Son of God

            “I am a son of God.”

            The face in the mirror is tear-streaked and glaring back at me.  I can read the hatred in those familiar brown eyes. 

            I did this countless times when I was living in California.  It was easy to believe then.  I would be standing there in the short-sleeved, white, button-up shirt and tie.  As I would reach up with the comb to part my hair, I would remind myself, “Elder Anderson, you are a son of God.”

            Almost a year later, I’m standing here, glaring into my bearded face, in a wife-beater and a pair of gym shorts.  How the mighty have fallen.

            “You’re pathetic,” it’s like the mirror pulled the words from my mind to my lips and then right out into the open air around me.

            I shiver.  So does the man in the mirror.  I can see the hurt written all over my face.  I caused that damage.  I am the one responsible for the tears running down my face. I am the one responsible for the hatred that is glaring right into my core.

            “You’re all alone,” I say.

            That isn’t the truth.  At this point, standing in the bathroom talking to my reflection, I am aware of the fact that I have joined ranks with Gollum, the Green Goblin, Electro, and about a hundred other villains that spend half of their movie screen-time monologueing to themselves.

            The shaking is coming on again.  I’ve never cried like this before.  I didn’t on my mission when one of the people I thought was a friend told me that I had been deceived by the devil.  I didn’t when my mom refused to listen to me tell her about the guy I had started liking, I didn’t even cry like this when I realized that I’m gay.  It’s the deepest kind of crying, the howling, shaking, trembling, sobbing kind of crying.  It’s the type of crying reserved for only the most painful moments a human can experience.  It’s the crying that comes when there is nothing else that can be done and no one else to comfort you.  It is the kind of crying that is the body’s last defense before giving up.

            I can almost feel the eyes of God piercing through the ceiling and crushing me.  I can imagine His disappointment in me.  I was once a leader among missionaries.  I was responsible for many people finding God. I was responsible for training and teaching three other missionaries how to do their job. There was a time when I was going places.

            “Pathetic,” I whisper, and pull my eyes away from my reflection.

            My right hand reaches up instinctively and latches itself to the bare skin of my left arm.  There is comfort in the touch.  I gasp for breath and close my eyes.  I focus on the touch.  I know it is my own touch.  I know that I am alone.

            My hand finds its way to my collarbone.  There’s the lump from the four-wheeling accident.  The bone had grown back together in such a way that I would always have a lump of bone as a reminder of the pain.  My fingers trace the bump. There is no pain, just the reassurance of contact.

            I open my eyes.  There is defiance in my eyes in the mirror. 

            “I am a son of God.”

One Year

Today marks exactly one year since I came home from my mission.  There are a thousand things in my mind and in my heart that I want to say right now.
First and foremost, I am so indescribably grateful for the opportunity that I had to serve as a full-time missionary.  There are literally millions of lessons I learned during those two years that have helped me grow and become the man that I want to be.  There were people that were placed in my life that lifted me from day to day, and that continue to care for me, love me, and support me to this day.  I would never wish that I had done anything else with those two years, other than what I was doing every single day in the mission field.
But more than that, I want to say how thankful I am for the year that I've had.  It has been incredibly challenging, but quite possibly the most rewarding year of my life.  I came home so scared that I would fall away from the church, that I would forget all of those lessons I had learned, and that I would turn my back on God and on my family forever.
However, this year has brought amazing and completely unexpected blessings. I have come out to more people than I ever imagined I would in my life. I've come out to almost all of my family, I've come out to friends, roommates, strangers, and neighbors.  I have been blessed with some incredible people in my life who have not pushed me away because of the feelings I have, but who have pulled me closer and made me feel loved, valued, and a part of something.
This year I have taken steps toward healing mentally from  a moment in my childhood that still leaves painful ripples.  I have been meeting with a counselor who is helping me process what it means to have been molested, and how to handle that and not use it as a crutch or as a barrier to throw around myself in future relationships.
I have learned how much I value my family, and have tried to spend more time around them than I ever would have before my mission. I have learned to love my siblings like I never expected to, and I have learned to allow myself to come second to them sometimes, which is a hard thing for me.
I have questioned my testimony.  I have honestly spent time asking the really difficult questions, and I'm still not sure I have answers, but I'm learning to accept that and live with the faith I know that I do have.
I have found myself in some of the darkest spots of my life.  I have felt the shudder of fear that comes when you aren't sure you want to be around for another day.  I have cried more tears than I think I did during my mission (and I cried quite a few times on my mission).
And through it all, I have come to a slightly clearer understanding of how much my Father in Heaven truly does love me.  I have fallen so many times this year, and every time there is that quiet reassurance in my heart that all I have to do is pick myself back up, and trust that everything is working together for my good.
I though that my mission would be the biggest growing experience of my life, but this experience of learning to be genuine, and learning to love others and trust others, and support others, has changed me beyond anything I ever expected this year to do.

