How do I do this? How do I write my most deep, very personal thoughts without offending someone? How do I write to protect my children, my husband, my workplace, myself or the Mormons? I want to write about everything. Sex, motherhood, my job, my regrets and my wishes; but something holds me back. It may be my unfortunate need to coddle the feelings of others or it could be my imperfect grip on the use of a semicolon. Who knows. So, here’s what we’re gonna do. The three people who read this blog will be okay with what I write. They will love me for who I am, as they already do. Even if I say the word fuck or have one of my famous “TMI” moments. I hope they will. Will they? Do you think?

No related posts.

My professional predicament reminds me of what it feels like to birth a baby, or to coach someone through that experience. Since I’m a birth junkie, everything must relate back to that. When someone is in labor, all you can really tell them when they are suffering is to hang on, that it will be worth it, that the end product will blow them away and that all the pain and suffering will melt away when their baby is handed to them in all of it’s screaming and slimy glory.  I do tell myself this many times every week.  Unfortunately…I so asked for this.  I, like an idiot, couldn’t be happy with staying where I was.  I HAD to reach for a challenge.  Why do I DO that to myself?

Sometimes when I write, I feel I have to wrap everything up into a tidy little package of a conclusion.  There must be a moral to the story that can make the reader feel all good…that their time was well spent with my five paragraphs.  Well the moral here is, you get what you ask for.  Get bored with your job?  Land a shiny new coordinator position at a new hospital?  Put your head between your knees, grab your ankles, get a Xanax prescription from your doctor and hold on for dear life because, honey, it’s gonna be a wild ride.  For now, I’m going to stay on the ride.  I’m going to hang on.  I do feel myself growing as a nurse, as a resource to the nurses I work with, as a person, as a woman.  This job WILL benefit me.  I already feel my skin getting thicker…getting lambasted by the chief of the department in front of your staff will do that to you.  I do see growth in my ability to consider the source, as my Dad has always told me to do.

So, Xanax at the ready, head between my knees, dark circles under my eyes…I will continue to torture myself and wonder if it’s worth it.  Until it isn’t.

Related posts:

1. Working Girl Excuse me as I become crazed.  For the last year...

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

No related posts.

Chapter Thirty – My Afterlives: Old and New

I was raised to believe that everything we did, every single action had an impact on our afterlife…

All of our actions are being recorded in our own Books of Life by the angels, whom pay constant attention to us. Not only that, but each and every thought was a manifestation of our righteousness. Our afterlives were going to be graded just like here on earth, like a school A – Fs rating system, like annual performance ratings at work, just like *everything* in the good ol’ USA.

I used to believe that my afterlife was much more important than my present life. This life was just a “blink of an eye”, almost a throw-away in the whole timing of our spiritual journey. Getting through this life as fast as we can, never veering off course or falling away, would mean the highest reward. Every choice was important to ensure we’d live with our Heavenly Father again, and even become a Heavenly Father to another world. That would be the highest level of happiness and joy imaginable.

Every one of us would be joined together using this marvelous Priesthood power, so that it was a finely-tuned, well-oiled machine of happiness and joy. The *best* happiness, and the *best* joy. The kind of happiness and joy that made you *truly* happy and joyous. Not a happiness or joy that comes from this *world*, not some man-made happiness or joy. A happiness and joy that could only come from living the eternal precepts of the Gospel of Jesus Christ as restored by Joseph Smith Jr. in the 1830’s. Vanquishing the loss of God’s Priesthood power (Dark Ages be damned!) through restoration by a young, fourteen year old chosen one.

I was tasked with keeping my kids in line so they would follow, in lock step order, a life of Mormonism. I would raise my children unto God, none would be lost. The connection through all time and eternity would be saved. The health of my sinews, my loins, my prodigy would continue on in righteousness.

That was the plan anyway.

My previous afterlife came crashing down because I didn’t fit God’s mold anymore. Falling away, falling into my real life meant losing that entire beautiful reality. My desperation to be free and genuine trumped all that. It’s my fault that I’ve fallen away, that I’m going to outer darkness for denouncing the Holy Spirit. It’s my fault that I’ve damned my own kids. It’s my own fault that my eternal marriage crumbled and blew away, stranding my Ex into oblivion.

Or perhaps I’m to be hailed for saving myself. Perhaps the best thing I will have ever done in my entire life was to fall. Because falling meant finding myself. Falling meant saving myself. At times it did feel like that image of those terrified people as they fell from those flaming buildings to their doom. But it turned out that it was all smoke and mirrors, a mental entrapment, never to truly lose my life as those poor people did. Just misled, manipulated, led astray, duped, fooled, and tricked by men. An eternal Ponzi Scheme. Spiritual planes crashing into my own life edifice. A never-ending hoax. Joseph’s Myth.

My new reality is much more favorable. I have returned my family bloodlines to a pre-Mormon state. After all, somewhere back in time, my lineage lived free of the tyranny of Mormonism. I am undoing what that church did to my lineage. I am fighting for freedom like Ina did, opening my family to creativity, freedom, and true unconditional love. Watching the church structure fall in shards around my new, vibrant, wonderful life. I just *had* to let it go.

Now, my afterlife exists in the minds of my children. My plan is to treat them with dignity, love and respect as long as I live, and they in turn remember me fondly after I’m gone. That’s all I want. That would be the *best* afterlife I could ever imagine. It’s something my own family cannot handle, basic respect. But it’s something I am driven to do, it is my highest goal. No more magic, no more overexertion, no more insane concepts, crazy ideas, or life-threatening beliefs. Just simple love.

Maybe I will live to see my own kids have their own kids. Maybe I won’t. But I know that at whatever moment I check out of this mortal coil, I do not want them sitting on my graveside weeping. I can think of nothing more wasteful. I want them to live in down-to-earth reality. Feet-in-the-sand love. Smiles as wide and glittering as a disco ball. Eyes always seeking new ideas, new visions, new dreams, and new horizons. Laughter so loud you can’t keep quiet. Minds like sponges that read, and appreciate that *one scene* that made their hearts break or their minds explode. Hands that are willing to love and help, and feet that will dance up a storm and walk that extra mile.

Maybe they will do these things, and maybe they won’t. Either way, I’m going to love them. Until then, I’m taking it day by day. And sleeping each night quietly and peaceful in his arms.

End.

Related posts:

1. Falling Into Life: A Gay Exmormon’s Journey Chapter Eleven – What’s Love Got to Do with...

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

My Ex and I lived in a small town called Fort Morgan, Colorado about fifteen years ago…

We lived in a shared a house  that was divided into five apartments, and Shawna lived above us. I’ve kept in touch over the years, but her letter struck me as such an interesting, and lovely sentimental take. As you might imagine, she showed love in a situation where *no one* else would show what we needed: an understanding of what we were dealing with, and a hope that we would separate with love and care. She had discernment where not one Mormon did, an understanding of this difficult situation.

