I'm From Driftwood

by Ambrose V.

“Are you gay?”

“I am.”

“That’s so cool!”

So went my most recent “coming out” conversation, with one of the students in my advisory class at the high school where I teach in northern Texas. I had my first such conversation twenty-nine years ago, driving my friend, Trent, back from a high school dance in downtown Juneau to his house near mine in the Valley:

“I want to tell you something, but I’m afraid it could hurt our friendship, and I don’t want it to. It’s hard to talk about, and I’ve been avoiding telling you, but I want to.”

“Okay.”

“I’m gay.”

“Okay. It’s no big deal. Just slow down!” Apparently, my nervousness had caused me to tense up and clamp down, including clamping my foot down on the gas pedal. “Well,” I thought afterward, “that went a lot better than I feared.”

Same thing happened a few months later when I came out to my little clique of friends gathered for a boozy evening at my house while my parents were away on a date. My friends took it in stride, acted as if it were old hat to have one of their own come out as gay—we put a lot of stock in being the sophisticated set at school. But really, we maybe weren’t all that far ahead of the curve: A couple of years later, the younger sister of my friend, Karen, came out to her friends and family, my younger brother’s best friend came out to everyone in her history class and began sculpting nude female busts in art class, and finally, my younger brother came out, too. All to relatively little grief and drama.

It was another story with my mother. My parents came around, but it wasn’t easy with or for Mom.

Anyway, little would I have thought driving down the Egan Expressway with Trent that I would still be having similar conversations, experiencing something like the same nervousness, culminating in the same sense of relief—though not as seemingly earth-shattering—twenty-nine years later. It’s surprising to me, and a little sad, how little things have changed in nearly three decades. To be sure, it’s gotten a little easier for young people—I am no longer very surprised when a student tells me in a journal entry or essay the struggles he or she is experiencing coming out to friends or family—it would have been unthinkable for me to confide in a teacher. But there is still struggle, and not that different from what my brother and I went through.

There is one difference. For my students now, coming out sometimes involves a boyfriend or girlfriend, even if they don’t often use the words and seem to regard the concept of “dating” as quaint. For them, being gay is about relationships. For my generation, coming out in our twenties was a part of sexual liberation. It was about sex and sexual partners—having a boyfriend or girlfriend was just not much on the map of possibilities.

That’s not really how I wanted it. At some level, I wanted the same kind of experiences available to my heterosexual peers, no more or less “innocent” or focused on sex than for them. I remember one occasion, during the year I spent attending classes at a lycee in France right after I graduated from high school, attending a dance organized at the Protestant Students Hall in Paris where I was staying for a week’s vacation from my school near Lyon. I was taken with one of the other boys and asked him if he wanted to dance, and was thoroughly embarrassed when he laughed and said, “What, you and me?!” assuming that couldn’t be what I had in mind.

I don’t mean to suggest I was a Pollyana. During my first year of college in Portland, Oregon, having my first sexual experiences was high on my list of priorities. During fall break, I scheduled a trip to San Francisco with the express intent of having sex, and abandoned my friend Deborah, with whom I was staying at the workers’ residence hall where she lived, on the first two evenings after my arrival to hightail it to the Castro disco clubs in pursuit of that quest. With some success, I might add. My first conquest was a somewhat tawdry affair in which I went home with a middle-aged collector of cinema memorabilia and starlet’s autographs who interrogated me at some length about my sexual history and any danger I might have of carrying STDs. But, I spent the second night with a tall, handsome, sweet and surprisingly protective Filipino guy just a few years older than me, who truly initiated me into the pleasures of sexual intimacy. Everyone called him David, but to me he confided his real name: Djuwan. It still makes me smile to recall it.

But, having gotten the “having sex” business out of the way, I devoted myself during the second semester to what I really wanted: finding a boyfriend. Surprisingly—especially given the fact that I considered myself an atheist (albeit open to the possibility of a non-theistic “spirituality”)—I came closest to finding him at church. Well, sort of church. Brett and I noticed each other the first time I attended a Quaker meeting in Portland, and he came right out on the walk to the bus afterwards—he had volunteered to accompany me—and asked me if I was gay. We started hanging out and it wasn’t long before he asked me to sleep over in the house he shared with his mom, a lesbian, feminist Quaker. I met her at breakfast the morning after; she seemed to like me and to take it in stride that her son and I had spent the night together in his bed.

