On Dating pt. II

I've tried writing this post three times before I stopped deleting what I had written.  I was going to try to be erudite, write something that would resonate with someone on this subject. Grab the reader and keep their interest into the meat of the post, the part I truly want to write.  But I couldn't find the right words.

Dating sucks.  It just does.  If you think about it, most of the dates we go on end in failure.  Failure to spawn a relationship.  Failure to ignite the flame of desire.  Failure to forge a lasting connection between two people.  I've gone on plenty of dates with guys whose names I can't remember now.  Even some of their faces are blurry in my minds eye.  

But what's worse is when the opposite happens.  When it starts great.  When you have a connection with someone.  When you realize that there could be potential.  When the person you're dating sees past your insecurities and makes you feel valued and heard.  And yet still it doesn't work out.  

Now saying dating sucks is cliche and to be honest not actually one hundred percent true.  There is something to be said for the mystery of what could be coming.  Could this actually work out?  Could they be the one?  Could he be the first guy I introduce to my family?  Could he be the one I finally call my boyfriend?  That excitement can be intoxicating.  But is that intoxication worth the disappointment that eventually comes when it ends?

The most recent guy I dated was exciting.  He was kind.  He was smart.  He was clever.  He was entertaining.  I use the past tense here not because he is no longer with us, but because he is no longer with me.  We had gone on about four dates before I realized that I was chasing something that clearly wasn't there.  He was never rude to me, he never spoke to me in a condescending way, he never was unkind to me even.  But he didn't look at me with any kind of affection for someone beyond that which two friends share.  

We did genuinely enjoy one another.  And I will remember him fondly.  On our last conversation I said that I was sure we would talk again soon, knowing full well that we wouldn't.  But his response was surprisingly genuine when he said we would.  I do believe he believes we will.  

I don't mind the fact that he and I aren't together.  If I'm being honest, it was clear to me that we weren't the match I had hoped we'd be.  There were red flags popping up here and there.  And I knew I could see them this time.  I was happy to date him to see if things would progress, but when it became obvious they weren't I had accepted that fact.  

The reason it hurts was not because I won't have this guy in my life any more.  It's because I won't have anyone special in my life.  I look around at all of my friends.  I look at all of my family members.  They all have that person that lifts them up.  That they can call their own.  And here I am, one failure after another, alone.  It is the crushing disappointment that makes it hard.  And it is that disappointment that reinforces my insecurities.  

Was I not smart enough for him?  Was I not attractive enough for him?  Was I not fit enough for him? Was I not witty enough, rich enough, ambitious enough?  But at the end of the day, the answers to those questions don't matter.  My reality is that I'm alone.  I know that I'm alone for now, but for now is all I have.  It's all any of us have.  

I am proud of myself though.  Even though I could tell his feelings for me were waining, he was not going to bring them up.  After all, I was giving him what he wanted; affection.  But I had enough self respect to know it was unfulfilling.  I could have not said anything and just given more to him that he would ever give to me.  But I didn't want to do that.  So I asked the question.  I asked him if he wanted to end this.  I did that.  And that is a big step.

On the Women's March

If you've met me, you know that I am firmly left of center when it comes to my political ideologies.  I am socially liberal, believe that there needs to be a robust social safety net and that those who need assistance to get a head in life should have pathways to achieve that goal.  I also recognize that as a white cis gender male there will be experiences, especially when it comes to institutionalized discrimination, I will never be able to relate to.  As a gay man, I am a little more inclined to say that I can empathize with my friends of color when it comes to being discriminated against, however, I know that I have been privileged enough to not experience that directly, or individually.

When I watched in fear and horror as state after state went for Donald Trump back in November, I was afraid for the future of our country.  That feeling of unbridled optimism that swept the nation (or so I thought) during 2008 and the election of Barack Obama was gone.  Instead, fear mongering, hatred and lies won out.  I was thrown into intellectual turmoil.  I haven't used #notmypresident, because I have faith in the electoral process.  This election was not free from interference, both domestically from agencies like the FBI and internationally from countries like Russia, but I firmly believe that the polls and polling places were not rigged or tampered with.  And as such, I begrudgingly admit that Donald Trump won the election.