I cried when she wrote that she, “smiled through the tears that instantly blurred my vision. I even grasped my heart through my pj’s and mouthed a little “thank you!” to God.”. Shawna is a true “Christian”.

I’m not sure how I would have responded to Shawna had she sat me down then and said those things to me. I would most likely have distanced myself from her, but she may have been right about leaving me with one positive message. At that point, I had *no* positive messages going on, just a desperate belief that if I loved my Ex enough, I could *overcome* anything, including being severely attracted to men. I had blinders on, and I was just trying my best to make it day by day. The knife had been sharpened already, it was threatening.

She wasn’t the first to try and help me. One time after my mission, I was working at TGI Fridays. I was changing into my work clothes and almost fell into a stunned coma when a fellow server pulled his shirt off in front of me and I literally couldn’t stop myself from staring right at his body, unmoving for more than thirty seconds. I felt overwhelmed and desperate. He asked me if I was OK, I was so stunned I couldn’t utter even a word, that’s how messed up I was. My heart pounded my desire. He went on to tell a friend of mine during our shift what happened. Later in the day she sat me down, we had known each other since Middle School.

She leaned over and held my hand, looked me in the eye and said, “Steve…it’s OK if you like guys. I know you’re Mormon, but listen, it’s OK. I think he’s really cute, too” For as lovely and caring as she was, I was horrified, embarrassed, and humiliated. I just learned to never do that again, no matter what. I learned another lesson: Do a better job of hiding. I vowed to never let that happen again. I ached, I wanted to make a clean break, but my programming was so strong. I knew God had been so silent, and that I was alone in this problem, but I knew what the Mormons leaders and prophets expected of me. I never once consider transcendence then. That would be the tip of the painful iceberg. I would never let anyone in again, only God and my leaders.

After all this time I’m still somewhat boggled at how my marriage lasted as long as it did. But I know men who have been in it longer than me, and I know some who faced it earlier. But I believe that there are three areas that set up a men and women for failure given this situation. And given enough counseling to lie, it is rather easy for men and women to become entangled in this unfortunate relationship.

These are the three areas that create these unfortunate situations:

1. Societal Pitfalls
2. Religious Pitfalls
3. Relationship Pitfalls

Society creates a very strong framework for a growing child. If your parents do not give any leeway, if they never send neutral messages, then the societal stranglehold manifests itself with intensity. As we approach the end of the first millennial decade, the world is warming up to homosexuals in a way never before seen. Kids are coming out sooner, and parents are showing more love and support than ever before. This is a fantastic thing! Parents who love their kids unconditionally are to be applauded publicly. The only way to change the hate is to break it publicly, in my opinion.

Society is the first layer of possible hate in a gay person’s life. Media, schools, public experiences all send a message, either positive or negative. My parents upheld the societal pressure, and passed it right on to me. As parents in the new world, we must ensure that all of our children learn to accept differences, diversity includes homosexuality.

What does this looks like in the home? It looks like parents who take the opportunity in family discussions to react neutrally when the topic of homosexuality appears in normal conversation. It is the responsibility of all caring parents to send the message that homosexuals have all the same rights as everyone else, and that we love and care for them. They deserve families just like the ones we have. Families come in all kinds of sizes, shapes, and models, and God loves them all.

Religions create a much larger possible harm to homosexual children and adults. Religions, especially non-accepting religions, push the agenda of the perfect heterosexual marriage onto children from birth as the God-accepted family unit. It is difficult for any child who feels different to feel accepted at church, at *any* church. The very scriptures used in services and home study carry threats against them. A young child, if reading on their own, will *not understand* that they are accepted by God if they happen to stumble across those awful verses.

It is the parents responsibility to bring those verses up *directly*, read them and then clearly diffuse those hateful verses with each and every child. If you believe there is love in the scriptures, then you must also realize there is hate in the scriptures, too. Either provide the child with a *new* translation releasing the potential gay child from the inherently hateful verses, or leave the non-accepting church entirely. It is the parent’s responsibility to PROTECT their children, and protecting them from possible scriptural hate is *imperative*.

This means that the parents, even if they feel they should *not* have to or are counseled by their own churches, must take the higher road. Parents should provide a neutral path for their children, *even if* they feel the desire for their children to believe the same doctrines they do. Humanity cannot withstand unchanged, archaic, hateful belief structures, and to force that onto a child is *child abuse*.

The typical religious structure places *much* more pressure on the potentially gay child to hide themselves for acceptance and love. A protective parent doesn’t force their beliefs onto their children. Knowing that a young child may be gay is all the reason a parent needs to begin early embedding loving ideas, accepting ideas, and unconditional love messages to their children. For a child like I was to endure the constant opposite messaging is unbelievably stressful and harmful. It was child abuse. Finding a church that is *entirely* accepting should be the goal of *any* parent. Straight children need to hear the message as much as gay children do.

Marital relationships occur after this harmful programming has taken hold. This programming supports a lying husband, and a wife in denial. The husband and wife are the victims of the society and the religion. They are placed in an awful situation, counseled to stay in awful situations by untrained Mormon leaders. This should be a crime! Parents should raise their children to be respectful of themselves and their partners, so that when they are independent adults, they are equipped to handle situations like this with love and dignity, not to fight them as directed by archaic religious ideas.

It is scientifically shown that 1,500 animal species practice homosexuality, and there is deep research demonstrating that 500 mammal species practice homosexuality. It is a naturally occurring phenomenon for about 10% of *all* mammals (including humans) in this God-created world. It is harmful to force a standard onto homosexuals for something they cannot change or control. This must *end now*! Do *not* believe the words that fall out of the mouths of untrained and bigoted religious leaders! Do your own research, learn from the latest studies. Become an agent for positive growth in this world.

Any human in this country deserves all of the same rights and privileges; regardless of what you think is religiously correct! Be a citizen first, and a Christian second. Vote for the rights of *all* citizens so that they are equal to you in all regards, and *then* live your life as you wish to believe. Live your life so that you can *truly* say you personally separate church and state.

I can tell you one thing is true about myself, I would *not* have married a straight woman and tortured her for sixteen years with lies and deceit had I been raised by loving, caring, and accepting religious parents. I have learned my lesson, and I will *ensure* that my own children will *not* suffer like I did due to negative societal and religious pressures.

My knife would never have been created; a box would never have entrapped me.

No related posts.

As I have been sharing my story, some of my friends have provided me their take on my situation. It has been tremendously cathartic, and interesting to see how people have interacted with me in various stages of my life experience. The following is from a friend who I have known for fifteen years:

In 1993 you sat in our living room with Allen and during the course of conversation you revealed to him that there was a point in your youth (jr high?) when you thought you “might be gay”. Allen told me the next day that you had a really tough road ahead of you, because you were gay. Again, my first reaction was doubt. Allen said to me, “He said that he had a moment where he thought he “might be gay”. Shawna, straight men do not have that moment. Gay men do.”