Brett and I spent a fair amount of time together in coming months, but I never really considered us boyfriends—he seemed much younger than me, and I probably made too much of the difference between my college life and his life finishing the last year of high school. The next year, the tables turned—I fell head over heels with a boy in the Gay Student Association I helped form at our college, but he was less interested in anything other than a casual sexual relationship. And, during the subsequent few years of college (I was on the extended graduation plan!), I had a number of one-night stands or more protracted flings, often hoping to become boyfriends with boys interested in the sex, but not in identifying as gay, or at least not to the degree that would have been required in “having a boyfriend.” Sure, I enjoyed the sex, but (with the exception of one memorable assignation with the sextant in the Cathedral in Nice, where I was vacationing during a year spent at the University of Strasbourg, or the summer of the following year with a weekend spent on Long Island with a former monk I met at a cinema off Times Square after working for a month as a camp counselor in upstate New York), I kept hoping it was a prelude to something more, and kept on coming away disappointed. As a generation, we were liberated enough to have gay sex, but not to fall in gay love—for most of us, I think, forming permanent, gay relationships just seemed too far beyond the pale.

Before abandoning all hope of that, I gave it one more go—with Michael, a boy I got to know in the Gay Students Alliance at the University of Oregon and through mutual friends. We moved in together too soon, and I tried too hard to fall in love with someone with whom I was not really very compatible, but who was the only boy I’d met since Brett who seemed equally interested in actually having a long-term relationship with another guy. After acknowledging the lack of real love and breaking it off with him, I threw in the towel—decided I would have a go at “going straight.” That was crazy, of course, but I’m an obstinate fellow, and devoted too many years trying to deny my gayness.

But, if nothing else, those years I spent “back in the closet” did bring about the shift in sensibility I’ve been trying to evoke. By the time I regained my senses and “came out” yet again, gays were no longer fighting for just sexual liberation, but for the right to marry, to form families and have their long-term loving commitments acknowledged and respected. Now, I’m happily married (though not according to the laws of my Bible-belt state) to a man who shares with me the responsibilities of raising, along with their mother and her new husband, my two daughters. It’s been a long, winding road from that moment in the car with Trent back in Juneau, but I wouldn’t undo it—I like where it’s finally brought me.

by Luke M.

When I was born, you, in your arrogance, chose to saddle me with your name. A seventeen-year-old boy making the assumption that he had done something worthy of having his name carried through another generation; when in truth the only thing of note you had accomplished in life was the seduction of a teenage female.

When I was three you ran away shortly after my mother died in that accident, not that you had really been a part of my life before that. The only thing I remember about you before your departure is the day that you stole my piggy bank. I didn’t see you again for nine years. In all that time I felt connected to you each time I wrote my name because it was also your name. It was the only connection I had, I do not remember ever hearing your voice on the phone for all those years or even seeing a picture.

Almost a decade passed, my grandparents found you and arranged for us to visit for a week. For that week you were perfect and loving. For one week I felt as if I had a father. When we returned home the years would tick by slowly as again the only connection I had to you was when I signed my name to a piece of school work.

Over the next six years I heard from you only twice, once when each of my two younger brothers was born into your new family. You were so proud of these new sons; I would be lying if I said it did not hurt when I realized that I had never heard such pride in your voice when you spoke of me.

I caught myself staring in the mirror time and again trying to find what you hated so much about me, the face that peered back to me with the high cheekbones, strong jaw, the naturally perfect eyebrows and eyelashes that other people would kill for, and skin as flawless as finest silks even in the height of puberty, it was your face that stared back at me.

I threw myself into my education with ruthless determination; I rose from an average student to being at the top of my class in the course of a single school year. You still did not seem to notice me. I pursued sports though with the exception of a few events I found them to be mostly boring, I was not the best but I was good enough to be cheered occasionally. I expected phone calls when we sent you clippings of stories that mentioned me, and even though I waited every night the phone never rang. Seeking even more ways to win your approval I threw myself into every extracurricular activity that I could until I was scheduled to within an inch of my life; still the phone never rang though I know my grandmother sent you letters telling you how I was doing.

Finally graduation day came; I was to give a speech so I got there early. I almost didn’t recognize you sitting there on the hood of your truck waiting for me outside the stadium. You called out to me and I turned, I carefully restrained my joy giving you a handshake and a hug when you indicated it was welcome. It was the happiest day of my life. You spent a month with me this time; I thought I had earned your approval. I had finally become worthy of bearing your name.

I came out before started college, and you said nothing. I did not hear either approval or disgust from you. I went on to finish two degrees. I looked for you at each graduation expecting that maybe you would be in the crowd as you had been once before; you were never there.

