ensured that my secret was kept. In my mind, though, my options were few. I looked around and saw that the men who were most accepted in the community were the men who were in a relationship. Men with girlfriends couldn’t be gay, not only in my eyes, but as I saw it, in the eyes of our society.
It was with great hesitation that I entered my first long-term relationship with a girl. Her name was Megan, and I genuinely can say that I loved her. She was tall, with long brown hair and a gorgeous set of eyes. I loved being with her, talking to her on the phone, going to the movies, generally spending time with her. However, I felt no sexual attraction to her. And this is through no fault of hers, must I say. I simply felt no desire to pursue things on a sexual level. For a brief period of time, though, I actually thought that being with her was what I wanted. I realized that what I really sought in Megan was a friend with whom I could do all of the things that friends would do.
We were together on and off for a span of close to three years, leading up to my entrance into high school. I did the things with Megan that I thought a boyfriend and a girlfriend should be doing. I did everything right. I kissed her when she wanted to be kissed, held her when she needed to be held, lent a shoulder when the days were hard, and did the romantic things that I thought would make her happy; the highest point of our relationship was undoubtedly the surprise picnic I planned to celebrate the one year anniversary of our first kiss, with all of the foods present that we had eaten on the eve of that kiss.
I was a good boyfriend. Megan was a good girlfriend. Everything should have been fantastic. It wasn’t, and I can identify this time as one of the loneliest time periods in my life. I had never felt more alone or unsure of myself than when I was in this relationship. I was bottling in everything that I felt in my heart, denying myself the freedom that truth would bring, all in the hopes of keeping some semblance of order in a life that was anything but ordered. This was not a pleasant way to live, but in my situation, it was the only way.
The idea to be honest about my true feelings was never a realistic possibility for me. I guess that I was afraid to tell Megan the truth for a multitude of reasons. I was nervous that she would be upset with me that I had “led her on” for so long a period. I was scared that she wouldn’t want to talk to me again.
I was also unwilling to give those people with suspicions regarding my sexuality the benefit of having been right the entire time. Sure, people suspected that I was gay, but I would vehemently deny any accusation. After all, I had a girlfriend, didn’t I? And men with girlfriends weren’t gay.
Nonetheless, after almost three years of a relationship, one that was founded on the basis of self-protection and security, I decided that the right thing to do would be to end my “romantic” involvement with Megan. I didn’t give my sexual orientation as a reason for my decision, but I did say that I needed to explore my sense of self, and I felt I wasn’t able to do that while I was in a relationship. Megan said that she was disappointed, but that we all have a little exploration to do in order to decide who we are inside. I only wonder now if perhaps, deep inside, Megan understood after all.
After our September break-up in freshman year, I never dated another girl for the rest of high school.
I had no plans to tell the friends I made in high school the truth about the person that I was inside. I made the decision in middle school, realizing that my town was not a place where homosexuality was tolerated. My secret would be kept. And, for the most part, I kept that promise to myself.
There were so many times, though, that I just wanted to scream the truth as loud as I possibly could, regardless of the consequences. This is a feeling that is common to homosexual men that have not yet “come out of the closet.” As I have described previously, the closeted homosexual lifestyle can sometimes be one of great loneliness. Speaking from personal experience, a closeted homosexual man is constantly on the defensive, always choosing his words deliberately and meticulously. The ramifications of being “out” in our society is a scary thought, judging by the experiences of young gay men who have come before us. One needs only to look to Matthew Shepard, a young man whose life was taken from him based solely on the fact that he was gay, to see why gay men are hesitant to be truthful with the world.
I know that in my personal story, I would definitely classify my actions as defensive. Everything I said had to be carefully constructed to give the impression that I was straight, because I was simply too scared to admit to people that I was gay. Being surrounded with female friends should have been easier than being around guys. And, it was. But it was still very trying; I don’t think the word “exhausting” would be too much of an exaggeration, in retrospective.
I had friends that were guys, though, with whom I would spend time. These were the most stressful of times. Suddenly, it seemed as if all that was discussed was who had accomplished what with whom. As sexual stories amounted, I felt the need to be a part of this, and I would make up stories about girls that I had done things with. Always the avid storyteller, no one ever suspected that I was being dishonest about my sexual encounters.
I was not honest about my true feelings; I, in fact, was dishonest, in the sense that I would go out of my way to make people believe that I was heterosexual. Making sexually explicit comments to my male friends became a way of life. Instead of having them see that I was uncomfortable with talking about girls, they saw that I was very eager; discomfort was quickly mistaken for the normal sexually-laced conversations of teenage boys.
I don’t know if I can blame this period of my life on anyone but myself. My friends surely didn’t force me to make sexually charged comments about girls; they didn’t put pressure on me to respond to their stories of sexual conquests. I guess this was a direct result of my own insecurities. Everyone wants to be a part of something, to fit in. The desire to shape myself into someone that fit in was overwhelming. And I wanted so badly to have close friendships with guys; I thought the only way to do that was to make myself into the person that was most similar to them. Making the conscious choice to lie about my past had a direct determination on my future. The more stories I spun, the harder it would be to eventually tell people that I was gay.
Conformity is a hard thing to deal with, for it strips away all sense of individuality, takes away the very essence of a person. When I look back to high school, I realize that I’m not sure who I was. I’d like to think that my sense of self was very developed, but how is that possible when I never voiced the feelings I carried inside?
Zoom in now on June 2003. I graduated from high school. I had made it. Whether the bearing of my cross is seen as positive or negative, it was nonetheless a success. I had made it through school with no one learning that I was gay. For close to twelve years, I was able to keep a secret about myself from everyone. I should have been thrilled that no one knew, for I had recognized my feelings long before graduation, set a goal of silence, and accomplished that goal. It should have been a proud moment. But with the silence that all too often accompanies homosexuality, silence is not a proud thing, it is hurtful. I had strategically misled everyone that was close to me over the course of many years, people who were truthful with me, had shared all of their secrets with me. I was lying to my best friends, and there was no way that I could find any pleasure in that.
I decided that I would tell my friends over the summer, that I would finally let them in. This was a decision that I came to rather easily after graduation. I knew that I could not come out of the closet while I was in high school. As sad as it is to say, my school was not open to the idea of homosexuality. People were judgmental, prejudiced, and unable to accept anyone that was outside of their scope of understanding.
This was not only true for the students with which I attended school; this was true for many of the faculty as well. It was common knowledge that there were several teachers that were vocal proponents of equality, teachers that would do anything to see that all students felt as if they were an integral part of bettering our school system. On the other hand, though, there were teachers who were very closed-minded, teachers that I know harbored suspicions of my homosexuality, and treated me accordingly.
My high school was very proud of our football team, and any guy that didn’t fit into the stereotypical “jock” category was always treated a little differently than those who did.
High school was not the place for me to come out. But when high school was over, I didn’t see any visible roadblocks to finally opening up to my friends. I made the decision that I would get my closest friends together and tell them my story, from start to finish.
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