Coming out doesn't solve all your problems.
You're thinking, "duh, Chris!" But it's taken me 18 months and some recent rocky times in my relationship to figure that out.
It's hard to shake a lifetime of fighting your nature and building closets for yourself. I'm not like some of the (once) married gay men I've known in that I wasn't out to my wife during our marriage. I learned how to hide from her--and myself--pretty effectively. Once out, I thought the compulsion to hide would naturally dissipate. And it did for awhile.
But it turns out I have some issues--and closets--that might not have anything to do with being gay. Imagine that! Some of the things that I thought would resolve themselves because I am now openly gay actually got worse before I was able to recognize them as issues that need to be addressed. The good news is that I am now working on my issues and I'm learning a lot about myself and addressing things that I have been actively avoiding. And I'm blessed to have a man in my life who is standing with me through this because he loves all of me--the good, the bad and the ugly.
Last summer, our marriage at an end, I told KK that I didn't need anyone. I was trying to tell her that I was emotionally independent and capable of taking care of myself and moving on. She told me that she thought what I said was sad. It's only very recently that I have been able to see that she was right. We all need to be loved, and we all need to give love. It's part of what makes us human. I have always battled the thought that I have to be "good" in order to be loved. I'm not sure where that comes from. It might be the dynamics in my family; it might be the way I internalized Mormon and Christian teaching and theology; it might be my psychology; it might be all of the above and more. KK has shown me that unconditional love over the years we have known each other, and has continued to show it even after marriage. Jed now shows it to me every day. I'm finally ready to not only admit that I need it, but to accept it and offer it to myself as well. I hope this will make me a better person, partner, friend, father, brother, son, confidant, and former spouse. I aspire to be loving and honest in all of these roles in my life.
I'm taking a break from blogging and interneting for awhile. HURRICANE has been dying a slow death anyway, so this break might finally be the end of it. Or maybe not. But I'm going to go take care of myself for awhile, re-commit to my wonderful partner (even though we don't call each other that!), prepare for a wonderful summer with my children, and do what I can to nurture, repair and improve the relationships that have brought so many good things into my life.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Monday, May 07, 2007
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
To my Valentines...
Happy Valentine's Day to my daughters. I love you girlies like crazy. And sometimes I miss you so much my heart hurts.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
No More Goodbyes: Circling the Wagons Around Our Gay Loved Ones
Read this book:
I bought it a few weeks ago, but hadn't had the chance to dive into it until yesterday, when I had a long day of travel from New York to Salt Lake City. I started it on my flight from Newark to Chicago and finished it about 20 minutes before I landed in Salt Lake.
It is, in a word, remarkable. Carol Lynn Pearson is a voice of compassion and understanding for gay people and their families, particularly those from religious backgrounds. Of course, she comes to the topic from a very personal place. She married a gay man (and told the story of her marriage in the book Goodbye, I Love You), and her daughter married a gay man. She has befriended and comforted hundreds of gay people and their families since she began dealing with the "issue" of homosexuality in her life decades ago.
If you are gay, read this book. If you have a gay family member, read this book. If you have gay friends, read this book. If you want to better understand homosexuality, read this book. If you believe in love and family, read this book.
As I read the last few pages, I was overcome with emotion. I was sitting on a plane, surrounded by strangers, quietly weeping. They weren't tears of sadness. They were tears of gratitude that we have voices of compassion such as Carol Lynn Pearson's urging us on to be better than we are, to not accept what is as what must be. They were tears of gratitude that my family has circled their wagons around me, their gay loved one. And when I speak of my family, I speak of Keri and her parents and siblings, who have loved me through a crisis that led to a transformation of our family relationships. The one constant has been love. I am so grateful to be here with them for the Christmas holidays. I love them, and I know they love me. They are my family.
Read this book.
I bought it a few weeks ago, but hadn't had the chance to dive into it until yesterday, when I had a long day of travel from New York to Salt Lake City. I started it on my flight from Newark to Chicago and finished it about 20 minutes before I landed in Salt Lake.It is, in a word, remarkable. Carol Lynn Pearson is a voice of compassion and understanding for gay people and their families, particularly those from religious backgrounds. Of course, she comes to the topic from a very personal place. She married a gay man (and told the story of her marriage in the book Goodbye, I Love You), and her daughter married a gay man. She has befriended and comforted hundreds of gay people and their families since she began dealing with the "issue" of homosexuality in her life decades ago.
If you are gay, read this book. If you have a gay family member, read this book. If you have gay friends, read this book. If you want to better understand homosexuality, read this book. If you believe in love and family, read this book.