I put down the phone having just been told you had found my missing brothers in an orphanage and you were bringing them back to South Carolina. We had not spoken in six months, and only my little brother’s insistence had forced you to call me now. I agreed to wait with my grandparents to greet them, my partner and I hurried over to their house to wait. I was hoping beyond hope that this would be the moment that we would become a true family; I was already planning how I could be a big brother to these two younger ones. The meeting was wonderful; I thought we were definitely on the right path. Until my sister pulled me aside as soon as you left and showed me the text messages, where you described me as a faggot, totally disgusting, and blamed my homosexuality on a mother dead for 23 years. My partner held me in silence while I cried, in our years together he had never seen me cry.

Three months have passed and I open my email to send you a message. I explain to you why I have called at least once a week for the last month only to have you brush me aside. I explain my anger over your years of neglect. I explain why I paid thousands of dollars to make sure that I would never have to see you in my name again. I sign the e-mail with my new name, the one the judge has just given me, and for the first time in my 26 years I do not feel like I have to earn it because I know that I already have.

-(Share your story with us!)

by Robert Dominguez

Club Stars was the last of the 3.2 alcohol gay teen bars in 1990, located just west of lower downtown Denver in the railroad yard just off the old 20th Street viaduct. My friend Kyle, a 24-year old blond guy that I had met at the Aurora Mall, suggested it would be a good idea for me to go there and meet some friends my age. The club itself wasn’t that spectacular. It was an old tire warehouse that had been painted all black on the inside with a dance floor at the far end and a bar, lit with Christmas lights, along one wall. Tom, the owner, was a large German man in his mid-thirties with broad shoulders, paunchy stomach and one semi-lazy eye. Situated at the cashier door, he intimidated the hell out of me with his towering ego, large crossed arms and a thick, throaty laugh.

“And just why should I let you in?” he scoffed at me as I stood in front of him in my latest rayon paisley print with black MC Hammer pants to match. I told him that I wanted to meet friends. “Friends? In here? That’s cute. Good luck.” Often, though, after I convinced him to allow me in, I would pull up a bar stool next to the cashier cage because I was too scared to venture past on my own. I tried not to disturb him too much with what I felt were stupid questions, but in some sense I thought of him like a friendly pit bull. As the night would wear on he would often give me a clue or two about the patrons that passed through the front door.

One night a large maroon Mercury stretch limo pulled up outside the door. From it emerged three very tall and glamorous looking women. I was in awe and asked Tom who the women were. “You’ve never seen drag queens?” No, I answered. “They’re not real women,” he continued in his deep voice, “they’re men dressed up like them.” With that the first of the three entered through the front door. Dressed in a blue sequin cocktail mini, adorned with large earrings, glossy lips and a mass of curly hair, she resembled something of a Diana Ross knock off. “Bitch,” said the sparkly lady to Tom, “wha cho up to?” Tom said something about business as usual. Then she turned to me, her tarantula eyelashes widened with delight. “Well hello baby,” she flirted while lightly scratching the side of my face with her long, red nail extensions. “I’m Brown Sugar.”

Completely star struck (I was after all under age in the illusionary presence of a Motown legend) I could only think of one question. “Is that your limo?” She looked at me, then Tom, and laughed. “‘course that’s mine. Why? Would you like to go for a ride?” she asked. I couldn’t contain myself. I had never been in a limousine before and I couldn’t believe that I was going to now. Boy, if the kids at school knew what I was doing on a Friday night, I thought. Having sipped down half a pitcher of beer while seated at the door, I leapt with excitement from my bar stool. I flashed Tom a big happy grin. He shot me back a silent raised eyebrow with a tilt of his head. “Girls,” said Sugar to the other two, “I’ll be right back. Come baby,” her nails now scratching the top of my head.

The driver opened the rear door and I bounded into the back seat. What few parking lot lights there were looked like muted stars against the sky through the dark, tinted glass. Brown Sugar slid into the seat next to me. Before the driver closed her door, she instructed him to take a few laps through downtown Denver and then we were sealed into the dim lit cavern. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked as the car lurched forward over and around the potholes in the parking lot. I told her no, I was fine, but the reality was I had no idea what kinds of cocktails were available. All I knew was beer. “You got the face of an angel, baby.” I smiled with embarrassment and looked out my window as the car started to weave among the streets lined with high rises. I asked her if I could open the rooftop window. She obliged and as the dark glass slid open, I noticed the black privacy window rise between us and the driver.