Fall

I never wanted to be your disappointment.

I never wanted to feel this way.

I never wanted to be the one making the 1 a.m. calls.

Those calls where I have to beg someone to come,

Those calls that I make because I can’t be alone.

I never wanted to be the one scared that I might not make it to another sunrise.

I never wanted to be the one pacing at midnight, wishing someone would come in and hold me.

‘Pray harder,’ you tell me. ‘Have more faith.’

I want to scream, I want to believe that it will work.

I have prayed, I have prayed for a decade.

I have begged for faith. I have pleaded for hope.

I have studied, memorized, searched, and pondered.

I have served, I have magnified callings.

I have tried, I have given my all to collapse at the end of a day.

I never asked to feel this way.

I asked to be like you.

I asked to feel like you.

I asked to change.

It never happened.

So I stand, your embarrassment, and your shame.

I stand your disappointment, your skeleton in the closet.

I stand, my knees shaking, my head hanging down.

I stand ashamed of myself, wishing that it would end.

I stand, knowing that I will fall soon.

I’m reaching out to you.

I tried to write poetry during the whole suicidal period.  I don't necessarily feel this way anymore, but I liked this poem.  It's been exactly a month since that night.

Flawless Moments

It's Sunday night at family dinner.  I completely broke yesterday, and I'm still in pieces, just sitting on the floor in the living room, trying to compose poetry.  My sister comes, and I try to put up the guards, but her arm is around me, her head is on my shoulder, and I can't put the guards up anymore.  All I can do is let the tears fall, and allow myself for that moment to be seen for what I really am.

It's a Saturday afternoon. I'm outside staining the fence for my parents, I've dedicated my last couple Saturdays to this fence, and I'm almost done.  My music is blaring from my ear-buds, so I don't hear my dad approach, but he's there, and he just tells me that I'm one of the most Christ-like people he's ever met, that he loves me, and he'll always love and support me, no matter where my life takes me.  He is choking back tears, and it's the first time I've seen my dad this vulnerable.

My brother has opened the letter I left on his bed. He knows now that I'm gay. He knows that I'm not planning on being at his temple wedding, that I'm not planning on my own temple wedding, and I'm so scared that he'll reject me.  Then I get the text. All he says is, "I wish you were here, so I could give you a hug."

I just spent a couple hours with the guy I'm interested in, and I found out that he and his roommate (who I'm sort of interested in too, because things are complicated) are both dating other people, and I feel so disappointed, because I wanted it to work out for me.  But you come along and we go out to dinner, and end up going all over town making total fools of ourselves, and it's so fun.  Suddenly, I'm aware that I have an amazing best friend who knows how to help me get over stupid boy drama.

The snow is falling. It's not little flakes, it's big, fluffy, beautiful flakes.  I'm sitting on the balcony, just staring out at the beauty that is all around me.  I realize I am lucky to be alive. I am lucky that I am here, where I can see this beauty. I am lucky to be me.

November

This is not going to be cute. Just a heads up.
I broke this month.  I crashed to the ground, and fell farther and harder than I ever thought possible. I was holding it together so well, and then in one night, everything I thought I was holding up fell down around me, and I found myself alone on my couch, holding myself, struggling to breathe. When I was a freshman in college, I contemplated suicide.  If I had access to the roof of the dorms, I would have jumped.  I broke out of that shell though, and I moved on.  I don't know how it happened, but somehow good friends came into my life, and lifted me up, and for four years, I was fine. Life still had its ups and downs, but I could manage them, and everything was okay.
On November 8, 2014, I once again found myself contemplating what it would be like, if I just veered into oncoming traffic, and let myself get killed. It sounded so good to me. For months I had fooled myself into believing that my family was going to support my choice of lifestyle, and then on that day, I felt it all fall down.  I got in a fight with my parents, got in a fight with my sister, lied to my brother, and left my family's house feeling broken and dejected.  After a series of other painful events, I found myself in my car, sobbing uncontrollably behind the steering wheel, parked on the side of the road, alone, in the dark.  I don't know how I got back to my apartment, but when I was there, I realized that I wanted to die.  I wanted it to end.  I didn't end it.  I fought the feelings, I fought the tears, I fought the self-loathing, but I was terrified.
On November 15, 2014, I met a new friend. We are not dating, although he is gay.  He has a boyfriend, and I'm interested in his gay roommate (who also has a boyfriend), but for the first time, someone entered my life, who within the first twenty minutes of us talking had become someone I trusted with all of my secrets.  He has been a lifesaver, and he has been one of the few people in the world who has made me feel good about being myself.  I owe so much to him.
I am still broken.  Don't think that in a matter of a few weeks all of the pain of that horrible night has been swept away, but the brokenness is not going to last forever.  Meeting my new friend was the introduction to something I haven't seen in a while. That new thing is hope.  I believe that I will make it. I will find people who love me for who I am, not for who they want me to be.  I have done that.  I will do it again, and again. I will not be alone.  I know that.

