[Trigger warning: rape, abuse, suicide]

By Michael

I was an only child until I was seven when the first of my two younger sisters was born. I was the first surviving child of my parents and, as a result, I think my mother had attached herself more to me than if my older sister had survived her premature birth and short tenure in the hospital.

To say that I was a momma’s boy is a bit of an understatement. I practically worshipped the ground my mother walked on and I did everything I could to prove my worth and love to her. Any time I disappointed my mother I was heartbroken. As a young child I learned to cook and clean and take up my mother’s interests in art, literature, and music.

By the time I was 12, or so, I began to realize I was different, though. While other boys my age were developing crushes on the girls in our classes, I was falling in love with my best friend – a charming, adorable, and sweet young man I met in my 7th grade choir.

Over the course of my first year in junior high, I began to realize what was happening to me and, being the semi-intelligent, good Mormon boy I was, I began to quietly do independent research. I knew what “gay” was and I knew that it was bad. Prior to becoming a stay-at-home mom, my mother had worked in advertising and there were several graphic designers and other members of her team who were openly homosexual but I knew I wasn’t like them and I knew their “lifestyle” wasn’t condoned by my mother.

I found an old sex education book in my parents’ basement and spent hours at the library reading about human psychology and sexuality. The Internet was brand new but I took full advantage of it, too. Eventually I was lead to church-produced materials and learned that the prophets and apostles had told men (and woman) much older than me that this was all just a phase in a confused young man’s life; that what was affecting me was temporary and that I could overcome my weakness through hard work, prayer, service, and the Atonement of Jesus Christ.

Over the next four years I did everything a young man in the LDS church was supposed to do. I was the Deacon’s and Teacher’s Quorums’ president as well as the Bishop’s Assistant in the Priest’s Quorum, I was a (nearly) perfect student, I took up the piano, sang in the choir, played sports, worked part time, and did everything my parents asked of me at home.

But I was still broken and the façade I worked so hard to build seemed to be cracking. Bullies at school and even church seemed to see through me and judged me for who I was, deep inside.

Almost daily, there seemed to be someone in some sphere of my life who would call me some variation of the word faggot, fairy, or queer and some even referred to me as a “fudge packer” (although I didn’t understand the reference at the time).

Eventually, like many tormented and conflicted young gay men and women do, I tried to commit suicide.

Twice.

Fortunately I didn’t succeed and with my failure came a renewed sense of strength to overcome myself. I committed to a high school “sweetheart” and, truthfully, to a degree, I fell in love with her. I graduated with honors, was crowned Student of the Year by my school, spoke at seminary graduation, and went to BYU. I served a faithful, honorable mission, came home, got engaged (called off the wedding), traveled abroad, graduated from “the Lord’s University,” and got my first “real” job.

And, at the end of all of that, I realized that I was still “broken;” I was still me.

All of the praying, self deprecation, personal loathing, and pain had been for naught. The Lord had not heard my constant pleas, nor had He accepted my offerings of a contrite spirit and a broken heart. I was unchanged and my Church taught that I was an abomination and unwelcome.

And then something curious happened.

About a year and a half ago, a man from my parents’ ward was re-baptized and had his temple blessings re-instated. I knew this man very well; he was one of my priesthood leaders and scout masters growing up. As a young man, however, I did not know that he was raping and molesting his daughter over a 10-year period. From the age of five to about 15, this man abused his daughter at least three times a week and only stopped for fear of getting her pregnant.

When I was on my mission, about eight years ago, this man’s sins were uncovered and he was sentenced to prison and released less than a year later. He was given a five-year probation period while he was invited back into his home by his wife and by my family’s ward. They Relief Society and Elder’s Quorum had special meetings with the bishop and stake president where they were admonished to treat this “brother” with charity and welcome him back into the fold.

Well, as I previously mentioned, last year this man was re-baptized and invited back to the temple and full church membership. A pedophile rapist was invited back to the church that I loved while I was told that I, and people “like” me, were unwelcome and unable to participate if we are true to ourselves and live our lives authentically.

So, in May of 2012, something inside of me snapped. I realized that I could no longer live my life for everyone else. I loved my family but I no longer felt like I could actively participate in a church that didn’t want me – all of me. A church that would take my former scoutmaster, a man who chose to violate his sacred role as father and abuse the innocence of his daughter, over me.

Because I was responsible enough not to get married to a woman and I didn’t want to be alone for the rest of my life.

As I prepared to tell my family of my decision to accept myself as gay I hoped and prayed that the lifetime of works and commitment to my family and church would be enough to salvage a relationship with my mother.

I was wrong.

When all was said and done, I was told in no uncertain terms what my family’s expectations for me were: single celibacy while doing genealogy and serving in the temple. Forever. I was told that I was broken and that I could have been fixed had I approached my mother earlier. That it was my fault that I’d let myself get to this point.

My fault? My fault. My fault!

Even as I write this, my fourth attempt at a submission for Feminist Mormon Housewives, I realize that I don’t fault my mother for her reaction. A lot of parents struggle with their children coming out as gay. I do however take issue with the church and the way it has conditioned its members to think and react to anyone outside of the “Mormon Ideal.”

In a world as vividly colorful as ours, the LDS church is black and white. It’s a paradox, really. As a missionary I was told to teach investigators that the church was for everyone but that isn’t true, is it? There isn’t a place for those who don’t fit the Mormon mold.

Since I came out last year, Ty Mansfield and his wife have graced the cover of LDS Living Magazine, Josh Weed’s blog went viral and he was invited to be interviewed on ABC with his wife, and the church released its newest website, mormonsandgays.org. For me, each of these examples serve as perfect illustrations of the idea that IF you don’t fit the church’s prescribed description, you aren’t welcome. And, for my mother, each of these only served as kindling to fuel her crusade to save me.

In the wake of Prop 8 in California, Pantsgate and now the current efforts to allow women to pray during General Conference, I can’t help but notice how the church (as it now operates) is failing its members. We are told that as Mormons we are a peculiar people; that we are different. Why then do we shun those who are different from within our ranks? Rather than loving those members who choose to leave the church, they are ostracized; cast out from families and ward relationships because they’ve “lost their way” and “gone off the deep end.”

Culturally I’ve never understood why we let this happen. As I’ve gotten older and held positions of authority, I struggled with the church’s willingness to step away and abandon those who are most in need – it’s anything but Christian.

Something needs to change and I don’t have the answer(s). Perhaps you do. All I do know is that change is needed. And that it’s happening much slower than it should be. Although I am no longer an active member of the church, I know I will always acknowledge myself as a cultural Mormon and I hope that someday, in the not too distant future, I can hold my head a little higher when I say that. But, truthfully, it is up to me and you and everyone else who is willing to stand up and be the change we desperately need in our families, neighborhoods, congregations.

And if we do? Maybe I can be my momma’s boy again.