Instinctively I knew something wasn’t right as Brown Sugar slithered over to me and onto the floor. “Pull down your pants,” she growled. “I want to suck your cock.” All of a sudden I realized I had to pee really bad and that it wouldn’t be a good idea. Plus, she was starting to frighten me. I attempted to be coy and said something like “what about the driver, we can’t do that back here.” She laughed at my naivete and in an instant had my pants half way down around my thighs. Oh god, I thought, this can’t be good. From my crotch this mound of synthetic wavy hair started to rise and fall, but I just couldn’t get hard. My bladder started to really throb. Crap, I worried, I’m going to piss in her mouth if I strike up a boner. Several times she looked up at me with a sneer and I just sat there with a terrified toothy grin. “Why don’t you close your eyes,” she whispered. That made it even worse for me because all I could think was I didn’t want to be known as the guy who took a leak in Brown Sugar’s mouth.

After several minutes, Brown Sugar sat up in a huff and ordered me to put my pants back on. She then lowered the privacy screen and barked at the driver to return us to Stars. I sat in an awkward silence as we returned to the club. When the car slowed to a stop outside, I thanked her and exited quickly before the driver could open my door. I sped past Tom at the cashier cage to the toilet to relieve myself. When I came out of the bathroom, Brown Sugar and her groupies were seated at the bar shrieking in hysterics while they stared at me. What little self-esteem I had was shattered and I bolted out of the club and went home ashamed of myself. For the next two weekends I avoided Stars, and when I finally returned, Tom asked where I had been. I lied and said busy with school. Before we could continue anymore conversation fate would have it that the maroon Mercury limo pulled up to the door again. I panicked, but stood next to Tom as Brown Sugar and company entered.

She said hi to Tom and made sweet talk conversation as her crew hovered and passed without paying cover. Then she looked at me. “Wanna go for a ride?!” She howled and hissed in laughter. Her minions jumped in on cue and I felt the blood rush to my head. I wanted to run, but luckily they moved on into the club and I sat mortified next to Tom. After about five minutes of silence, I felt Tom’s meaty left arm weigh in across my shoulder. “Brown Booger?” he said in a low gruff with a squeeze of his elbow. “She’s a tired bitch.” Grateful for his support, I then only had to wonder what “tired” meant.

-(Share your story with us!)

by Rick Clemons

It all started as I kicked out of the womb. No, I didn’t have an epiphany as I ventured down the birth canal. And it wasn’t some stress of being birthed that caused me to be gay. In reality, it was the venturing into the world that launched me into the yet uncharted territory of finding my true self.

Beyond the crib and potty training I embarked into the typical yet atypical life of a young boy. Riding bikes, playing Indians and Cowboys, watching Gilligan’s Island. On the other side of me I was fascinated with art, envisioned myself dancing on stage, and was a veritable fountain of emotions beyond what a “normal” young man should have.

In high school, the yearnings and stirrings led me to tip toe into relationships with girls, enjoying the kissing, heavy petting, and wonderment of what was happening between my legs, yet still not feeling like I was an active participant in the experience. Of course, like most gay men (if they would be honest), I had numerous unconscious crushes on my best friend, the gym teacher, and other guys that I found myself purposefully working my way into any activity that would just get me close to them. However, it was all very unconsciously conscious in retrospect.

In 1982 I was away at college and had 1) been sneaking off campus to take dance classes, 2) cruising around town, finding the few gay bars that existed, yet, never having the nerve to go in, 3) found myself being more and more bold with guys I perceived to be gay in my dorm…yet still not acting on my urges. All of this collided with a phone call home to Mom and Dad in which I announced “I’m Gay!” Not realizing how that conversation would change my life and save my life, I now see clearly that I may have been gay, but wasn’t truly ready to be gay. So back in the closet I went after some therapy and because, quite honestly, it wasn’t my time to be myself.

In 1986, after landing my first job out of college, I met a kindred spirit. This spirit just happened to be a woman. Joy of joys, I wasn’t gay after all. But who was I kidding. Yes we connected – intellectually, energetically, likes, dislikes, etc. I was able to be sexual with her without a lot of effort and before I knew it Mom and Dad were proudly standing for family wedding photos with their son who was no longer gay. Or so it seemed.