As I read the last few pages, I was overcome with emotion. I was sitting on a plane, surrounded by strangers, quietly weeping. They weren't tears of sadness. They were tears of gratitude that we have voices of compassion such as Carol Lynn Pearson's urging us on to be better than we are, to not accept what is as what must be. They were tears of gratitude that my family has circled their wagons around me, their gay loved one. And when I speak of my family, I speak of Keri and her parents and siblings, who have loved me through a crisis that led to a transformation of our family relationships. The one constant has been love. I am so grateful to be here with them for the Christmas holidays. I love them, and I know they love me. They are my family.
Read this book.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Happy Birthday to KK!
I won't try to match the eloquence of her post on my birthday, but I do want to wish her the happiest of days here on the blog. Today she is a radiant 34.
In that post on my birthday, she wrote of me: The year between his 34th birthday and his 35th birthday is certainly the biggest of his life. To have accomplished all that he has in terms of facing a frightening truth, treating his family in a loving and considerate way while figuring out how to come out, deftly navigating the waters of homophobia and misplaced faith with grace and respect, and finishing the year by running TWENTY-SIX POINT TWO MILES is more than most of us accomplish in a lifetime.
KK has had a similarly momentous year between 33 and 34 that deserves some acknowledgement. She has faced the biggest crisis of her adult life with grace and forgiveness, extended (to many people unfathomable) compassion to me, begun the sometimes daunting process of trying to figure out what she wants to be when she grows up, and put herself in a place where she can be surrounded on a daily basis by the love and warmth and support of many people who love her deeply. She didn't cap her year off with a marathon, though if you asked her, I suspect she'd tell you that she feels like she has run one.
Join me in wishing her the best. Happy birthday, Keri!
In that post on my birthday, she wrote of me: The year between his 34th birthday and his 35th birthday is certainly the biggest of his life. To have accomplished all that he has in terms of facing a frightening truth, treating his family in a loving and considerate way while figuring out how to come out, deftly navigating the waters of homophobia and misplaced faith with grace and respect, and finishing the year by running TWENTY-SIX POINT TWO MILES is more than most of us accomplish in a lifetime.
KK has had a similarly momentous year between 33 and 34 that deserves some acknowledgement. She has faced the biggest crisis of her adult life with grace and forgiveness, extended (to many people unfathomable) compassion to me, begun the sometimes daunting process of trying to figure out what she wants to be when she grows up, and put herself in a place where she can be surrounded on a daily basis by the love and warmth and support of many people who love her deeply. She didn't cap her year off with a marathon, though if you asked her, I suspect she'd tell you that she feels like she has run one.
Join me in wishing her the best. Happy birthday, Keri!
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Fear of my gay self
I haven't been posting much, for a couple of reasons. First, I've been busy with the holidays and work and such. Second, I continue to struggle with this "voice" thing here on the blog. I'm working with a fellow blogger to develop a new site that will focus on, among other things, politics, policy and advocacy, so I'm staying away from those topics here. I've also enjoyed taking a break from examining my life inside and out as I find greater comfort in this new phase. I wrote in my post about my marathon that I achieved a certain measure of closure with that event, and with that closure has come a diminished need to write about my life, at least for now.
That said, there has been a topic lurking in my mind the past few weeks. It's a topic I have explored with my therapist as I have reflected on this past year of my life: my lingering internalized homophobia.
Interestingly, I did not seek to discuss this with him, because I didn't really even recognize it. But as I discussed some other issues, there it was. We've been talking a lot about my parents and the family I grew up in, and as we have I realized that I am still very umcomfortable talking to my parents about being gay, ending my marriage, the pain associated with the period of transition I have been through, and my new relationship. The more we talked, the more I realized that it's not just a matter of being uncomfortable. When I talk to my parents about being gay, I feel a deep sense of shame and inadequacy. This despite the fact that they have both professed their love and support for me and appear to have no moral objections to homosexuality themselves (remember, they aren't Mormon).
I think much of this is tied up in my childhood and the coping mechanisms I developed to deal with my parents' divorce and the long-distance relationship I had with my father. I never doubted my parents loved me, but I can see now with the benefit of hindsight how their conflict produced conflict within me. I was determined to have a better family life than they provided for me. I know I could do better than they did for my future children. I knew I could build a family that looked and behaved a lot differently than mine. Indeed, I think that was always part of the appeal of the LDS Church for me. It provided a solution to many of my problems with my family. And when my emerging sexuality started to trouble me as I was going through these difficult emotions with my parents, the LDS Church offered a solution for me with that as well. I could have a better family and I didn't have to be gay!