Oh my gosh, my heart broke for you. Not because you were gay, but because you were gay and married to an awesome woman whom you clearly loved, and you were a daddy and completely head-over-heels devoted to Max, and because you were a Mormon and had told us all about your family and how much you had already fought their judgment.

I very STUPIDLY believed that you didn’t know you were gay yet. (I’ll wait till you stop laughing to continue…) I know, I was an idiot. I prayed and prayed and prayed that God would ease you into this realization and transition like a smooth landing on a commercial airline flight – an initial jolt, maybe a couple of bumps, and then roll on into your final destination with a sense of relief. I prayed for J, because I knew that her world would shatter. I prayed for your kids, that they’d get what they needed from you and J.

With each child that was born in your family, I thought, “he’s still having sex with J…he still doesn’t know…”. I ached for you and for your family. I thought that I needed to sit back and wait for you to REALIZE that you were gay, then just “be here” if you wanted to talk or find support. I stood here on the sidelines with my hands in my pockets and my mouth zipped shut and believed that was the best thing I could do for you, my friend. I was such a freakin’ idiot.

When you emailed me and told me that you had left the Mormon Church, I knew in my heart it was the first step on your journey to YOU. (Little did I know, it was your millionth step.) I picked up the phone and called Allen first – I was this weird mix of worried and excited. Excited that you were making it right in your life. Worried because I knew you would go through a tremendous amount of pain. (Again, little did I know, it was not the beginning of your pain.) I picked up the phone and called you, and you poured out to me how you had discovered some truths about Mormonism online, and it had unraveled everything for you.

You said that J was furious about leaving the Mormon Church, because she had built a life there – for you. I remember thinking, “please…don’t make her build a new life with you outside the church…please, just let yourself be gay….please, just let J stay where she’s comfortable and you move onto what you need to move on to.” But I didn’t say a word. Instead I just listened and tried to support whatever part of the journey you were on. But I did not know what part of the journey you were on. I had NO IDEA. I was an idiot.

When you and Max came to our house on Stanley Street, it seemed like every time the kids were out of ear shot for a moment you would tell us how hot “non Mormon sex” was with J. You loved her body, loved seeing her arms, loved all of it. I was so frustrated. Allen said for the first time in over a decade that maybe he was wrong, maybe you weren’t gay. I told Allen that I had never been more sure of your homosexuality than I was then. Still not knowing if YOU knew you were gay or not (please…did I say I was an idiot?) I told Allen, “I’m not sure who he’s trying to convince…he’s either trying to convince us he’s not gay, or he’s trying to convince himself he’s not gay. But that is a man who is trying to convince someone he’s straight. Let me tell you now, he is gay, gay, gay.”

It was so frustrating. I wanted to sit you down, stare you in the eye, and say, “really? REALLY?”.

I prayed harder. If you were fighting so hard to “not be gay”, it must have been incredibly painful for you. I knew I could barely begin to fathom what you were going through, and knowing this made me ache on your behalf.

I got pregnant with C at this point in the story, and although I love her more than words can describe, that first trimester was horrid. One day during that first trimester, I was in my dark bedroom, laying in bed with the curtains shut and the lights off in the middle of the day. The phone rang, and I wasn’t going to answer it…but when I rolled over and saw the caller ID lit up with your name on it, I couldn’t resist.

You said, “J and I are separating.” My breath caught in my throat, and I said, with great anticipation and hope, “uh-huh…” and then you said it – “and I’m gay.” I smiled through the tears that instantly blurred my vision. I even grasped my heart through my pj’s and mouthed a little “thank you!” to God.

My only question: “are you happy, Steve?” You said that you were happy, and went on to tell me about the arrangement you and J had made. I was SO HAPPY for you. I told you – “I’m so happy that you’re happy!”. I meant it from the bottom of my heart. That had been my prayer for over a decade – that after all the bumps in the landing, you’d roll safely into your destination. YOU WERE HAPPY! What more could I ask for?

I did not know the bumps had lasted nearly your entire life. I did not know that the bumps took you to dark places that I could not imagine possible. I did not know that you KNEW you were gay and were told to CHANGE it for years and years and years. Knowing that people were telling you these things make me want to throw up. I want to turn back the clock and run down to your apartment in Fort Morgan where the little finch in the kitchen was always squawking and say, “Steve! I know! I know! You are awesome, you are my friend, and I know!!!”

You may have hated me for it then. You might have told me I was offensive and wrong and cut me out of your life. But at least you would have had that one little voice in the back of your mind, saying, “I know you are gay, and I’m telling you that you are AWESOME.” Even if it was from someone you hated.

Now you know you are awesome. ) But maybe it would have helped to hear it fifteen years ago. I’m sorry.

No related posts.

Sometimes people wonder how I went from faithful Mormon to a Secular Buddhist Pagan Queer…

Mormonism threatens its membership to never “fall away”, not to lose their grip on the “iron rod”, a euphemism for the Gospel of Jesus Christ. It is the biggest fear addressed in all of my thirty-eight years of activity, my thousands of hours listening to LDS leaders, LDS family, and LDS General Authorities, and my seemingly endless prayers.

It was the fear drilled into me my entire life. I took my involvement in the Mormon Church as seriously as I could. I clung to everything I was raised to believe in, a church that provided answers to everything, and gauged all things in terms of right and wrong and good and bad. When you’re raised a staunch Mormon and you lose your “certain knowledge”, things get really rough. Mormons consider that “certain knowledge” to be their testimonies. The one thing that keeps you believing and entrenched. Feelings *could mean* a sure knowledge.

The opposite of a faithful Mormon with a sure testimony is an existentialist, and I had no idea that I would identify myself as such at any moment in my lifetime. That existence would be frightening, godless and lost. An existentialist is a person who faces their individual existence in an unfathomable universe. It is the plight of the individual who must assume ultimate responsibility for acts of free will without any certain knowledge of what is right or wrong or good or bad… according to Merriam Webster anyway.

After I left the church, my siblings were extremely concerned about me. I received many calls from them, alarming warnings. They literally felt me slipping away. They watched in horror as I fell. At about the time I was receiving the most alarming calls from them was about the time I was feeling the most anger about Brigham Young’s violent doctrines about apostates. I had become the enemy; my throat should be slashed to save me to heaven. My oldest brother, out of love, was alienating me with his disastrous calls.

In an attempt to end that pain, on my brother’s last call, I told him that I had purchased a bowie knife that was meant for my own throat, and that I demanded that he arrive on my door step, so that I could hand him the knife, so that he could do as his Prophet Brigham Young had commanded him and *kill me* by slashing my throat so that he could save me. I told him point blank that he *had* to do it! He *had* to do what his prophet had commanded him to do! I was an apostate, I was never going to return, and that he must comply. He never took me up on it.

All that caring, all that showiness, all that faux love. One amazing thing about my entire experience inside of Mormonism was the fact that never once in my sojourn from those who knew I was fighting the “same-sex attraction” problem did even one person ask me if the whole thing was working for *me*. Not once. I had a sister-in-law who was a counselor in LDS Social Services, and in all those years that she knew my situation, she *never* called me once. I suspect her oldest son is gay, and I am confident that both she and my older brother would send him straight into Evergreen for some straightening.