The years progressed and the epitome of married with kids prevailed. Nice home, world travel, successful careers, two beautiful daughters, good friends, ample money, yet below the layers of fat (close to 300 pounds on my 6’5” frame) I was miserable and life consisted of drinking, eating, keeping peace at home and sneaking around looking at gay porn and being a cheat. Yes, I admit I was a cheater. Not proud of it and making no excuses. Yet, I don’t believe that “once a cheater always a cheater.” Why? Because when you find yourself and you live your truth, “What is there to hide?” Nothing!

In 2002 on a trip to London, I found myself in the arms of a beautiful Brit, in his hotel room and for the first time I knew what being gay could truly be. We didn’t have sex, we had deep conversation and real intimacy…not sex. This really threw me for a loop! What was this I was feeling? How could this be happening? Who was I becoming? Two days later and a 12-hour flight back to the States I had answered all those questions and was ready to face my truth. A truth that there was no turning back from, or going back into the closet for, ever again.

I had seen what intimacy, passion, communication, and non-sexual life could be like with a man. Even weighing in at close to 300 pounds, this beautiful man had found me attractive, wanted me, and saw in me something that until that moment I hadn’t even seen in myself – a real man, a gay man, who needed to love himself and start living his truth. At that moment, the weight began to drop off of me, figuratively and literally.

Upon arrival at home, I summoned up every bit of courage I had and said, “Frankly my dear, I’m gay!” I’m not going to sugarcoat the rest of the story and say it was a fabulous celebration and we lived happily ever after. However, what I will share is, we (my ex-wife, my two beautiful daughters, my partner, and I) became the Modern Family before it was ever a hit TV sitcom. Did it happen overnight? Hell no. Was it easy? Hell no. Did it take work, compassion, give and take? Hell yes.

Is our story a fairy tale? To some it does seem that way. But in reality, when someone comes out of the closet, the first place to start with acceptance is within themselves. You’ve got to be 100% in you, your mind, your heart, and your body as an LGBT individual before you can expect anyone else to love you and accept you. Secondly, just because you’ve been preparing for this for 18, 25, 32, 38, 54 years – whatever your age when you come out – doesn’t mean all the rest of your peeps have had that same opportunity. It’s a bitch slap upside the head for most people when they hear the words, “I’m gay.” At that moment you have to realize you’ve just come out, but they may have just gone in the closet.

I have a theory, and maybe it’s because of the work I do as a coach working with all individuals through the “coming out journey,” that the more room we make for everyone to be in the journey in their way, the sooner we can all continue to live the journey of our lives exactly as we are intended.

Today, I am blessed. Blessed with a loving ex-wife; daughters who are very open-minded and non-judgmental towards others; a fantastic, patient, and sexy partner; parents who’ve taken their own journey and arrived at a space where mutual respect thrives; but most of all, I’m blessed to be doing work that means more to me than my jet-setting life ever did. I’m fortunate to wake up each and every day and work with people to help them cultivate their truth and embrace it.

My story contains pain, hurt, confusion, joy, fear, discouragement, happiness, and a different way of being in the world. In reality, it reflects life. The same life that anyone from any walk of life experiences. I’m thankful that I’ve been able to have this life, this experience, and to now help others grow into themselves with love, compassion, and respect.

-(Share your story with us!)

by Erv

I was always confused about my sexuality. Sometimes I felt straight. Sometimes I felt gay. It would fluctuate like the seasons. I went to school, and got a great job. But I felt confused. And I didn’t want to be with anyone because of that.

Then I felt nothing. I was neither gay nor straight. And I found this was relieving. I didn’t have to worry about hell or what other people think. Or worse yet losing the love of my mom. I also didn’t want to feel different from all I knew. But I wasn’t happy. I started losing the hair on my body and became really tired to the point I slept 12 hours a day.

One day I went into a eye exam. The doctor saw something. He sent me for an MRI. I was diagnosed with prolactinoma — a reoccurring brain tumor that affects the hypothalamus and the pituitary gland. Not knowing the success rate of this condition, I was terrified. My mom came to stay with me as I went through the process of preparing to have a 4.7 centimeter tumor removed through my nose (transphenoidal surgery). She came to every appointment. My brothers called daily. My co-workers came the morning of my surgery and sat with my mother who was all alone. I was terrified but I had to be brave for her.

I woke up 14 hours later, a spinal drip in my back, a catheter. And tubes in both arms. My mom was asleep next to me, her hand on my arm.  I woke her up. She hugged me and told me with tears that something happened. I lost my pituitary gland.

Now for those of you who don’t know, the pituitary gland is the brain of the endocrine system. So, I lost my adrenal function, my thyroid function, and my testes function. Fortunately, I could wear a patch and take medicine.