As I have emerged from my marriage and left the LDS Church, I have found comfort and happiness in being openly gay that I never imagined. Even in the face of disapproval from LDS friends and acquaintences, I no longer feel guilt or shame about being gay. No, it seems the only people I have those feelings with are... my parents!?
This has perplexed me. Why? They do not condemn or shun me or my homosexuality, so why am I so uncomfortable and ashamed and embarrased about being gay around them? One possibility is that as I was growing up I felt the need to protect my parents, to reassure them that I was okay! even when I was struggling terribly. (This is apparently not at all uncommon for children of divorce.) But the answer is also, at least in part, that being gay represents a failure of sorts for me as it relates to my relationship with my parents and my image of myself before them. Being gay has now denied me the perfect family I was raising. It has thrust me into a long-distance relationship of my own with my children. It has repudiated so many of the things I professed to stand for when I presented myself to them.
Now, the truth is that I really do feel that being openly gay has vastly improved my life and most of my relationships, particularly with my kids and, ironically, with KK. I feel like I am more open and honest and authentic and that has produced more good fruit than bad. I am still a father, still committed to the well being of my family. I know that I am a better parent to my children than my parents were to me. So the "failure" I feel with my parents is purely emotional. I don't believe I have failed in their eyes. I just feel that way when I talk to them. And no one else inspires those feelings in me anymore in such a strong way--just my parents.
Being gay in a straight world forces many of us to make compromises with ourselves even before we are old enough to realize what we are doing. And once we begin to emerge from the closet and the fear of ourselves--our own homophobia--that the closet breeds so aggressively, we often find that it has sunk roots deep into our souls in ways we never anticipated and certainly never realized. I'm not a big New Year's resolution guy, but in 2007, I resolve to shake as much of this lingering internalized homophobia as I can so that I can live my life openly and share it happily and fearlessly with all the people I love and who love me in return.
That said, there has been a topic lurking in my mind the past few weeks. It's a topic I have explored with my therapist as I have reflected on this past year of my life: my lingering internalized homophobia.
Interestingly, I did not seek to discuss this with him, because I didn't really even recognize it. But as I discussed some other issues, there it was. We've been talking a lot about my parents and the family I grew up in, and as we have I realized that I am still very umcomfortable talking to my parents about being gay, ending my marriage, the pain associated with the period of transition I have been through, and my new relationship. The more we talked, the more I realized that it's not just a matter of being uncomfortable. When I talk to my parents about being gay, I feel a deep sense of shame and inadequacy. This despite the fact that they have both professed their love and support for me and appear to have no moral objections to homosexuality themselves (remember, they aren't Mormon).
I think much of this is tied up in my childhood and the coping mechanisms I developed to deal with my parents' divorce and the long-distance relationship I had with my father. I never doubted my parents loved me, but I can see now with the benefit of hindsight how their conflict produced conflict within me. I was determined to have a better family life than they provided for me. I know I could do better than they did for my future children. I knew I could build a family that looked and behaved a lot differently than mine. Indeed, I think that was always part of the appeal of the LDS Church for me. It provided a solution to many of my problems with my family. And when my emerging sexuality started to trouble me as I was going through these difficult emotions with my parents, the LDS Church offered a solution for me with that as well. I could have a better family and I didn't have to be gay!
As I have emerged from my marriage and left the LDS Church, I have found comfort and happiness in being openly gay that I never imagined. Even in the face of disapproval from LDS friends and acquaintences, I no longer feel guilt or shame about being gay. No, it seems the only people I have those feelings with are... my parents!?
This has perplexed me. Why? They do not condemn or shun me or my homosexuality, so why am I so uncomfortable and ashamed and embarrased about being gay around them? One possibility is that as I was growing up I felt the need to protect my parents, to reassure them that I was okay! even when I was struggling terribly. (This is apparently not at all uncommon for children of divorce.) But the answer is also, at least in part, that being gay represents a failure of sorts for me as it relates to my relationship with my parents and my image of myself before them. Being gay has now denied me the perfect family I was raising. It has thrust me into a long-distance relationship of my own with my children. It has repudiated so many of the things I professed to stand for when I presented myself to them.
Now, the truth is that I really do feel that being openly gay has vastly improved my life and most of my relationships, particularly with my kids and, ironically, with KK. I feel like I am more open and honest and authentic and that has produced more good fruit than bad. I am still a father, still committed to the well being of my family. I know that I am a better parent to my children than my parents were to me. So the "failure" I feel with my parents is purely emotional. I don't believe I have failed in their eyes. I just feel that way when I talk to them. And no one else inspires those feelings in me anymore in such a strong way--just my parents.