My last memory of my mom alive was when she and my dad showed up at my house with an entire truck full of family heirlooms. She hadn’t called me to ask if it was OK, but somehow I had landed at the top of her shit list and that meant I could be trusted with their most prized possessions. I helped as they schlepped the entire family lovefest into my small, crowded basement. As my dad was carrying in the *fifth* set of family heirloom china, my mom’s own set of wedding china, I stopped my dad on the stairs mid huff and asked him, “Don’t you think Becky should have this?” He looked me straight in my eyes and said, “She doesn’t deserve it.” Odd, it seemed to me that their *only* daughter might deserve my mother’s wedding china.

But from the smallest aspect to the largest, it was always about what I *deserved* in God’s eyes, and in my parent’s eyes. Mormonism is a giant rat race to the finish line, and whoever wins gets their own planet. That’s the prize, that’s what you deserve! Think of it like a Holy Bell Curve. And if you don’t meet God’s expectations, or my parent’s expectations, well, you get something…*less*.

What I learned was that it was never about me, it was about them. It was about getting me back in line, and keeping me going so that I could maintain the needs of others. I allowed myself to be stepped on, to be used, to be manipulated, because it was what I *deserved*. I was broken, I was *less than*. And the more I cheated, the more I fell into sin. I only proved it with each passing year. The more I felt less than everyone else, the more I sought out my genuine, true identity. And in my situation, that meant betraying those I loved even though I had desperately tried to tell them who I was, and how I needed to be released.

Everyone gets to decide what they want in this life, regardless of what you’re being told, what’s being forced on you, or what you feel you must uphold. Parents should *respect this* instead of being the biggest force for disingenuous living. Once I pushed back hard enough against all the lies, the deceit, and the misinformation in the Mormon Church, my debaters, my family, and my leaders all said, “It was your choice all along.”

At first they act as if your very soul will explode in damnation’s flames and become crisp ash in eternal darkness…until suddenly they can’t give you any real answers anymore, and their fear tactics fail to work like they used to, and then shift their own behavior, they shift their approach, and the very demeanors and they say, “It was your choice all along!” I wondered why they hadn’t just said that from the beginning, it was amazingly frustrating.

It was in *that* moment that they were being just as disingenuous to themselves as I was being to myself. In that moment they let me go, but not in a caring supportive way. They let me go and brushed their hands together and said to themselves, “I can’t be responsible for him; I have done everything I could do for him. Now he is lost and on his own.” If they were true Christians, they would never have written me off, they would have allowed me to transcend while ensuring my safety. That is what I would do for my own children, and I am sure that if I have a “Heavenly Father” he would do the same.

It wasn’t just Mormonism I was skeptical of now, it was Christianity and Western Monotheism as a whole. My friends told me not to throw the baby out with the bathwater, meaning Christ, but that, too, became impossible for me to believe. Nothing gets up after it’s been dead for three days, and I mean *nothing*. I kept Jesus’ teachings close to my heart and threw away the concept of resurrection away. No more implausible deities. No more magical religion.

My magic became the wonder of nature, and evolution and science. Things I could count on. Things that made sense. Suddenly an unfathomable universe felt just right! No longer did I have answers for everything. I let go of a “certain knowledge” of what is right or wrong or good or bad. I decided to live in the gray world, no more black and white. Empathy became my mantra. Ethical living was not tied to religious belief any more.

I was letting go of magical thinking and finding awe in what was right around me, in the present. I began to distance myself from my siblings and my parents, and that was very liberating. I felt more in tune with nature than I ever had before, and Nature was slowly becoming my “religion”. I soon found that Buddhism encapsulated my new ideas about life and nature better than Christianity or Mormonism ever could.

I thought back on the times when I knew I was making terrible mistakes, the moment I stood in the mirror in SLC staring at my new garments, the moment I got married to a woman when everything inside me said that I needed a man, the day I was left at the Missionary Training Center to embark on a two year Spanish mission to sell something that I desperately did not like, letting Mormon leaders shame me for being homosexual, allowing my family dynamics to engulf me in pain.

The further out of Mormonism and my marriage I got, the brighter it all became. I was terrified that I would be suffering without it, as I had always been taught to fear. But this wasn’t suffering at all, this was heaven on earth! And to achieve it, all I had to do was let go of everything that always felt strange to me. I may have been born and raised into a crazy cult, but now was the time to get real.

Every single thought that had crossed my mind as a Mormon had to be reviewed, analyzed, researched and evaluated for its content to decide if it was from God or from Satan. Every…single…thought. In Mormonism, your thoughts *define* you. Boyd K. Packer, one of the most *vile* General Authorities ever, provided the amalogy of your mind as a “stage”. Every thought is a physical character that plays on your stage, with obvious implications that every single thought is seen by angels and by God, and we are judged accordingly. I believe that nothing in my entire sojourn in Mormonism proved to be more vicious than this.

Rex, the smartest man I’ve ever met, led me to studying Buddhism and my mind exploded with happiness. I learned that I didn’t have to be plagued with the anchors of Mormon thought. And that my plagued thoughts were truly *anchors* in my life success. I have learned that our thoughts are nothing but weather patterns that can cloud our perception. Weather comes and goes, as do our thoughts that create emotions inside of us. All of those emotions created by our thoughts come and go. The real “us”, the real “me” lies behind my fleeting thoughts, and meditation helps me clear away my thoughts so I can focus on my true self.

Every *single* person I have met while studying Buddhism has been truly kind to me. My teachers have been willing to let me decide how much of the beliefs I will take on. They don’t care that I do or don’t believe in God. They don’t care that I struggle with the concept of reincarnation. There is no plan for my salvation. They don’t care that it is my own journey with my own parameters at my own pace. There aren’t any meaningless rituals for me now. When I bow in Buddhism, I bow to the greatness inside myself, not to a silent, uncaring deity. And if there *is* a deity that cares, it loves me without me needing to love it back.

Gone are the pressures of judgment, worthiness trials, and the Mormon bell curve of righteousness. Now I believe that feelings do not equal knowledge. No more fear. I’ve never been so unencumbered, relaxed and happy in my life, and I plan to keep it that way. Now I consider myself a Secular Buddhist Pagan Queer. I made up the title, not bad, huh?

No related posts.

Mark Twain’s gentle face was on the cover of the Time magazine I began reading as we jetted towards San Francisco in August of 2008. My universal alignment would soon seem impossible to believe…

The magazine had dedicated many articles to Twain, and I reveled in it, Twain having been one of those who made me realize the error in my life direction. Here this author, revered by hundreds of millions, spoke *directly to me* about elements of my religion from the grave. One article outlined his trip to visit Nauvoo, Illinois, and I learned that Rex had actually toured Nauvoo as a young adult. His recollection was that it was two religions giving two stories and you weren’t quite sure who was telling you the truth. His recollection was quite humorous and I chuckled for awhile afterward thinking about that whole scene.