With the patch I received a normal testosterone level for the first time. I came alive for the first time as an adult. I was 35 and just waking up from a nightmare that I didn’t know existed. Along with accepting a new physiology I also accepted myself as a man for the first time. And for the first time in my life, a full understanding of the gift of my sexuality came alive.

I was Gay. I am Gay.

I didn’t know how to approach this. I never really dated. Because of my pituitary issues, I was as asexual as you could be. But now, things were normalized. And normal meant gay. Gay. Wow. It felt so right. I never even kissed but here I was. I didn’t need to test myself or sleep with someone. I just knew who I was attracted to. And it was great.

I told my mother, and she wasn’t “happy” at first but after everything I had been through, she was okay. Now she is great.

That was five years ago this summer (2010). I am turning forty soon. Everyone knows now. It has taken time to get where I am. I have lost some things, and I have gained some things. And that is okay, for life is about the losing and winning. I have gone through a “second” puberty. And I have learned who my friends are.

I am ready to bring someone into my life. Even though I am nervous every time a man sees my hypogonadism (a result of the pituitary loss). I want to get married, and even have a kid. It will be difficult, but I have been through worse. One day I am going to find the man I love. I know that he is out there. I feel it for the first time that I am not going to be alone without friends, without family, and without a man to love and who loves me.

I know a lot of stories talk about falling in love and realizing who they were and what they need at that moment. Well, that is sort of true. I am a person who finally loved himself. Who finally realized who I am. And that being gay is one of the greatest things about me. I am not saying I don’t have my moments where I get angry about being left out of society. I am not saying that I agree with every gay person on the planet or the country. I am saying, that the rainbow flag has a hue that includes me. And I am proud of that.

So, to all of you out there who are afraid of coming out, I am here to tell you, it’s scary and wonderful. I did it and so can you. In spite of all I have been through and dealt with, I have never lost faith in people and my belief systems. I now know that God wanted me to be here living my life as a Gay man. And I thank him for this.

-(Share your story with us!)

(TRIGGER WARNING: Child abuse, Drug use, Depression, Suicide attempt)

by Priscilla James

I was always raised in a Christan home. My parents always worked hard to help us kids. My family comes from Jamaica, but I was born here in the United States. I take a lot of pride in my family’s heritage. Growing up was hard because I had left a Christan school called Mt. Zion in Utica, New York and began going to public schools. I was very nervous and I struggled throughout high school always wanting to fit in and be popular. I hated myself because I was living a life no one would imagine. I was gay and afraid. I told some of my friends growing up that I struggled with identity issues and whether or not I wanted to be with a man or a woman. I lived a separate life not knowing what to do. My parents’ marriage was failing and my father was abusive to my mom. My mom got enough courage to leave him even though she lived in fear. She stood by her faith and never gave up hope that things were going to get better. This was all going on when I was 16.

I had dealt with some abuse when I was about 12. I always held it inside because I was ashamed. I had many friends, some who gave up on me and walked away because my lifestyle was out of control. I was drinking a lot, partying more than ever. I got into doing drugs and that’s when my life changed forever. I started getting so heavily into drugs that I started getting very depressed. My relationships weren’t always the greatest and I would always pull away. I broke hearts. I lived my life in chaos. I had lost jobs over the years. I always felt alone and that no one could help me.

I’m 26 years old now. There was one person that always made me feel like I was alive and that was my high school sweetheart. I knew I loved her more than anything in the world but I turned her world upside down. I never could forgive myself for that along with many other things. I was a broken soul that needed lots of help and on October 15th, 2010, I did the scariest thing you could imagine. I overdosed on pills. These pills were all half bottles of hydrocodone, flexeril, and paxil. I had cocaine and beer in my system, too. I wanted to die so bad and, well, I did.

My mom said God told her to go upstairs and she found me with a note, passed out slowly dying. I had burned my face with a cigarette. I’d left a letter telling my mom I would never fit in and that I had identity issues for a long time. Well my mom called the ambulance were she works and they rushed me to the hospital. That’s when everyone in my family waited to hear my fate. Well my mother had shouted at the top of her lungs saying we need a miracle and told the doctors that they needed one that time, then the doctors said they were loosing me. My mom called the pastor of the church I was born in, Mike Servello, and his wife Barb Servello of Redeemer Church, and they all prayed for me in the church. Then my aunts in New York City put my name across the radio for prayer and I had woken up the next day. I was in a coma for a long time. When I woke up, I looked at my mom and her friend that kept my mother company the whole time and I asked, “What’s the matter? Why are you crying?” They nearly passed out.

