No Regrets - A Coming Out Story

My coming out story is violent. It involved punches, blood, fear, and rejection. A rejection that changed the trajectory of my life.

My parents were great about it. My coming out process to them was just that… a carefully planned process. I intentionally introduced them to couples who were ‘normal’ - they had fabulous jobs and led a ‘normal’ life. It just happened that they were lesbian couples. Each introduction went swimmingly well. There were no side effects - no negative conversations after the fact indicating that my parents had been nice to their faces, but in fact, were pessimistic about the people and their ‘lifestyle.’ On the contrary, my parents were wonderfully positive about them.

When I felt confident enough that I wouldn’t be rejected by my parents - and I had moved out and was living on my own, supporting myself - I visited my parent’s home and told them. Well… truth be told I told my mom and said she could tell my dad. Her response?

“We’ve already talked about it.”

I was both horrified and relieved. I didn’t have to tell him. But they’d been talking about it in my absence! My father and I never spoke about it directly. Ever. He accepted every girlfriend I brought home as a human being and treated them like one.

My sexuality was never questioned by my parents. It wasn’t subjected to criticism or judgment. Once I came out, it was as if that was the way it had always been.

So, what about the violence? The blood? The rejection?

Before I came out to my parents, I came out to my church.

The first woman I dated ended up being a mistake. A colossal mistake. She had way too many demons and I was naive in thinking that I could banish them. One afternoon, the alcohol-fueled demon reared its ugly head and attacked me. She screamed at me, punched me, screamed some more, punched me some more, screamed again, and punched me again. When she was done, she told me it was all my fault.

Bloodied and terrified, I sought help from my friends. Upon seeing me, they immediately stepped in and were able to get me safely away from her. I tried to file a police report and was told that I certainly could, but I had to be prepared to share the nature of my relationship with that woman in open court, should the case get that far.

WOAH.

I had only barely just come out to myself. To do it in court? In this tiny community of only 13000 people? My mind flashed to an imagined court session with a judge and a lawyer from my church. I cringed and immediately declined to go further.

My church. They had invested so very much in me.   They sent me all over California as well as  Nevada, Indiana, and Mississippi, to so many enrichment camps and gatherings, and schools, all pushing me in the direction of becoming a youth pastor. I had even given an entire sermon at my church already.

That very next weekend, barely days after getting beaten up in the streets of my hometown, I was set to meet the new youth pastor of the church. She was to be my mentor. My guide. The person that would continue to steer me in the direction I needed to go to be able to give back to the church and become a guide to its future youth. This church had become my sanctuary. I could see a very clear future with them and I believed in it wholeheartedly.

If I went to church that Sunday, there would be so many questions I’d have to answer. The entire congregation knew me and there was no escaping the looks and concern and questions that would come up with a fat lip and bruised face.

So I skipped church that morning.

I chose instead to meet with the new youth pastor as planned after the services and learn the next steps in my path with her.

She asked the questions I feared.

I answered them honestly. She was someone I should be able to trust.

She asked pointed questions about my friends. I wasn’t expecting that, but there was no reason to lie to her about them.

“Yes, they are lesbian." Hesitantly, I went on. "I… I am lesbian”

A protracted silence followed my answer.

Her next words completely changed the trajectory of my life.

“I cannot have a youth leader in this church who would associate with THOSE kinds of people.”

I was flabbergasted. My youth group had been taken on field trips to the Castro. THE CASTRO. IN SAN FRANCISCO. Rainbow flags. Men holding hands walking in the streets. Never did I get the sense that I would be rejected by this church. But here it was. Rejection, staring me in the face.

“So I guess you have a decision to make. If you want to become a leader in this church, you can’t go back to THOSE people.”

The words echoed across the room.  She was right. I had a decision to make.

The place that had given me sanctuary for years was no longer safe. The place that had given me purpose and supported me and pushed me to my future, had, in one sentence, just destroyed me.

She taught me so much in that one instant. If I was going to be judged that harshly for being myself, I didn’t belong there.

The people she wanted me to turn my back on … THOSE people saved me. They protected me. They soothed me. They comforted me. They accepted ME. They taught me love. The sermon I gave to this church?  It was about love. I had given a sermon on love at the church that just told me that I couldn’t associate with THOSE people, but I saw and felt love in its truest form from THOSE people.

My decision was easy.

I didn’t go back. Decision made.

No regrets.