But I lost hope.  I lost my sense of youthful optimism instilled in me by the young and unlikely senator from Illinois.  I was afraid.  I was afraid that the new president would appoint a justice on the Supreme Court that would make same sex marriage illegal once more.  I was afraid he would take immediate and decisive action agains minority communities around the country.  And my fears were not unfounded.  His campaign rhetoric, if taken at face value, is terrifying.  He threatened to jail his political opponent.  He said he would ban the entry of refugees from Muslim countries.  He said he would build a wall with our neighbor and force them to pay for it.  It was not a time for blind optimism.

The day after the election, I received a Facebook invitation to attend the Women's March on Washington.  I loved the idea, but wasn't planning on going.  Instead, that day, I was going to plan a surprise baby shower for one of my best friends.  Frankly, I didn't think that the march would be safe, given the number of Trumpkins in Washington, D.C. and their likelihood to insight violence against those who think differently.  I was going to be content over across the river, drinking, eating and celebrating the new life growing inside of my friend.  But she had other plans.

Since she didn't know what we were planning for that day, she said that she wanted to go march.  Now there was no way I could not march if my 8 month pregnant friend was going to do it.  So I decided, fine, I'll go early in the day, march and then go to her house while she's still out and decorate.

And that's what I did.  And am I ever thankful she convinced me to go.

Walking to the march from my house was surreal.  I had walked around the day before during the inaugural parade and felt like I was in some weird post apocalyptic Washington, D.C.  National Guard troops looked visibly tense.  There was a dull and negative energy swirling around the normally busy and jovial streets of the nation's capitol.  But not on the day of the march.

Within twenty four hours, the streets went from somber and melancholy to filled with joyful noises of tens of thousands of people gathering for one purpose: to show we were not afraid and that hope didn't die on November 8.

We walked from my house in Dupont to 4th street, between the National Museum of the American Indian and the National Air and Space museum.  I won't lie; I was disappointed I didn't see Sara Bareilles on my walk there, but what I saw was even more amazing (if that's even possible).

I saw men, women, boys, girls, old, young, gay, straight, black, white, brown, all gathering on the nation's front lawn shouting support for one another.  The signs people held up were not only to support women's rights, but to reaffirm support for Black Lives Matter or the LGBTQ+ community, or immigrants coming to this country.

Walking across the Mall itself, I remember vividly hearing a cheer break out on the north side.  The cheer spread among the crowd, like a wave.  If you've ever been to a Muslim country and heard the Imam do the evening call to prayer in a big city, one Mosque starts and then the next, and the next until that wave of prayer washes over the city.  That was what was happening in DC.  Instead of praying to Mecca, we were announcing to the world that we were not going to give up our rights, our protections, our lives, without a fight.  And it was magical.

I did leave before the march started, but having arrived at 9:30AM I thought I was good.  We left the area by about 11:30AM and in those two hours, at least two hundred thousand people joined the march.  It took us 45 minutes to walk a block and a half through the crowd.  And it was amazing.  People were polite, people were happy, people were cheerful.  I will admit, I got a little misty eyed more than once on that day.

That day is a day that will be burned into my mind.  It is a day I will tell my nieces and nephews about.  If I'm lucky enough to meet someone with whom I would like to have children, it is a day I will tell our kids about.  I was there.  I marched.  And I realized that my work was only just beginning. 

On the Election

Anyone who has ever met me knows I am not a fan of social conservatism.  I don't believe it has a place in this modern era.  I can understand how people who were brought up in much more conservative times are products of their generation, however, that is not an excuse for blatant bigotry.

I can remember how excited I was to cast my vote for Barack Obama in November of 2008.  I walked into the dorm that was our polling place.  I proudly took my Democrat ballot and used the pen at the voting station to fill in the Obama circle.  I then took my completed ballot and placed it into the ballot box, though it was actually an electronic vote scanner.

A few hours later, as the polls closed in California, I can remember hearing cheers erupt throughout my campus as the election was called for Barack Obama.  The man who campaigned on hope and change had won the office of President of the United States of America.  I had never had more optimism for our country's future.  His campaign promised major healthcare reform.  He fully supported LGBT rights.  He pledged to end Don't Ask Don't Tell.  It was a new era in American politics.

