We were in his father’s tool shed, in the back yard. The door was closed. I was probably 6. He was 9 or 10. We’d been doing this for a while—a few months, maybe almost a year.
My mom came in, and then his mom, and I remember a lot of commotion and shouting as they jumped on us and pulled us apart. My mom rushed me back home and she told my dad. I don’t know how he took it, but I was never allowed to go back and my friendship ended. I had no idea that what I was doing—and whom I was doing it with—was a problem. It wasn’t until I witnessed my mother’s reaction, and then it was impressed upon me by my religion—the Mormon faith—that this was a sin, an abomination, that I realized I had done something bad and that I should be ashamed of myself.
I was so traumatized by what happened that I didn’t do anything again until I was about 11 or 12. This time, it was with another childhood friend and it brought my sexuality back to the forefront. At age fourteen, I lost my virginity; I was in a steady sexual relationship with him for two years, and all of these experiences, all together, were positive reinforcements that I was, in fact, gay. But counteracting this period of self-exploration was also a tremendous amount of guilt, shame, and remorse. I was often in tears because I couldn’t understand my feelings and to a certain extent, because homosexuality was shunned in the Church and in our community, I felt like I was the only one experiencing them. I was too petrified to talk to anyone else.
In my experience, the Mormon Church has a really effective way of reinforcing their core beliefs. Starting at age twelve, I had to sit in front of a Church authority figure we called “the Bishop” and he would ask me a list of questions. I remember he asked me if I had impure thoughts and if I masturbated. And I had to tell him the things I’d done and the things I’d thought and I remember being so worried that he’d tell my parents or other members of the Church, and so I learned to lie to his face.
At age 19, I went on a two-year Church mission. I was in constant fear of acting out my feelings and the consequences that would follow, so I stayed completely celibate. I had thought that because I was “good,” that I would be “normal” when I got back. In an attempt to cure myself—I had read online that there were people who could do this—I contacted a therapist. Thankfully, she basically said—“Look, this is who you are. There’s nothing wrong with you. You need to start learning to accept yourself.”
Head over to Quartz to read the rest! Also, subscribe if you want to get little reminders in your mailbox when one of these stories is published.