In celebration of gay pride after attending my third Chicago Pride Parade today, I've decided to share my coming out story like several have done here this past month! My coming out started almost three years ago in August 2011, and I'm more or less still in the process of coming out. This is my first diary and I know its long, but I hope you find it interesting.
I had a very religious upbringing. I'm a fifth generation Dutch American who, unlike their European contemporaries, tend to hold very closely to their religion. My family's church, the United Reformed Church (URC), split from the Christian Reformed Church (CRC), which split from the Reformed Church in America (RCA), which split from the Dutch Reformed Church in the Netherlands. The URC is by far the most conservative in my experience, but all three American denominations are by most standards. These denominations tend to follow the teachings of John Calvin very closely. (Fun Fact: The Congressman from Michigan's 2nd congressional district attends a CRC church, and I also share my last name with him though I'm not related as far as I know.)
So what does this history lesson about the religion of Dutch people in the United States have to do with my coming out? Well, in most of these denominations, young adults have profession of faith in front of the church after meeting with the elders and answering catechism questions and personal relationship with Jesus questions. This is similar to confirmation or baptism for adults in some denominations from my understanding although I think profession of faith might be a more vigorous process. I had completed my senior year of high school, and I hadn't professed my faith yet which was a little old compared to most people. It's not that I couldn't answer the catechism questions (I had helped my sister study and knew them better than she did,) but I never really had a relationship with Christ, and I felt guilty for being gay.
In early August 2011, my family went to our cottage while I stayed home and worked at the family business. This was a more regular occurrence this summer since I was given a raise and promotion after graduating high school and was expected to be there more often. Being a horny teenager, I watched porn for hours every night they were gone which was a lot easier than when they were home since our house had just one computer. My dad came home earlier than the rest of my family since he had to work, so it was just me and him for a couple of days. I hated this. I always hated it when it was just me and him in the car. He never really cared what I had to say, and it was usually awkward at least for me.
I half figured that he would ask me about why I hadn't made profession of faith yet since he had asked me earlier in the summer, but I had ignored him and walked away. But it would be harder this time since it was just me and him. I was right in my assumption and after dinner one night he asked me why I hadn't made profession of faith yet. I was feeling rather guilty after a week of porn and masturbation, and I was really confused about what I was going to do with my life. I was going down two divergent paths that were bound to split soon. I knew I was gay and wanted to be gay, but I was attending a Christian college in the fall (associated with Dutch Reformed churches of course,) and all I knew was my family, others like them and the church. I grew up in a bubble and hardly knew anyone outside of it.
After a half hour or so of him prodding and him noticing that something was wrong, I broke and started crying and said that I watched a lot of porn. He confessed to doing the same, but then with a lot more crying and stuttering, I told him it was gay porn. I told him I needed help. I wasn't crying because I was sorry for being gay and felt that it was a sin. I was crying because I couldn't be gay. I couldn't be myself. I felt like I had no other options. I thought I would be kicked out if I said I wanted to be gay. I figured this was the best way and maybe therapy would help stop these urges even though I knew in the back of my mind that it would never work.
My father told my mother, and a week or two later they took me to my first appointment with my reparative "therapist". He had a doctorate...in theology. My experience with him was not as bad as some I suppose. There was no physical or shock therapy. I mainly had to memorize Bible verses and abstain from masturbating. Oh, and to try to talk to girls and start a relationship with one. I was very quiet in the sessions. I would barely speak for most of it. He was worried that I had no friends past the second stage, "casual friendship." I had been very quiet in all of high school and had friends but I never told them close things like that I was gay. I was also really depressed in high school, but only realized it later. I complained every day that I was tired even when I had a full night's sleep. I realize now that it was depression. The "therapist" suggested that I take a temperament analysis. The results showed that I had an extreme temperament in almost every area. I was extremely nervous, depressive, quiet, inhibited, indifferent, and submissive. I was also on the extremes for subjective and tolerant which I found interesting. He was worried that I was going to try to kill myself and suggested I get anti-depressants from my real doctor (which would also help me talk to girls and go on dates with them since I hadn't been.)
I did go and get the anti-depressants from my doctor and started taking them. Shortly thereafter, during winter break, I went to Europe with a small portion of students from my college for a week. I was in Germany, and drank beer as the Germans do which is probably not the best idea when on anti-depressants. This was also the first time I had ever gotten drunk in my life. I also hardly slept since I don't sleep well out of my own bed. I think it was the combination of anti-depressants, alcohol, lack of sleep, and the realization that a vague fantasy that I would have my first sexual experience on this trip wasn't going to happen, which led to a breakdown at the end of the trip.
The breakdown wasn't like crying hysterically or really noticeable to others around me, but more like a zombie state where I couldn't feel anything, couldn't sleep, and couldn't really taste food. The ten hour flight home felt like forever and yet really short. The customs line felt really fast for me, but apparently it was longer than an hour. I got to my dorm at around six in the evening and went immediately to bed. I didn't sleep at all. I felt that I was going to die in the morning. I sent an email to my parents who were vacationing in the Caribbean at the time. I have no clue what I said in it. I just wanted to go home from school and sleep in my bed. I would have driven home had my car keys not been locked in my friend's dorm with my laptop. (I left it there because they actually locked their door unlike my roommates.)
My parents emailed me back and said they were getting on a flight as soon as possible. They said they were sending my sister. They also contacted the school. My RA came in at some point after that and found me with my anti-depressants in my hands. She asked me how many I had taken. I answered only two. I don't think I really planned on killing myself. I'd be too scared to kill myself. I suppose it was a call for help. I was brought to the student development office and waited there until my sister and her father-in-law showed up. She had gotten upset since she didn't know anything about me being gay or seeing a "therapist" and didn't want to drive in a snow storm.
They brought me to my "therapist" instead of a real doctor. I wanted to go home, but he convinced me to stay with him overnight until my parents got home. So I spent the night in his house and followed him around during his errands the next day until my dad picked me up. It took me about a week to recover. I started having to see my own pastor for a while since they were informed about me being gay after the meltdown.
At some point during the few weeks following my meltdown, I decided that I wanted to have sex with a man at least once in my life. I hadn't even decided that I wanted to end the "therapy." To spare you most of the details, I did have sex, but a lot more than once. I hooked up with my current boyfriend, and we just clicked. We talked and texted frequently. My parents found out that I had been having sex, and things started to go south at home. My boyfriend said I could move in with him. That's a whole other story, and perhaps I'll write it if people on here want to hear it. But I did escape from my family and their religion.
I've been living with my boyfriend for just over two years now. He actually just proposed about a month ago and we're getting married next year! I stayed at the religious college because when I came out to my friends they didn't care, I would have lost too many credits going to another school, and I have a lot of financial aid there. I'm out to my close friends at college, and I tell people if they ask. I usually prefer to come out when people ask who my significant other is and I say HIS name. Apparently most students in my grade in the business department know, but they don't say anything to my face at least. I have no idea if my professors know, and I don't care. I'm a straight A student and top of my class. That's all that should matter to them. I'll be graduating next spring with a B.S. in Accounting and already have an internship lined up that will hopefully lead into a full time job!
It hasn't all been easy, but it's better than before. I think my family misses me more than I miss them. Sometimes I regret telling my father, but then I think if I hadn't, where would I be? I'm gay and (mostly) out and finally happy for once in my life. I guess it really does get better.