After we landed we took a taxi to our hotel on Taylor Street. As we got out of the car I was amazed that right next to our hotel was the Hotel Mark Twain, we chuckled at the coincidence and checked in. I really love San Francisco, it represents all the things I never could really have as a Mormon. It’s eclectic, it’s artistic to the point of *embracing* the arts, it’s racially diverse, it’s oceanic, it’s just freakin’ cool.

We quickly decided when we’d visit the Dale Chihuly and Frida Kahlo exhibits, our wonderful reasons for this particular anniversary adventure. Rex had to work until dinner time and so I was excited to begin a walking adventure, I *love* walking through cities, and Rex and I typically walk ourselves to death in NYC. I loved wandering through Madrid, and this was making me deeply satisfied! I stepped out the front of our hotel, looked south towards Market Street, turned on my heels and looked up.

On the map I was heading northwards directly towards Pier 45; this was going to be a hoof. The terrain was quite challenging but I was enjoying getting winded in that gorgeous, salty sea air. Every ten feet brought something new to my vantage point, blossoming flowers, popping colors, stunning houses, and foreign-looking people. I was desperate to see the bay, and I knew that at any moment I’d skyline on a street and there it’d be to take my breath away. The moment I reached 1700 Taylor and Vallejo I was in seventh heaven! The vista from that exact spot out onto the Bay Bridge is arresting to the point of disorientation.

Huge ocean views on both sides, gigantic tankers pulling in and out from under the Bay Bridge. With Alcatraz to my left, and the Financial District to my right, I was standing on what *had* to be the best vista in the entire city! And not only *that*, but there was this open park, a winding walkway led in and I spied some park benches. Breathing heavy, I made a bee-line for a bench. As I sat there drinking it all in, a dragonfly landed on my pants.

Pay attention, Steve! Anytime nature intervenes with me this way, I know I’m on to something good. The dragonfly totem represents change. There seemed to be dragonflies everywhere I looked. I wondered why this pristine spot had never been built out, what luck! As I walked out the way I came in, I rounded a rock and something caught my eye, a glare, something shining.

I turned and there was a plaque mounted to this rock. I walked closer and I read:

INA DONNA COOLBRITH

Born Nauvoo, Illinois, March 10^th, 1841

Died Oakland, California, February 29^th, 1928

First white child to enter California by Beckwourth Pass,

in first covered wagon-train traveling that route, September 1852.

Thirty-two years a librarian, friend….

NAUVOO, ILLINOIS! 1841! WAIT A MINUTE!

This woman *had* to have *known* Joseph Smith Jr.! She *had* to have! Well, whoever her mother was, I am *sure* she did! My mind was reeling, how was it even *possible* that I had found the only public reference to Nauvoo, Illinois in this *entire* city? And we were *just* talking about Nauvoo on the plane! Unbelievable.

It set my mind racing into different possible scenarios. How could the Poet Laureate of San Francisco have started out her life in the midst of Polygamy Central? Her name seemed so non-Mormon, too. Ina? Donna? Coolbrith? Here was this absolutely stunning park dedicated to a *female* poet laureate, the very FIRST in San Francisco!

I spent the rest of the day enjoying myself thoroughly, and when Rex wrapped up his day, he set off up Taylor, and I set off back the way I had come. We were gonna wing it for dinner, you can’t go wrong in a city like that. We found the *perfect* place for dinner, ate Italian on the edge of Chinatown and headed back to the room. What a day!

We were pretty bushed after our walk back, and we were saturated with that beautiful city. We *smelled* like it. Ahhhhh. It would have been such a relaxing evening had I not searched for Ina Donna Coolbrith on the internet and had an explosive adrenaline fit of magnanimous proportions. “Holy Fucking Chryst!” I shouted, jolting Rex out of a beautiful slumber. “What? What!” he shouted. “You are *not* gonna believe this!”

I couldn’t believe what my eyes were reading in Wikipedia: Ina Donna Coolbrith -

Ina Coolbrith’s mother was Agnes Moulton Coolbrith and her father was Don Carlos Smith, a brother of the Mormon Prophet Joseph Smith, Jr.. Don Carlos Smith died in 1841 and Agnes was married to Joseph Smith, Jr. in 1842. Leaving this polygamous marriage and the Latter-day Saint community,[1] Agnes took her daughter Josephine Smith with her and moved to Saint Louis, where she married a newspaperman named William Pickett. Pickett, Agnes, and young Josephine, travelled overland to California in 1850. Josephine is said to have been the first white child to enter California, riding on the saddle of Jim Beckwourth. The family settled in Los Angeles. To avoid identification with her former family or with Mormonism, Agnes reverted to using her maiden name, Coolbrith.

The reeling set in again! Agnes was married to Joe Smith’s brother! Could it be true? She had to become one of Joe Smith’s polygamous wives! Which one was she? Why did Agnes leave? How did she get away? How many children did Agnes have? How old was Ina when her mother left? Were Agnes and little Ina followed? The early members didn’t look kindly to apostates at all! I wonder if they were pursued for their lives given the Blood Atonement doctrine via Brigham Young?

I was flooded with questions and excitement! What a lovely discovery! The more I read, the more I learned that yes, they *were* pursued for their lives, and that their move west was almost in tandem with the Mormon movement to the Salt Lake Valley.

Of course, the *Mormon* version is *much* different. But the basic story couldn’t be masked: Agnes *had* to get away, and she left in the middle of the night with Ina, having to leave some children behind. She ended up in Los Angeles, her daughter Ina the first white child to ride into the Los Angeles Valley on the saddle of Jim Beckwourth, a famous Black Scout. Mother and daughter had to eventually change their names to finally rid themselves of the Mormons.

As Beckwourth carried the first little white child into that valley, the sun lighted it as if on purpose for this moment. He lowered her off his horse, and standing with her in the midst of a blowing storm, pointed to the glowing valley lying against a range of blue and said to her, “There, little girl,” he said, “there is California! There is your kingdom!”

Ina had left the suffocating kingdom of the Mormons and had reached her very own kingdom. It wouldn’t be easy, but she was away from her disastrous beginnings where women were treated like cattle, ever-increasing property for a power-hungry prophet. What strength these two women had! Running away from them in the deep of the night, being literally chased because Ina was the bloodline of the Smiths, a blood that the violent Mormons wanted to spill on the ground as they desired to slash her throat.

I couldn’t imagine what they had to go through! In 1862 after a deep depression from the death of her young infant and a sad marriage, Josephina changed her name to Ina Donna Coolbrith, taking her mother’s maiden name and dropping the fated Smith as she transitioned into the San Francisco community. But she didn’t give up, she kept going, she was pursuing her bliss!

A new chapter was just beginning for Ina. She had already published some of her own poetry, but it turns out Ina’s true calling was that of a role model, mentor and coach. As she expanded her desire of writing and composing, she mentored some of the biggest names in literary history.