Being gay in a straight world forces many of us to make compromises with ourselves even before we are old enough to realize what we are doing. And once we begin to emerge from the closet and the fear of ourselves--our own homophobia--that the closet breeds so aggressively, we often find that it has sunk roots deep into our souls in ways we never anticipated and certainly never realized. I'm not a big New Year's resolution guy, but in 2007, I resolve to shake as much of this lingering internalized homophobia as I can so that I can live my life openly and share it happily and fearlessly with all the people I love and who love me in return.
Monday, December 11, 2006
It's the holiday season...
...and I don't seem to have much time to post anything new. So Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, and Joyful Festivus to you all!
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Thanksgiving Weekend
This Thanksgiving weekend I am grateful for my family and the many other wonderful people in my life.
On Thanksgiving day, our table included Keri's cousin Joel, Jed's friend Ben (and now my friend too!), Keri, L, Jed, and E.
Friday I had to work, but the girls joined me. We took the ferry across the Hudson to Lower Manhattan from the train station in Hoboken. It was a gorgeous day. L can never keep her finger out of her nose for pictures.
The weekend was capped with a birthday party and a baptismal service for E. On the almost eve of her eighth birthday, she was baptized at Union Congregational Church in Montclair, surrounded by family and friends.
On Thanksgiving day, our table included Keri's cousin Joel, Jed's friend Ben (and now my friend too!), Keri, L, Jed, and E.
Friday I had to work, but the girls joined me. We took the ferry across the Hudson to Lower Manhattan from the train station in Hoboken. It was a gorgeous day. L can never keep her finger out of her nose for pictures.
The weekend was capped with a birthday party and a baptismal service for E. On the almost eve of her eighth birthday, she was baptized at Union Congregational Church in Montclair, surrounded by family and friends.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
A Big One...
Today, dear readers, the Hurricane turns 35. The year between his 34th birthday and his 35th birthday is certainly the biggest of his life. To have accomplished all that he has in terms of facing a frightening truth, treating his family in a loving and considerate way while figuring out how to come out, deftly navigating the waters of homophobia and misplaced faith with grace and respect, and finishing the year by running TWENTY-SIX POINT TWO MILES is more than most of us accomplish in a lifetime.
Happy Birthday, Chris. I know I'm not the only one who is honored to be a part of your life today. You truly have a positive effect on everyone around you and you will be toasted in many cities for many years to come. And to J, who should be reading this, the thoughtfulness you put into helping Chris have a great day touched me deeply. Celebrate like only the gays can!
To everyone reading this, post a little something here about how Chris has been a part of your journey, whatever it is. Sometimes I think he forgets how many people have felt the ripple effect of the Hurricane.
Happy 35th!
With love, truly,
Keri
Happy Birthday, Chris. I know I'm not the only one who is honored to be a part of your life today. You truly have a positive effect on everyone around you and you will be toasted in many cities for many years to come. And to J, who should be reading this, the thoughtfulness you put into helping Chris have a great day touched me deeply. Celebrate like only the gays can!
To everyone reading this, post a little something here about how Chris has been a part of your journey, whatever it is. Sometimes I think he forgets how many people have felt the ripple effect of the Hurricane.
Happy 35th!
With love, truly,
Keri
Monday, October 23, 2006
Chicago Marathon
Last year, about the time I came out to KK, I started running. I wanted to get into shape, and it was also a welcome distraction from the emotional upheaval that I was going through.
Somewhere along the way, I decided to run a marathon. I thought I'd train to do a race in 2007, but KK encouraged me to do it this year. So I signed up for the Chicago Marathon, which ran yesterday. Chicago was a meaningful choice. I lived there for two years with KK after we got married, and my family is nearby in Wisconsin.
Yesterday with the temperature reading a nippy 38 at race time and with drizzle in the air, I ran. Ran like I've never run before. I hoped to finish in four hours, but a tweaked knee at mile 15 slowed me down. I crossed the finish line at 4:45:21. I cried through much of the last five miles of the race and was in a full weep as I hit the finish. I was filled with a sense of accomplishment, but also felt that I had finally reached a point of closure on a difficult period in my life. My marathon was very closely tied up in the coming out process for me. I spent many solitary hours in training, listening to my iPod, and thinking about my life. The old Chris would have never run a marathon. The new Chris did, and enjoyed every moment of it, even the painful ones.