The election of 2016 was very different.  While I was a staunch supporter of Hillary Clinton, her campaign was markedly different than that of Barack Obama.  Secretary Clinton had a vision for America, but instead of campaigning on that vision, their strategy was mostly "anti-Trump."  The biggest problem she faced was her lack of trust, and that campaign strategy only reinforced her image as a canning manipulative politician.

November 8, 2016 was a day I was very much looking forward to though.  My roommate and I were having an election watch party.  We invited dozens of friends over to watch the results.  We were confident the we would be watching Hillary Clinton demolish the misogynistic, xenophobic, racist dumpster fire of a candidate the GOP had run.  We had food, drinks and great company.

Then the results started pouring in.

The mood in the room suddenly turned.  Instead of being a celebration of a continuation of the Obama policies that literally made my life better, we were watching our country elect a man who openly mocked a disabled reporter, who said he could grab a woman by her vagina with no repercussions, who chose a vice president who believes that if you electrify gay people they will turn straight.  It was quite literally the antithesis of what I felt back in 2008.

Now I live on 16th Street in Washington, D.C.  For those who aren't familiar with the District, the White House is at the corner of Pennsylvania and 16th Street.  That means if I walk out of my building and turn left, I look at the presidential mansion.  Walking down the street and seeing the Obama White House filled me with an immense sense of pride.  But beyond pride, it filled me with that same sense of hope and optimism I felt when I cast my first vote for a president when I was eighteen years old.

Now I avoid looking at that building.  It stands as a symbol of all that I see wrong in this country.  It no longer is a bastion of scientific progress.  Instead it stands as a citadel of the ignorant.  The men and women who walk through those doors to go to their jobs in the west wing support backwards policies right out of the eighteenth, nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

The level of hypocrisy in the new administration is astounding.  From the pick for Attorney General who was too racist to be confirmed as a federal judge to the pick for Education Secretary who has never taken out a student loan for herself or anyone in her family, we are in for dark times.   But I still have a flicker of hope burning inside of me.  If any good comes from this election, it's that good people are hearing the call of public service.  And I pledge my support to make sure they can do all of the good they need to get our country back on track. 

On Dating

Dating sucks.  I don't know anyone that truly enjoys dating.  I can't speak for everyone, but this is typically how it goes.  You use an app to meet someone.  You text on the app for a few days.  You then exchange numbers.  You get along great virtually.  You exchange a few photos.  You make plans to go out.  You meet up.  You have a decent time but don't feel that spark.  You never hear from that person again.  You're actually okay with it.

On the rare occasion that I found someone with whom I feel a connection, I would usually still never hear from them again.  They would ghost on me.  There is the occasional mature individual who would let me know the feelings weren't mutual and that he wasn't interested in going out again.  While those messages are disappointing, I respect them a lot for having the ability to send them in the first place.  It is easy for folks who have grown up in the digital dating age to block a number and leave the person wondering what happened.  I am a big boy and fully understand that dating must be consensual otherwise it won't work (and is sort of illegal...).  

But then there is the even rarer occurrence when I go out with someone and they are equally as interested in me.  I can count on one hand the number of times that has happened.  There was S., there was the Real Estate Agent, there was the Editor, and now there is the Teacher.  Those people scare me more than anything.  The potential for compatibility is one of the most terrifying things I have ever encountered in my adult dating life.  It is terrifying mostly because I am convinced it won't work out.  And it isn't so much the possibility of the relationship that scares me but the inevitable disappointment I will feel when it eventually doesn't work out.

I am currently seeing the Teacher.  We met on an app.  We texted on the app for a few days.  We exchanged numbers.  We texted.  We sent each other pictures.  We went on a first date.  And I heard from him.

Our first date was quite fun.  He lives decently far outside of Washington, D.C. so I drove out to meet him.  I picked him up at his house and we went to look at Christmas lights.  We spent about an hour and a half in my car listening to carols, talking and looking at lights.  After that we went to the grocery store, picked up some wine and went back to his house where we ordered pizza and drank said wine.  It was late so I spent the night.  The next morning we woke up and he told me he needed to take his car into the shop.  I said I stick around and keep him company while the car was being worked on.  He said he would like that.  I was floored. 