She began writing for the Overland Monthly, a prestigious paper, and in 1873 Ina became the librarian at the Oakland Free Library. In 1895 she befriended and mentored the 12 year old Jack London. Jack London called her his “literary mother.” She also mentored the poet, George Sterling, and later in life, she campaigned for a proper burial in Westminster Abbey for the remains of her favorite poet, Lord Byron.

It wasn’t without hardship, she would lose her San Francisco home and all her possessions in the earthquake and fire of 1906. But what an *amazing* life! In 1915, Ina was named the first poet laureate of California by the Regents of the University of California. Her name is commemorated by Ina Coolbrith Park at Taylor and Vallejo in San Francisco, and Mount Ina Coolbrith, a 7,900 foot peak near Beckwourth Pass in the Sierra Nevada mountains near State Route 70.

Ina’s lifelong literary work led to her friendships with Alfred Tennyson, John Whittier, Bret Harte, Charles Warren Stoddard, Joaquin Miller, Ansel Adams and last but not least…Samuel Clemens, who is *Mark Twain*.

KaPOW! In that moment my mind blew a gasket. A full 360 in one day. I had boarded the plane that morning catching up on Twain, and had ended the day by learning how this brilliant woman of talent, who had begun life and weathered much the same road I had, rose from the middle of the craziest American life into the notoriety of the first Poet Laureate of San Francisco because she did not give up. She is my hero! (I am currently writing a screenplay in her honor.)

Can you imagine what a life she led? But the story I learned was this: If you know deep down that you are in the wrong situation, the wrong unbalanced life, the wrong place living disingenuously, do *not* let that slow you down!

You might lose your children, you might be pursued by your lineage, you might have to leave your family, you might lose everything in a fire, you might face unbelievable odds, but do not let this stop you! Rise above it and succeed.

I know I can do it, because Ina did it.

No related posts.

My goal has been simplification. I realized that I had allowed myself to become buried under a ton of other people’s desires for me. I was doing everything to please everyone else…

I had been raised to take on a myriad of roles: Faithful Mormon, Returned Missionary, Dentist, Heterosexual Eternal Husband, Peacemaker, Family Breadwinner…they seemed to go on forever. What I wasn’t paying attention to was the fact that it was not making me happy. My core persona is none of those things, and the things I did love in that list were buried so deep that even they weren’t pleasing to me anymore.

When I sought out and attended my first non-Mormon Therapist, the first thing I said to her was that at one time in my life I thought I was gay, but that was not my problem anymore, I had all these *other* problems I needed help with. She was so kind. She looked at me, smiled widely and slowly, and said, “OK, let’s talk about your parents…” She knew that eventually I would face that non-problem of mine. And I did, with her, a few years later, and we had a good laugh about that.

I desperately needed to learn how to ease up, to enjoy life, to slow down, and to have fun. Those were my *new* roles, and my goals came from that list. No more crazy! I wanted to be the man I desired: supportive, fun, enjoyable, easy-going. I wanted to live with someone who was supportive, fun, enjoyable, and easy-going. I wanted to raise kids who are supportive, fun, enjoyable, and easy-going. See how easy my goals became? This couldn’t be that hard!

I allowed my panic attacks to just wash over me, overwhelm me, and pass. Each time that happened, they became less and less frightening, and more and more manageable. After seven years post Mormonism, I’ve only had a small one and it passed in minutes, they used to be pretty debilitating, taking sometimes up to ninety minutes to pass.

I stopped stopping myself. I went after all things that intrigued me, removing any pre-tagged sinful label. I went to strip clubs, and to art galleries, and to leather stores, and to lunches with other Exmormons. I felt myself physically decompressing. I got up happier, I sang more, I delved into life. Rex and I pursued Shambhala Meditation Training together, we gardened, we hiked, I read poetry in a wedding in a kilt and matching tank top. I worked out in gyms with hot guys and I liked it. We still go to an old bath house on men’s days and wander around stark naked steaming, baking, and showering with scads of naked men. We simply enjoy life.

Rex took me to a spa in Santa Fe, New Mexico called Ten Thousand Waves. We drove off the freeway route, heading behind the San Luis mountain range in his fast car. He let me drive, I punched it and I let that car catch up to my heart racing through that high desert, a blur as my eyes teared up and the sage rushed by. I cannot fully describe how my heart felt at that moment, but my heart felt on fire.

One time I watched a paraplegic man in a straight strip club wheel up to the stage, the only thing he could move were his lips to blow the directions to his chair. I watched these beautiful women slather him with physical caresses; they practically climbed on top of him, showering him with their breasts, their amazingly fit bodies, they gave themselves entirely.

They did not hold back, the music thumping, the crowds buzzing around him. And it dawned on me in that moment: “Where in the world would this man be able to go and have stunningly gorgeous women treat him like a lover?” Nowhere else. NOWHERE ELSE! My raw heart broke and I cried. I was so happy for him. All the judgments of that place fell flat to the ground.

Rex and I caught the tail end of the public art display by Cristo called The Gates in Central Park in New York City at sunset. It was a chilly afternoon, and my heart exploded in the same color, I *felt* brilliantly orange. It infused us and we walked through hundreds of them at sunset around the lakes, through the fields, over the stone outcrops.

That was my first trip to New York City and my mind was thoroughly blown. We ate fantastic food, toured the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and attended a three-day screenplay writing workshop with Robert McKee. We saw an amazing play. I felt free and unencumbered, my imagination soared!

I felt as if my mind was reconnecting to the vast human network. I was discovering such brilliance and color and vibrancy! I read Walt Whitman’s Crossing Brooklyn Ferry and absolutely identified with his common theme of connecting to humanity: How curious you are to me! The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings. I wasn’t fighting my desires; I was seeing how they fused with the world around me. I became less a stranger to myself as I watched others. People might separate me based on how I looked and acted differently, but I focused on what made us alike, how our desires engulfed us all.

When I was most faithful to Mormonsim was when I desired order most, the farther away from it the more I realized I loved jazz music. Before, its syncopation and unstructured approach drove me crazy. Now I loved it and especially Brazilian Jazz due to a radio show on 98.3 KUVO Denver each Sunday afternoon. The DJ was this exuberant, effervescent woman named Cenir who made each hour a delight. Her voice practically jumped out of the speakers! I dreamed about meeting her, what it would be like to be around someone so amazingly energetic about her passion. I loved the Brazilians at ASU.

Things seemed to be falling into place. Daniel, a friend of mine who had discussed with me several times moving from a professorship at CU into the corporate training world for more than a decade, was hired on my suggestion at my current workplace.

On a business trip as I was riding the Denver International Airport tram to my gate, I looked up and there staring at me from two feet away was my old CLR lover, Ken. I immediately asked how he was, we found out we had some time before our flights and we ate breakfast together. He told me he was divorcing and dating a nice guy. I asked, “And that makes you…?” He said, “It makes me gay.” We smiled and we keep in touch now and then; he’s very happy and settling into his genuine life.

