Obsidian: The Dark Side of Healing

Part I: The Homo Hater

Can two things be true at the same time? My answer is yes. You don’t believe me? I am both happy and terrified to be writing this. Two conflicting emotions exist within me. Happiness. Fear. You might be reading this out of curiosity, but you might also be tired. Two conflicting emotions. I am a gay who hates being gay. Two separate emotions.

The emotions themselves are not bad. The conflict that they cause however, leaves a bad taste in our mouths. It creates a narrative and sometimes that narrative doesn’t make any sense. I don’t make any sense. A gay who hates being gay. A woman who hates women. A “Christian,” who hates God. Conflicting. Oxymorons if you will.

In my healing I have learned that I am all these things. I am a plethora of broken pieces stuffed onto a puzzle board. I don’t know what it is I am looking at. However, I do know how I got here. My hope is that by telling my secrets, I can find peace by facing my fear. I want to examine my inner turmoil, not be a victim to it. In this process, I hope you find strength in my strain. Hope in my tears. Love. I hope you find love. For yourself. For others. For whoever you call God.

The first thought I ever had of liking a fellow female was in third grade. We were standing in line, and I couldn’t stop looking at the seat of her pants. I wanted to touch. I wanted to know what her skin felt like. I remember clutching my head in the bathroom, trying to get rid of the thoughts. It’s funny how shame is innate in all of us. Girls are for boys.

You might think that third grade is a bit young for a girl to have her sexuality pinned, right? Not necessarily. I’d been speaking the language of adults in love for many years before that. There were instances with neighbors, boys on the playground, groups of students in the basement at the neighborhood babysitter, and then some. I was well versed before I should’ve been. That is no one’s fault but the worlds. A truth in most communities is that our children know more than we think they do.

From that first incident I don’t recall much. I was young and my childhood was painful. I recall being beaten for being smart, bullied for being black and fat, and ostracized for being different. How much more different could a girl take? How much more could a sore thumb stick out? I was tired, so I told no one. I ignored it for as long as I could.

I still harbored crushes for teachers and pretty girls with nice eyes. I would run from them, enjoying the thrill of having a crush. I would get shy when a specific teacher would pop into a room to assist. So much so, that I’d climb beneath tables to be away from her. Really, the closet was made of glass to anyone who had a bottle of windex. If you know you know.

September two thousand nine is when I found a safe place. Lady Gaga had just done her infamous performance of “Paparazzi,” at the VMAs. I’d stayed up against my mother’s wishes and watched it. I had never been more amazed. Here was a woman as strange as strange could get. Yet, she owned it. She showed it off, even.

Here began my obsession. Being a little monster made me proud to be odd, proud to be awkward, proud to be gay. I didn’t know it was all about to change.

My father and I had a touch and go kind of relationship. I don’t recall much about him from my younger years except the horrors that I would experience. The things that would shape me in fear. He and his new wife were freshly Christian. Holy Ghost filled and things. They told me things that no one knew. They knew about me and that was a relief on its own.

I moved in with them eventually. They would probably look at those moments as a triumph. For me, it is when my life went to absolute garbage. Lady Gaga was demonic. Being gay was a sin. Despite already having heard this all my life, it was solidified with them.

Young girls should be feminine and soft. They should not wear boys’ clothes. I was made for a man. I have a hole and he has something that goes into it. I am to be soft and take care of my skin. Tis’ the way of life, no? To be a woman made for a man. No, to be a woman made for God to give to a man.

I buttoned up. I wore the dresses and felt cute in them once I lost some weight. I did the girly things. No matter how hard I tried though, I still frothed at the mouth when a girl walked by in a short skirt. I still couldn’t help but feel affection for the girl who lived on my block. Each time I was found out I was admonished with scriptures. Told that “One day I’d be free.”

I began looking forward to that day. My prayer for the gay to go away was constant. I wanted to wake up and find a man attractive enough to love. Until then, I’d pretend. In two thousand thirteen I went home to mom. In two thousand fourteen I went back to my dad.

Despite hating it so much the first time, I was a devout Christian girl. I failed my father and his wife in ways I couldn’t explain. I wanted a second chance at redemption. I wanted it to work well this time. It didn’t and the gay didn’t go away. I was sent to Job Corps. An all-girls school in the mountains of Marion, Virginia.

I fell in love with a girl within 24 hours of arriving, despite promising myself, God, and my parents I would maintain my manufactured straightness. The rest is history. I’ve told you this story because it is relevant. I’ve told you this story because it is mine. Against all the odds I am here and queer. I am twenty-six years old now. I still can’t shake the voices.