I am doing my best not to make my pessimism a self fulfilling prophecy.  But looking at it objectively, he is much more attractive than I am.  He is fit, toned, blonde and tall.  He is the type that will turn heads when he walks into a bar.  He is witty, sarcastic, well adjusted, smart and kind.  He is also younger than I am by about three years.  I am waiting for him to understand he can find a guy that is better looking, a guy who makes more money than I do, a guy who he lusts after.  He hasn't sent me that message.  He hasn't stopped talking to me.  He hasn't ghosted.  He has said he wants to hang out again.  

It doesn't seem real.  It doesn't seem like this is something that happens to me.  He is what I am hoping for.  I know it is early on in getting to know him, but he checks off most of my boxes.  We have a great time together.  We'll see if it keeps going.

On Depression

Depression seems to be a bad word in modern society.  The truth about depression is that even talking about it makes people uncomfortable.  If that is true for you, I'd suggest you discontinue reading now.

Depression has been something I've struggled with since I was in middle school.  I don't have any degrees in psychology, nor am I interested in pursuing a job in that field, but I do have an intimate understand of how this disease takes hold and can change a person's entire world view.

When I was in ninth grade, we were required to write a lengthy research paper.  A lot of people chose historical events to write about.  I chose antidepressants.  I knew that I wasn't feeling 100% like myself and wanted to know if antidepressants would help get me back to the me I knew and liked.  I didn't know anything about how they worked, aside conversations with a family member who I knew took them.  That family member, having no degrees in psychology nor a history, either vocationally or educationally, in medicine was basically repeating what their psychiatrist told them about the drugs they were taking.  The antidepressants, or as this family member jokingly referred to them as "happy pills," didn't make you feel happy all the time.  Instead they raised the valley floors when you were at your lowest.

That research paper was my first cry for help.  I remember writing and discussing it with many people in my family.  I'm not sure if they knew I was struggling with depression and were too uncomfortable to broach the subject with me or if they were just unaware to my mental anguish, but I knew something was off.

Depression in teenagers, at least in my experience, can often be brushed off as simple teen angst.  I remember when my mother's boyfriend came to visit, I didn't interact with him much.  Instead, I came home from school and just hung out in my room.  This was my sophomore year of high school; my hardest year of high school emotionally.  The last thing I wanted to do was go make small talk with a man who I didn't know very well and with whom I had had even less in common after spending all day at school pretending to be someone I wasn't and still having to deal with the, albeit small, group of people who would still spread rumors and/or make fun of me for being different.

I remember starting talk therapy my junior year.  I met with three psychologists before I settled on one.  I wasn't a fan of any of them.  Talk therapy just made me delve deeper into my head when I was alone.  It made me realize that I had thoughts that scared me.  I realized that I was suicidal.

That same year I remember having a physical.   When the doctor asked me about my mental health, I was truthful.  I said I was depressed.  The doctor pressed further.  Did I have any suicidal thoughts?  I said I didn't know, but maybe.  She said that anyone who had suicidal thoughts had a plan.  I realized I did.  I remember thinking how easy it would be to go to the garage, lock the door behind me and turn on the car.  Simple.  Painless.  Easy.  That's when I realized that I was in a bad place.

Looking back on it, I'm not exactly sure what jolted me out of that particular valley.  I think it was probably the summer I spent abroad in France.  It forced me to open my eyes to a world beyond myself.  I was able to explore a completely new culture and see things from a completely different perspective.  I made friends from all over the world that summer.  I got to do incredible things.  I remembered how happy a person could actually be.

Thought college, my depression came and went.  I have always been fortunate enough to surround myself with incredible people.  A vast majority of the people are the kind to lift you up for no other reason than to see you soar.  I have to credit that as a major reason why I made it through my college career relatively free from any major bouts of depression.  There were a few bouts here and there.  I actually decided that I would try my hands at going on antidepressants.  I met with a physician at student health and he put me on my own "happy pills."  It would take about two weeks for them to kick in.  Being a millennial, if it wasn't instant gratification, I wasn't interested.  I don't think I took them long enough to really feel any of the positive side effects.  I do remember, though, dark thoughts occurring more often.  They went away when I got off the meds.

When I moved to Washington, D.C. I was lucky enough to move with one of my best friends.  We had lived together senior year of college, and he was as excited to move to DC as I was.  We had an awesome two bedroom apartment in Georgetown where we lived for four years together.  It was awesome.  But despite his friendship, I felt the loneliness creeping in.  After my relationship with S ended, it really hit me hard.  I felt incredibly isolated and alone.  It was the height of winter, it was freezing, it was dark, and I felt completely alone.  This was the winter of 2014.