I was in Rochester Strong Memorial Hospital in the ICU. They brought me to the part of the hospital where I could get a new liver. My liver completely failed on me, but I never had to get a new one because I was healed. I was there for a month. I had to learn how to walk all over again and it was about three weeks before I could get my energy back because I was so weak. The doctors that worked with me explained I had a disorder called Bi-polar and major depression. I never knew I had this all these years. I knew I was depressed my whole life but couldn’t figure out why. Well from there I left to another hospital called MVPC in Utica, New York. I was there for 6 months and it was the hardest thing I ever went through in my whole life. I did everything I was told to do. And that kept me from staying there any longer. I told my doctor that I would do whatever it takes to get my life back together and when I told him that he was surprised because he never knew what I meant that day. Well he diagnosed me with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Anxiety. Well after knowing about my disorders and learning about them, I challenged myself to stay focused on getting out and becoming clean and I went straight to McPike Rehab center.

I only left the hospital about 4 times out on pass because I had wanted to recover and do it without any distractions. Going to rehab was fun. I ended there I wanted to go to this place called Conaford Park, another rehab place were they had a buffet and a pool. I really wanted to go and got my hopes up, but then was told I was going to McPike. When I was there I was a little afraid but knew if I could go through two other hospitals and do this, it’s worth it. And my counselor loved me there. A lot of people liked me even in the hospitals. I was always worried what people would think about me and now I’m a lot stronger than I was before. This place was a great place for my recovery. I was so proud of myself when I got my medallion with the Serenity Prayer on it. I carry it everywhere I go.

When I talked and gave my speech, I thought of what my mom always says. “No matter what any of you do or what you have gone through, everyone deserves a second chance.” And she was right. I was given back my life and I’m here today to share my story, and my journey and what I had to do to get here. I did it all on my own and I am ten months sober today. October 16th will be one year for me. I’m going the long way and staying happier with my medications, great friends to talk to when I need help and a loving church that supports me. My life is totally changed and I’ll never be the same person again. Now you can catch me volunteering in church  or doing some kind of benefit walk, plus my favorite hobby Zumba salsa dancing. I have a large support network and I know what to do when I need help. You see, I spent my whole entire life suicidal always afraid to tell my mother and we share such a bond now that I have been very blessed and fortunate. My father died on December 21, 2007, and my grandfather died just four days later. It was a very hard year for my family so even with that I kept all my feelings inside about how I felt about it. I never got the closure I wanted because the burial was done without us and I always blamed myself but it was never my fault. I say what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger and I learned a lot of lessons out of this to just talk about it. You don’t have to fit in to be popular and i am unique for a reason. We all have a plan and purpose and I’m just glad I’m able to help others and reach out to them especially because I know how it feels to not have anyone to go to. This is my story and I consider myself a miracle, more than just a hero. Now my life is starting its new chapter of happiness.

-(Share your story with us!)

by Anonymous

Until 4th grade I lived in a town of 600 people. Then through high school I lived 5 miles away from a town of 40 people, about 30 miles from the nearest sidewalk. In college I lived in a town of 12,000 people and it was the largest city anywhere for the next 300 miles until you got to Albuquerque or Denver.

Maybe my region is unusual, but we’ve always had a fairly well networked gay community here. There are picnics, camp outs, dances, happy hours and other social events. People here are also fairly live-and-let-live, I never encountered much homophobia growing up.

I started coming out to my friends and family when I was 20. I moved to Denver when I was 23, but moved back last year for work. I am now completely out to all my friends I grew up with, and also completely out in a ranching community. I have never had a problem. The worst I have encountered is that some people don’t know how to react so they don’t have too much to say. That’s fine with me as I am still treated courteously and as an equal.

I was excited to live in Denver and to be in a larger gay community. It is fairly easy to get to know all the guys out here within a couple of months. Pure numbers game, I guess.

But while I was in Denver I encountered a lot of gay guys who openly made fun of where I grew up. I also had a lot of trouble relating to people who spent their entire lives in cities and suburbs. While I was in Denver I got into a long-term relationship, but ironically, the guy was from rural Wyoming. That showed me a lot about what I wanted in a relationship.

I made many great friends in Denver, but I was always a little lonely there, especially in trying to find my way through the gay scenes there. I think we need to remember that bailing out for a gay scene in a major city won’t always lead us to happiness, especially if our roots are in a smaller area. It is important to give some credence to both environments. Go make connections in the cities, but if it is your home, don’t forget where you are from.