It is a shame, really. The way society and religious concepts will cause more problems than they are meant to. My father and my stepmother believed they were doing the righteous thing. Rescue the child from their abrasive mother and their lonely evenings. Give her structure. Give her understanding of the Bible. Give her God. God. God. I won’t fault them entirely because I needed to be seen.

However, I think they failed in the one area they needed to succeed. They gave me religion. They taught me how my sexuality was a sin. How I was a filthy rag and needed polishing. How I was unstructured, selfish, immature, and the like. They failed to give me love. Which was and is still the greatest commandment.

Instead, they assisted me in piling up reasons for my demise. Along with my mother, who knew no better. I don’t believe they purposely caused me harm but that does not make it sting any less. It does not make the night I wanted to put a gun in my mouth any less real. It does not make the panic attacks about hell go away.

I exist in a constant state of stress and hatred. I know that I want to marry a woman. Yet, I cannot think about it without feeling guilty. I cannot enjoy it without feeling incorrect. I cannot breathe. I cannot fathom that despite having a good heart, loving God with all that I am, and being good to other people I am still doomed.

The thing is. I don’t know if I believe that anymore. I don’t know that God would be so cruel. To believe that being gay is a sin is to believe that being anything outside of societies standards is a sin. Was Christ not an outlaw? Was he not a vagabond? Did they not call him a devil? He that was holy? Does God not command us to love as Christ loved the church? Unto death?

Most people would agree, but they would say we are to love God so much that our wants and our desires fall to the wayside. While I believe some of that is true, I think people think less of God than they ought to. I think Creator put our dreams into our bellies. I think it is God telling me to go after what I want. To be myself. To love me despite the opinions of others.

Some will say I am taking the scripture out of context, but I don’t think I am. I think for the first time in decades that it is in context. It is plain to my eyes. Why? Because every attempt at changing me failed. Every guilt ridden goodbye to a female lover, every change of heart, every change of clothes. Failed. This is part of my story.

Yet, the voices still whisper. I have anxiety as I write this. I do not want to damn souls. I do not want to be wrong. I do not want God to look upon me one day with the same disgust that my mother did when I grew excited about a gay parade. I do want to spread a truth. God loves all His children. I don’t believe love can be unholy.

The shame around being a gay Christian is a dilemma running rampant. People don’t feel safe in houses of worship. People don’t feel safe among those who claim themselves as Christ’s disciples. I am among them. But this hatred of being gay does not come from me. It comes from the many opinions of people who have scolded me all my life.

The same voices who told me to “act my age, don’t be so talkative, quiet down singing because you’re not as good as your mom.” These voices with vices of their own. These imperfect beings with chips on their soldiers. Those with stolen light. Trying to steal mine.

I will say this today and wish for death tomorrow. I will say this to you and still tell myself that I am wrong. I am tired of carrying around other people’s beliefs. I am tired of carrying around the weight of desiring everyone’s approval. This is more than being out and being proud. This is about being out and being loved by God. Loved by myself.

I am also a hypocrite. I have sneered at two men in love before. I couldn’t figure out why. I am still not sure why. Why is it okay for a woman to love a woman but not for a man to love a man? Is it because he is a man? Is it because I was told a woman is for a man?

Is it because men are meant to be tough? Or is it because I hate myself? Is it because deep down I don’t approve of me. I don’t believe God approves of me in this state. I don’t believe I am worthy to preach the gospel.

To believe that righteousness is a forced state of holiness is ridiculous. To believe that we could ever “fix up” enough to be worthy of God is supercilious. To believe that He would hate two humans of legal age being in love is stupid. There. I’ve said it. I think that belief is stupid as fuck. Yet, I am conditioned as we all are.

So yes, two things can be true at the same time. I am a lesbian. I enjoy the touch and kiss of a woman. I hate being a lesbian because this world has made me believe that the one person, I love more than anyone wrinkles His nose when He sees me. I am a lesbian. I like dressing like a boy because it’s comfortable. Not because I want to be a man. I am a girl, and I still feel guilty about the way I dress, smell, talk, walk, and exist.

However, I will not lose hope. God is not finished with me yet. He’s not finished with you either. One day, we will be at peace with ourselves. We will look our queerness in the face and hug it. Hold it. Love it. Embrace it. Until then, please stay. I am asking myself. I am asking you. Please. Stay. The best is yet to come.