There was one night in February of 2014 I will never forget.  I'm not sure exactly what brought on the thoughts, but they were there and they weren't going away.  I was in one of the deepest valleys I had ever ventured into.  I needed help but wasn't sure about how to get it.  The tears came.  They were a combination of sadness and fear.  I wasn't sure how the night was going to end for me.  There were plenty of pills in my bathroom that I could take to make the hurt in my soul stop.  But the thought of leaving my family filled me with guilt.  I couldn't do this to them.  But I didn't feel like I had the strength to keep on surviving.  I called two friends that night and told them they needed to check in with me the next day.

Obviously that night ended and I lived through it.  But the threat that the next valley can be so deep I can't climb out is real.  I have managed to find productive ways to release my stresses and anxieties.  I  joke with my grandmother that my voice lessons are my therapy.  But it isn't much of a joke.  For sixty minutes a week I get to do nothing but make music.  I get to sing about emotions I am too afraid or ashamed to admit I have.  I can express them by taking on a character and letting that character feel them for me.  More often than not I come out of my voice lessons feeling happier than I had in a long time.

I write this post not to shock the world or ask for pity from anyone.  I write this and share my story with anyone who happens across this blog because depression is real.  It can affect anyone.  I am well liked and have so much to be grateful for.  But when this mental illness takes hold, it strips your ability to see those things away from you.  It isn't that you're ungrateful.  It's that you're incapable of recognizing the good.  And for me, that compounds the problem.  I feel even worse that I feel bad because I know I have no real excuse to feel down.  But I have learned to let myself feel my feelings. And to rely on those around me be my ladder out of those dark valleys.  

On Crushes

Crushes are fun.  I remember my first crush was on this blonde pigtailed girl in preschool.  I knew I liked her when she accidentally poked me in the eye and started crying.  That may sound weird, but I started crying because I had made her cry because she felt guilty about hurting me.  And I didn't want to see her cry.  Contrary to popular belief, I've had plenty of crushes on girls.  I remember listening to Billy Gilman's "I Think She Likes Me" and talking with my elementary school best friend about this incredible, though quirky, girl I was crushing on.  It wasn't until I hit puberty that my crushes turned from guys to girls.

But regardless of the gender of the object of my affection, I always loved having crushes.  There was this possibility of what could be!  Even today I sit in my bed and see the green dot next to my crushes name on Facebook messenger and suddenly I realize how Gatsby felt looking over the water towards Daisy.  I create this world, this unlived future where we are madly in love.  There is mystery, there is romance.  There is limitless potential of what the crush could be.

As I grow older, my crushes are a lot less intense then they were when I was younger.  Granted, I'm only twenty-six, so I can still get lost in my reveries about the life I'm going to have with the cute lawyer I met a few months ago who probably doesn't know I'm alive.  But, more often than not, I find some way to unsubtly tell the crush that I like him.  And, more often than not, he politely distances himself from me.

I think the reason I like having crushes is because they are easy.  I can hide behind this vail of anonymity.  I don't have to be vulnerable.  I don't think I've ever asked someone on a date that I met organically.  Virtually every date that I've ever had has been through an avenue where the end goal was to go on a romantic date with someone, whether it was being set up from a friend or one of the myriad dating apps available today (bumble, tinder, grindr, OKcupid, coffee meets bagel, etc.).

But with a crush, I don't have to be vulnerable.  I can try to flirt with them and gage interest.  But every time I maintain plausible deniability.  I let them know that I could be interested, but I wouldn't ever tell them I would like to go out.  Because they could say no.  And that would not just be embarrassing for me, but it could be awkward for them.  I wouldn't want to cause them any more distress than my most likely, though harmless, unwarranted advances caused.

I will say, in my defense, I take the hint and move on.  I've been turned down enough to know that in a day, a week or a month, there will be a new crush that makes me forget the minute of heartbreak I feel when I realize that Daisy doesn't want to come over.

I like having crushes.  They are safe.  They are easy.  They protect me.  And in the end, that's what we really need to do.  Protect ourselves from the things that can hurt us.