-(Share your story with us!)

by Rob C.

I’m the older brother of a small family. I just recently came out to my parents, and it was by far the hardest thing I’ve done. In my 20 years of life I’ve only seen my dad cry twice: for 5 minutes when his mother died, and the night I told him I was gay, he must had been crying all night long because the next day at breakfast he had his eyes all swollen up and so did my mom. It crushed me seeing them like that.

They told me they love me, I’m their son, and they won’t stop loving me, but I told them it isn’t enough. It’s not enough for me that they love me as their son, I needed them to see me as a human being, and understand me as a gay guy. I’m a guy, I love being a guy and I just happen to love guys too, and that DOES NOT make me any less of a guy than any straight guy. I needed them to understand that, and that kind of calmed things down a bit.

Now I’m in therapy, but it’s great because it’s not meant to change me but to help me be happy as I am. My parents, though, aren’t as okay as I would like them to be about the subject. We don’t talk about it, and they stay out of my personal life. But it’s only been about 2 months that I told them so I expect that in the future they come to peace with it.

-(Share your story with us!)

by Nikki Olsen

I once read that the ancient Egyptians had fifty words for sand and the Eskimos had a hundred words for snow. I wish I had a thousand words for love, but all that comes to mind is when SHE brushes up against me and puts her arms around me.

And there are no words for that.

When I was approximately 14 years of age my mother and step-father took me to my favorite Mexican restaurant. I was in the middle of a bite of deliciousness when my Mom softly whispers, “We believe you are having homosexual tendencies.”

I spit out my food and stared at the two of them. She may as well have been on stage with a microphone and holding a huge spotlight on me. It felt like the entire restaurant came to a halt and all eyes were on me. In my mind you could have heard a pin drop in that establishment. “We know you have been kissing girls,” is what I heard, “and you are going to hell.”

“Umm…well…uh, I think you are wrong! NO” is what I believe I said while viciously shaking my head back and forth.

The 14 years of knowledge I had was far vaster than these two whose combined age was around 88. The reason they took me to the restaurant was because I would run like hell from anything uncomfortable. Literally, out the front door and down the street not to be seen for hours was my method of operating. I suppose this is still my modus operandi but at least I am aware of it now. Simply because he was a social worker and she worked with emotionally challenged individuals, what the hell did they know? Who cares if I had a girlfriend and the majority of my friends were all gay? These two were just plain stupid. I was not going to be one of those homosexual people made fun of. I was not going to be referred as a “dyke, lesbo, lezzy, queer, carpet muncher, fruitcake” and my favorite “crack snacker.” Of course I could pull a “Vagina Monologue” here and make a list for days but you get the idea. It’s not that I wasn’t gay; I just didn’t want to be.

I fought it, lied, made myself miserable and acted out in the face of all of the love and support most people long for from family and friends. Somehow, despite the understanding and acceptance I had, I was determined it was wrong. I was a latent homosexual I guess. I suppressed and repressed on a conscious level. At the age of 24 is when I finally accepted myself after numerous relationships.

I didn’t drape myself in a rainbow flag and run through the streets screaming, “I am here, I am queer and I am here to stay.” I simply stopped lying to others and more importantly, myself.

And now, 17 years later I am completely out and it is the best feeling. I can’t begin to tell you how fortunate I am to have the love, support and acceptance that I do have now. In closing I would like people to ponder something: What if a gay person did not have sex? Would they still be gay?

The answer is yes. I can assure you one thing: If I could get the same mushy, weak in the knees, passion throughout my soul with a man I would. It has never happened. It’s the same feeling anyone gets when love enters your being, mine just happens to be with the same sex. It is not a choice. I am not going to be someone else or not love simply because hate exists out there in this world.

-(Share your story with us!)

by Anonymous

I want to join a conservative Christian Church which promotes abstinence and prayer as a solution to homosexuality. However, I do so with a degree of guilt [my motivations are suspect]. I delayed coming out until I had left the house at 19. Coming from a strict clergy family, my parents were devastated and broken by the news. Over the subsequent months my mother suffered a nervous breakdown and my father put on a great deal of weight and receives regular counseling. However, it is not to appease them and their fears of promiscuity, AIDS and eternal suffering that I have decided to return to Church, but for a man. I have fallen for a closeted gay man within the ranks of the Church. It is with Catholic guilt that I have decided to approach him, strike up a friendship and make my intentions known. Am I a sinner?

-(Share your story with us!)