One time I boarded the wrong bus and as we drove by my Park-N-Ride station, I decided I’d make the afternoon an adventure. I called Rex and he was too busy to stop for dinner. I hopped off the bus, walked to a nice restaurant in Boulder, had dinner and some Spanish wine. Each sip of a Spanish wine is a big ol’ fuck you to the Mormon Church. I love drinking wines from the areas I spent on my mission. As I waited at the bus stop by myself to head back to my car, a woman approached in the dark, the bus stop was dimly lit but nice. Suddenly I recognized that voice. I waited for her to hang up; I sauntered over and said, “Do you listen to KUVO?” Knowing full well that she was not only a listener, but a radio personality, she *had* to be!

She looked at me, and said, “I am a DJ for the Brazilian Fantasia Show on…” and I blurted out, “I know! On KUVO! I am your biggest fan!” In the ensuing few minutes before the bus arrived, I had gushed so many compliments to her that we are now best friends. We meet each other on Friday evenings at the Brown Palace Ship Tavern, the oldest bar in Denver to belt out jazz standards at the piano bar where her good friend John tinkles the ivories. As of last week, John’s partner Brad became our new home design consultant helping us redesign our home colors and bathroom remodel projects.

I see my connectedness now like a vast colorful field where I can make anything happen. I sit in this time, and I project out these threads into my possible future. Years ago, as I dreamed about befriending Cenir, that dream manifested itself like a thread into my future. When the moment arrived to make it connect in that lucky space, I did.

I am sure that had I desired it to happen, and had I not been standing there that night, I would have been provided another attempt to connect my thread, to make my future happen as intended. I do not chalk this up to a deity, or to a “higher power”. I believe this happens when a person is open, aware, living genuinely and in balance.

And I think that every single person deserves to live genuinely and in balance. Follow your bliss.

No related posts.

Rex in Latin means king…

Last year I finalized a tattoo design and sat for three hours as the artist indelibly created my sign of my commitment to Rex on my upper right shoulder. It combined many different concepts, including a raw heart, a French crown, a banner with his name, and flames. It represents a deep feeling of love and dedication, the deepest feeling of love I’ve ever experienced.

Before I met him, I had no idea love could mean all this. This life, this existence, this comfort zone. He told me to trust him, and I wasn’t so sure I could, or should have. I was so burnt out, and rattled, and scared. I needed someone to believe in me, I needed someone to treat me well. I needed someone who would allow me to relax, to decompress, to express, to discover my genuine sexual self without fear. What I didn’t understand at the time was that he needed the same things.

But four years later as I sat describing the precise brilliant hues that would be embedded into my arm, I had come to realize that he was right, I’m glad I trusted him. You will never find a more fortunate man in your life than me.

After I left my marriage, I found a place to stay with a friend from work. He had a room open, and so I began moving in my clothes, some of my own photos, and my toiletries. My Ex and I had solidified a schedule for the kids, and when I wasn’t at the kid’s place, I slept there. My friend was dating a crazy loon at the time, but outside of that, it seemed to be a good fit. With my extra time, I began exploring the gay world on my own. I was done cheating, I was done with my CLR, I was finally able to see what this was all about. My fear was dissipating; I was guarded and reticent, but exploding with exuberant glee.

I was in a complicated situation, I was still legally married, I held 50% custody of three kids, and I was absolutely dedicated to them, no exceptions. Was there a guy who would see that as a positive thing? The more I thought about it, the more I realized that this situation might be perfect for someone! But the trick was finding that person. What did that person look like? I didn’t know. I wasn’t dead set on jumping into anything, but I am a relationship-based kinda guy. I wasn’t in any rush, I had just left a sixteen year marriage, and it hadn’t gone so smoothly.

Little did I know that I would stumble on that person in only four months.

The first guy I dated worked downtown, and lived in a cool neighborhood called Highland. I went to my very first Gay Pride event with him, and I felt amazed that we could basically make-out in public like straight people do without being stoned (with rocks). During that event, I stumbled on a small group of men representing the Front Range Gay Fathers Support Group. I was astounded! I took the information, made a few calls and attended the very next meeting. I was finding ways to replace my lost Mormon support structures.

After about a month of dating I was beginning to realize most gay men weren’t really looking for a complicated guy like me, although they all said they would love to be a dad. There’s a huge difference between saying you *want to be* a dad and actually *being* a dad. Any self-respecting dad is gonna take every call from their kids, and will drop anything in a moment’s notice if your kids need you. That didn’t go over so well with my dates, which didn’t go over so well with me. I *had* to be with a guy that understood that “Dad Principle” clearly. I am a dad first, and your boyfriend second.

Meanwhile, I had attended several Gay Fathers Support Group meetings. I was beginning to figure out what I needed. I needed a dad. I needed to date a man with kids who understood the Dad Principle, because *I* certainly did. The group was full of cute guys, dads with one, two, and more kiddos. We’d meet, discuss current issues we were facing with schools, friendships, work problems, etc., then we’d go out sometimes to bars or clubs. We all became very close, and it was a fun group. There wasn’t one person in particular that caught my eye, but I was willing to see what the fates brought to me.

During the sixth or so meeting, we were all to bring a bottle of wine, I had no idea what the fuck I was doing with wine, or drinks in general. All I knew was that a single drink tended to knock me on my ass due to the fact that I had *never once* had a drink of alcohol until that day I left the church. Add coffee, and tea to that list as well. The world was a *huge* exciting new place for me! And as I was hanging out in the kitchen, in walks this guy in a black T-shirt, shorter, with a cute ponch and a great smile. He took notice of me almost immediately. He introduced himself to me as Rex, an attorney with three kids.

Hmmmmmmmm.

I liked this guy. As we sat outside on the porch planning our summer activities, some for kids and some without kids, he stood right by me. Later, we all went out to The Wrangler, a gay bar catering to leather bear daddies, just my style. We hung there for awhile and I noticed two men in particular who were mighty fond of me, Rex, and Harry. A month later Rex admitted to me that he and Harry had been together for two years, and that Harry was Rex’s first male relationship. Nothing like a good dose of healthy competition!

Later that night, Rex and I ended up dancing for hours at another club, and as we danced, I was falling for this guy. I liked his sixties style of dancing, his intense stare, the way he playfully bit my neck and scalp. *He* was unusual, and I *like* unusual. We kissed intensely for about ten minutes before he said he had to leave. I begged for his phone number. Within three days we had set up another date, and that night we slept together in a hotel room and I have never wanted to be away from him again. He moved me in to his rental house two weeks later, and I’ve never slept a night without him since.

The first morning I awoke with Rex in his home, I received a panicked message from my roommate who stated that his crazy boyfriend had torched his house while he was out of town, and all of my belongings had gone up in smoke, literally. This fucknut had piled up a few bags of easy lighting charcoal briquettes on my roommate’s back wood deck, lit it, and my room which faced the back of the house, went up in flames. I was horrified to have lost my belongings, but so very happy to have found this wonderful guy who still wanted me. I was done with crazy!