At least that's what I have to tell myself.  Though I know my highest highs have come from making myself vulnerable.  I will get knocked down more times than I can count, but I will get up more times that I can count plus one.  I am confident that some day I will be the object of someone's affection.  I will be crushed on.  And it will remind me that sometimes it's worth it to reach out and express your emotions.

On Coming Out

I came out on Christmas Eve day, 2009.  Looking back on that particular Christmas, it was as close to a Griswald Family Christmas as we ever had.  I come out to my parents, sobbing in tears, moments later my eccentric uncle shows up and we have our family portraits to get ready for.

It's really hard for those who identify as heterosexual to understand what it means to be gay.  I can only speak from my perspective, but I like to think I'm observant.  I came to terms with the fact I was gay when I was about twelve years old.  Nothing happened to make me realize it.  I wasn't molested, I wasn't the victim of any abuse.  I just realized that I got butterflies in my stomach when the cute boy would talk to me, rather than the cute girl.

Before I came out, I worked really hard at passing as straight.  Some people believed me, others didn't.  But I didn't care.  What I cared about was people calling me gay when I wasn't willing to publicly admit it.  Before I share my actual coming out story, I want to share what brought me to that point.  I'll spare you high school stories, because honestly there really aren't any.  I was the unthreatening, nice, smart, academic, political/music kid.  I was friends with a majority of my grade.  I wasn't made fun of (to my knowledge).  I didn't have a lot of close friends but those I did are to this day some of the best friends I've ever had.  I just wasn't really sexual in high school.  I saw how the kids in my high school treated those who had come out and I didn't want that life.

My freshman year in college, I was lucky enough to live on the substance free floor.  Now I went to a school that was known for being a party school.  In fact for several years, Playboy actually named us the number one party school in the US.  I'm happy to report we've slipped to eleventh place now.  But I chose to live on that floor because I had never had alcohol before.  I wanted to do my best to find a group of friends who wouldn't be obsessed with drinking and partying.  I was willing to risk the super religious or incredibly socially awkward kids I would probably live with, if I could find just one or two like minded guys to hang out with.

Luckily about 85% of my floor was awesome.  We all got along great.  There were some religious kids, but not the evangelical type.  There were some socially awkward kids, but when you found common ground with them they came out of their shells.  And there were plenty of people like me, who just simply chose not to drink.

Anyone who knew me fore I turned twenty-one, especially if they met me at a party, would hear the story how my grandmother made a deal with me to not smoke, do drugs, or drink before I turned twenty-one.  If I abstained, I would get $1,000 for each.  I was the only one of her grandchildren to get all $3,000 on his twenty-first birthday.  So it was easy for me not to drink.  I had a cash reward.

But there was another reason I chose not to drink.  I didn't want to out myself.  I was terrified that if I did drink I would make out with a guy or tell someone I was gay.  For me, being outed was my biggest fear.  On the early days of the gay internet, I would use fake names and give fake phone numbers so the guys I would hook up with couldn't contact me or know any of my friends.  Looking back on it, I find it sort of silly, but I'm in a much different part of my life now that I was then.

I distinctly remember one night walking over to this theater in the student village next to my university that would, from time to time, host guest lecturers.  One night my freshman year, my RA announced he wanted to take any of us interested to go hear the lecturer, after getting some frozen yogurt.  I, being the chubby kid I was, obviously was in for the fro-yo.  But the speaker intrigued me. It was Matthew Shepard's mother.  For those who may be unfamiliar with Matthew Shepard, he was the young man, gay, who was beaten and left for dead, strung up to a fence post and left for dead in Laramie, WY in 1998.  His mother, following the tragic death of her son, took up the banner for LGBT rights.  She founded the Matthew Shepard Foundation which, to this day, works hard to provide resources for LGBTQ+ people.

I don't remember a lot of what she spoke about.  But there was one line that I'll never forget.  She said that every gay person goes through a period of mourning.  We mourn that idyllic life we think we want.  Once, and only once, we realize that dream isn't lost, but it is replaced, we can come out.

I remember growing up wanting to marry this girl in my grade and buy that house with the white picket fence and raise our kids.  She was absolutely right.  I wasn't ready to leave that idea of who I could be behind.  I'd be trying to fall asleep and I would think to myself, no, I can't be gay.  Only 10% of the population is gay.  I am not that special.  I just can't be gay.

Obviously I am.