Life ebbs on.  The image of perfection can fall from the pedestal where I placed him.  The pain can be completely unbearable, as I watch the man I felt myself falling for transform into something that frightens me. The people around me can be totally unaware of the pain, and I can feel invisible. But life ebbs on.
I have fallen before.  I have hurt before. I have cried into the night before. I have screamed out to God before, and felt momentary and illusive peace.  I have been here before. I know what this is, and I won't stay here.  I cannot stay here.
My knees tremble as I pick myself up.  They haven't supported my weight in so long.  The first few steps will hurt.  I know my legs are weak.  I almost fall again. I almost crash to the ground.  It feels welcoming as his face flashes across my mind. I push him away.  There is freedom as I do it.  The world is mine. It is not his. I am not his. I belong to myself. I will grow strong.

I remember when I was thirteen.  I had spent the better part of the fall months making the perfect Christmas list.  It was long enough that my parents had options. I had starred my favorites, in a hope that it would make my parents think more about those options.  I had even spent time researching my favorite authors to find other books that they had written. It was going to be the best Christmas ever. I was expecting a mountain of Jack Weyland (gotta love the romance books), one or two classics (I'm super thankful that my Louisa May Alcott phase has died out), and my very own copy of Harry Potter: Order of the Phoenix (no matter how many people fight me on this, I will always say this is the greatest book in the series).
Before I continue, understand that I'm the youngest child in my family, and like many other youngest children, I went through a very big entitlement phase. Please don't judge me for what I'm about to describe.
There were books under the tree, wrapped up for me.  I couldn't contain my excitement, as I ripped the paper off, only to discover this:

The Jimmy Fincher Saga.  I'm not gonna do a review on it, because I'm afraid old James Dashner will find it, and will be sadly disappointed.  As a writer myself, I understand how much heart and soul can go into a piece, and I don't want to damage that.  All I can say is that for me, they were a one time read.
I was devastated. I knew what I wanted.  I had even explained to my parents what I wanted. What was the purpose of making a Christmas list, if I was going to be given some poorly written drivel (sorry James Dashner), instead of the glorious books I wanted (Sidenote: In all fairness, Jack Weyland isn't some linguistic genius either.  He's pretty campy too, but I was a sucker for the cheestastic romances)?  Still, I read the ENTIRE series.  Two things motivated me. The first was the thought that if I didn't appreciate what I had been given, then my parents would feel justified in calling Christmas off the next year.  The second, was a hope that somewhere, something redeemable would reveal itself inside these books (unfortunately, I was disappointed).
My purpose in writing this, was not to review this series.  If you don't believe that it's not the best, go read it. My real purpose was a thought that occurred to me tonight, that is demonstrated by this story.
My parents wanted me to be happy that Christmas.  They always do. I know, because they love me, and I also was able to see the disappointment in my mom's face, when she found out that I wasn't happy with what she thought I wanted.  She had tried hard. She had wanted to surprise me, and she had read reviews of the series as well as the Christmas list that I had composed.  She knew what I liked. She knew me.  She honestly thought that this was something that would be good for me, and would make me happy.  After I had finished them, she read them too.
What I have to say about the series, is nicer than the things my mother would say about it.  She hated it.  I don't honestly know what motivated her to finish the series, but she did, and at the end she apologized, we sold them, and spent the money on a book hat had been originally on my list.
Okay, here's the point of this whole rambling story.  Sometimes, I feel like religion is this way.  I'm not trying to be blasphemous.  It's just an honest thought I had tonight.  I feel like, sometimes religious people have this thought that they know me, and because they know me, they know exactly what will make me happy.  They aren't trying to be hurtful or trying to disappoint me.  They honestly think that what they have to offer, will make me happy.  It's selfish of me to not see that.  However, from my point of view, sometimes I feel like what they have to offer is once again the Jimmy Fincher Saga, when what I really wanted was the best book in the greatest series of my generation (I'm talking about Order of the Phoenix).
And here's where I bring up 'the gay' again.  So many people have told me that the way for me to truly be happy is to marry a woman, and to live that life, even when I explain to them that what I really feel like will make me happy is a totally different path.  I'm not trying to sound selfish. I understand that people think that this really will make me happy. They think that when I experience traditional family life, the temporary disappointment of losing what I thought I wanted, will be cured when I find out how happy I am.  But I don't think that.  All I see is Jimmy Fincher, surely satisfying to some, but not what I asked for, and not really what I want, even potentially filled with disappointment, and frustration.