What makes our pairing so interesting is that we have so many similarities in so many differences. For instance, we were raised in absolute opposite fashion, he was not raised into any religious belief, none whatsoever. I was raised into a strict church structure. By the time he was twenty-one, he had partaken of just about every illegal substance known to man hundreds of times over. By the time I was twenty-one, I had never partaken of a single illegal substance, not to mention most legal substances, I considered even coffee consumption sinful. His family was steeped in alcohol abuse, and currently he is the only remaining living member of his family of five due to addiction. As far as I know, about 95% of my family is addiction-free (not including religious addiction), breathing and healthy except for those cases of obesity. So, from that perspective, Rex and I couldn’t be further distanced in life experience.

He was married to a woman for sixteen years and had three kids with her, two boys and one girl. I was married to a woman for sixteen years and had three kids with her, two boys and one girl. He had a wide range of sexual experiences before he married, and he wasn’t focused on orientation so much as he was the sexual experience itself. I was repressed and forced into a straight orientation for my very salvation, which made me realize due to restriction that I was clearly gay but fought that orientation all my life. He had relaxed orgy-like collegiate moments, I never did. Due to the fact that he was enjoying sexuality freely, he did not focus on the fact that he was gay until after his bitter divorce and after he was again engaged to another woman.

Our similarities arise from our fatherhood and marital experiences. By the time he met me, he wanted to slow down his drinking, his searching for a mate, his desire to find a partner. When I’ve reached my two-drink maximum, he uses that as a way to stop his drinking. He, like me, was in search of the same stable person. He had been searching for almost ten years by the time he met me. I had only been searching for four months, but we arrived at the same idea of needing to be with another father almost simultaneously. He had been dating men from as far away as upstate New York. I was living fifteen minutes away from him the entire time.

I like to say that we are the Gaydy Bunch, think Brady Bunch but queer! Our kids range in ages from twenty-one to seven. Rex’s 21 year old is male, Rex’s 19 year old is male, my 17 year old is male, Rex’s 14 year old is a female, my 12 year old is a female, and my seven year old is a male. After two years, Rex and I bought a house together with enough space for all the kiddos. I tried to find a housekeeper named Alice, but we settled for a wonderful Hispanic woman named Leticia who had been cleaning our house bi-weekly for ten years for the previous owners.

We have one enormous white Pyrenees/Husky mix, and one Brown Heeler/Rat Terrier Mix. They assume every couch in the house is theirs; I’ve given up hope on trying to dissuade them. The vacuum is our friend as most of the house is covered in white dog fur within minutes of Leticia’s delicate handling. Oso, the huge white dog which the neighbor kids call the polar bear, has systematically eaten all smaller sized pets; the last victims were my youngest son’s zebra finches. He quietly snuck into the room, carefully undid one of the cage doors with his paw, took a few steps back and waited for the fun to begin. SNAP! SNAP! The burial was in the garden below where Sandy Grackle used to perch.

Rex and I get along quite well; we’ve never had a fight in almost five years. And it’s not that we’re even holding things back, we just don’t go there. We have similar temperaments, and I have found that if something is concerning me, it gets resolved within two days on its own. Rex is very in tune to us when we are together. The kids all thrive together, a few ups and downs, but never even a fight with them either. We’ve been mostly focused on trying to keep the home safe for all the kids, no matter the age. That’s where most of our discussions happen. We’ve had scads of the kid’s friends live with us over the years, and that was very trying at times in the cleaning and noise level areas, but it’s mostly gone now as the older kids grow.

Rex and I are now on a ten year plan towards his retirement. When we first got together, he dreamed about having beautiful places, each with a porch swing, and on each porch swing he told me he envisioned me there. He’s a wonderfully playful guy, and our Halloween costume parties the last two years have become huge. I’ve never known anyone to put in more hours than he does at work; he’s a Mergers and Acquisitions Attorney. One thing I noticed right off was his incredible high IQ, but not in a snooty way, it presents itself in his endless enthusiasm around his clients, his profession, and the world. He reads voraciously, he’s always on top of the news, and he’s leading his firm in revenue goals. The man is a *dynamo*.

But most amazingly is his ability to soothe me, comfort me, fuck me, take care of me, and love me. So softly and tenderly has he slowly healed me. From the moment I met him, he has been singly focused on making me happy, and he tells me he’ll do anything to please me. He wants us to be monogamous and together forever. The “forever” word freaked me out so much when he said it that I almost bolted. In the first year, I was honest when I told him I wasn’t sure I could do it. I was so scared then, of committing, of settling down into a single relationship after having just extricated myself from the crazy. I was honest with him, and he treats me like a rare bird that sits lightly in his hand. It makes we *want* to stay in his care. We aren’t jealous types, and we generously flirt with the world around us.

He understood my situation with my Ex, and has never pressured me to change anything; he complimented me for our loving approach to divorce. When I’m with my kids at my Ex’s house during the week where they have their dance practice, soccer practice, work, homework, and friends, he simply schedules himself to work late during those nights. With most previous partners of his, they all eventually came to hate his insane work schedule. And it would be difficult if I was at home pining away for time with him on those nights. But my custody nights are his built in days to catch up. He ends up working most weekends, but around times when I’m schlepping kids, or hanging out with them. Our situation fits us like a glove, we don’t pressure the other on issues that we need.

After all this time with Rex, I have come to understand what it is that heterosexual marriages have had all along. It’s an ease of love and life, an inherent desire for that person you live with at all times, drawn to them as they go about their life activities, suddenly taken aback by their courtesies, their graces, their sweetness. Sleeping in those positions where you feel so safe, snuggling off to sleep, and waking in the night feeling so drawn to that person next to you. I am finally in the right place at the right time. I don’t even think about *being gay* now. All the pain of the past has drifted away from me, and I have found something indescribable, something just right. I feel safe and sound.

For a long time I was afraid that I would wake up and all of this would be a dream and I’d be back trapped in Mormonism, trapped in a marriage that would never suit us, trapped in sadness. Most of my nightmares have fallen away, gone to haunt some other gay married Mormon man. Being with the right gender makes all the difference in the world. I am relaxed, carefree, and happy. The *real* happy I always wanted, not the “happy” being forced on me for so many years.

Before, I felt as if I was play-acting the life of a joyous man. I would go into the world and see these fathers, so happy, and living life simply. I wanted to be them so badly; I wanted to feel that, I wondered endlessly what it was like. What would it be like to not be haunted with thoughts of pain and suffering almost every single moment? After seven years of church-free life, and five years separated and divorced, I catch myself feeling *so* carefree that I am taken aback by the sweetness of it.

Every now and then I have moments when I become aware of myself. They are always sudden moments of such extreme freedom and exhilaration, and I watch myself, I become my own voyeur. I stop, I smile and I think, “Steve, you have become the man you envied most.”

No related posts.