It was Mrs. Shepard's words that made me realize being gay didn't mean I was losing something.  It means I was replacing something.  Instead of being married to that girl from high school, I would marry the man of my dreams.  I could still have that house in the burbs with the white picket fence and kids.  It was 2009.  Despite the passage of Proposition 8, popular opinion was moving towards staunch support of LGBTQ+ rights, especially in terms of marriage and adoption.  I didn't have to worry about being gay.

When I was thirteen, and came to the conclusion that I was gay, I didn't know what it would mean.  But I knew the first time I would say the words I'm gay to a person, it would be a member of my family.  I have to say a person cause I did tell my dog Ziffel I thought I liked boys.

So fast forward to 2009.  I was spending it with my father and step-mother in Houston.  My brother and step-sister were in town for the holiday too.  If you ask my family about me through most of high school, but especially towards the end, they'll probably remember me being distant.  Like most LGBT youth, I struggled (and still struggle) with sever depression.  I was still mourning that dream.  I was angry I couldn't have it.  I didn't want to be different.  Top that with my entire family moving out of the state I grew up in, isolating me from my friends on the holidays, I wasn't that much fun to be around.

I was moving slow that morning.  My brother comes into the bedroom and tells me to hurry.  I give him some mean response.  He stops in the door and just says to me "why are you being such a dick to us?  What did we do?"  I'm not sure why, but I couldn't hold it in.  Tears welled up from somewhere deep inside me and I told him "I'm gay."  He didn't seem to understand.  He was still perplexed why I was being a dick...  But in my new emotional distress, he was kind enough not to press me on anything.

But that was it for me.  The seal was broken.  I walked into my step-sister's room and told her I was gay.  Then I marched downstairs into the kitchen where my dad and step-mother were.  They were busy preparing the house for company, but they saw I was crying.  They stopped what they were doing and looked at me.  Through the tears, and the heaving sobs, I told them I was gay.

I'm not really sure why I was crying.  I wasn't worried that my family would reject me.  I wasn't worried they would suddenly unlove me.  I think I was crying because it was just scary.  I was the only gay person I knew.  I was the first openly gay person in my family.  I was terrified that they would say "oh we knew." I had tried SO hard not to be gay.  I would have been crushed if that was their response.  But to my parent's credit, they just said "okay... do you have a boyfriend?"

I loved them for that response.  It wasn't really a big topic of conversation that Christmas.  About five minutes after my revolution, our equivalent Uncle Eddie comes walking up the drive.  I could tell my dad was waiting for him to open the door and just say "shitter's full."

The day after Christmas, I flew to Colorado to visit my mom and grandmother.  My brother didn't join me because he went to go visit his girlfriend's, now wife's, family.  It was just me.  So in the car ride from the bus stop to target, I tell my mom I have something I want to say to her.  I tell her I'm gay.  This time I didn't cry.  I wanted to but I held it together.  Every time I would say the words, it would be easier and easier.  She said she was happy for me.  I will say, she did express her concerns about me getting AIDS, but we quickly put that fear to bed.  For so many many reasons.

The best thing about my mom, to me, was the fact that she said she would tell her boyfriend.  I've never really liked him.  We don't see eye to eye on pretty much anything.  I didn't really care one way or the other if he had a problem with me being gay, though I expected him to probably care.  He was the one, after all, who would be reading Bill O'Reily every time I would visit.  But my mom told me that if he said anything negative about it or me because of it, he would be out the door immediately.  To his credit, and my dismay, he didn't have a problem with it.

That afternoon I went to go visit my grandmother.  She is probably the person I am closest to in my whole family.  I try to talk to her once a day now.  She was always my biggest cheerleader.  She would be in corner even if my mom wasn't.  She would make sure that I was happy above all else.  When I told her, her response was "so do you have a boyfriend and can I meet him?"  That has always been my favorite response to coming out.

Today I am an out and proud man.  I sing with the Gay Men's Chorus of Washington.  I traveled to Cuba and Ukraine on missions to help promote and further LGBT rights through music.  I have no problem telling guests on my tours that I sing with the GMCW.  I even donate proceeds to the chorus so they can further their mission.  This next year I will be volunteering with a local homeless shelter that caters especially to homeless LGBT youth.  I'm not saying I'm Harvey Milk, but I will not go back in the closet for anyone.