I had my own personal cheering section: KK, E, L, my mom, her boyfriend, my sister and her boyfriend. My boyfriend, J, wanted to be there and was in both spirit and in the music on my iPod that took me across the finish line. And today I can hardly walk and have some nasty blisters to show for my effort. Hard work can be painful.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Growing Up Fast
A couple months ago I was on a commuter train with my older daughter, who will be 8 in November. We were waiting for the train to pull out of the station when a woman got on and announced that she was homeless, a widow, and something "really bad" had happened to her and her children that afternoon. She needed to raise $15 before the end of the day.
I have seen this woman on the subway in the city several times, and she always tells the same story. Needless to say, I wasn't buying what she was selling. But little E was completely captivated and as the story became more compelling, she looked at me with pleading blue eyes and implored me to give this woman some money. I just shook my head "no" as the woman walked past us and then off the train.
E immediately turned and looked at me disapprovingly. "Daddy! Why didn't we help her?"
"Sweetie," I said, "I've seen that lady in the subway and on the train before and she always tells the same story. She's not telling the truth."
"Oh," said E knowingly. "Alcohol?"
I have seen this woman on the subway in the city several times, and she always tells the same story. Needless to say, I wasn't buying what she was selling. But little E was completely captivated and as the story became more compelling, she looked at me with pleading blue eyes and implored me to give this woman some money. I just shook my head "no" as the woman walked past us and then off the train.
E immediately turned and looked at me disapprovingly. "Daddy! Why didn't we help her?"
"Sweetie," I said, "I've seen that lady in the subway and on the train before and she always tells the same story. She's not telling the truth."
"Oh," said E knowingly. "Alcohol?"
Sunday, September 17, 2006
One year later
September 17 is my outiversary. One year ago, I came out to Keri. I told her after 10 years of marriage and several months of quiet agony for us both that I am gay.
In so many ways, it seems like that day was a very long time ago—much longer than a year. It feels like I have lived a lifetime since then. I didn’t know what was going to happen after that moment of truth. Though I trusted that I knew Keri well, I imagined the worst possible reactions to my revelation: rejection, bitterness, anger. I was ashamed, so full of guilt and self loathing when I finally told Keri the truth. I couldn’t imagine that I would ever feel comfortable with myself as an openly gay man and I certainly didn’t think I’d feel that way in just a year’s time. But today, one year after I began the process of coming out, I am openly and comfortably gay.
It is ironic that Keri has been my indispensable guide on the journey to self acceptance. Ironic, of course, because her unconditional love and support ultimately hastened the end of our marriage. My emotions one year later are mixed. I feel loss and sadness, and I miss much about the life I had until a year ago. But I also feel freedom and relief, optimistic that my life as a gay man will be better than I ever imagined it could be, and better than what my life had become before I came out. Keri can share in my optimism (and she does) and feel happiness for me as her closest friend (and she does), but I think today is a day when her own loss feels particularly sharp and her burden particularly heavy. I'm grateful, though, that her sacrifice—one she didn’t want to make—has deepened and broadened our friendship, something that will ultimately serve us well as we work together in the coming years to raise our beautiful daughters. Keri has proven true the old adage, “if you love something, set it free.” I am grateful for her love, her bravery, her continued friendship, and her willingness to let me be the cheetah God made me.
Many of my fears about coming out have not come to pass. I have found love and support and acceptance not just from Keri, but from my young children, my extended family, and many of my friends. My loss of faith in the LDS Church has been tempered by the discovery of a new spirituality and the embrace of an open and affirming church community. My loss of proximity to my children has been tempered by the certain faith I have in their mother and her extended family to keep me close and engaged with them. I speak to my girls every day. We do homework over the phone. We’ve planned several trips to see each other already. And Keri works hard every day to make sure my girls feel my presence and know that I am still intimately involved in the details of their lives. I feared losing my family. I fear that no more.
Many of my hopes for the future have begun to be realized as well. I have found a new community and network of friends, gay and straight, and many of my new gay friends have become outstanding role models for me. I have found acceptance and love from my colleagues at work. I have found the love and affection of another man—and offered it in return. I have found wonderful normalcy.
Closets are dark, confining places that damage psyches and relationships. I have learned that there is no substitute for transparency and openness in relationships, even about some of the most difficult and sensitive issues we face in our personal and family lives. Dogma is seductive for the easy answers it provides but dangerous for the very same reasons and the corrosive effect in can have on relationships and our ability to love others and empathize with them as they navigate their way through life. Love—being willing to walk in another’s shoes—is always the better way.
I have over the past year considered from time to time whether I would change myself if I were presented with a “cure” for my homosexuality, if for no other reason than to save my marriage. I’m glad I don’t have to make that choice, but I am more certain than ever that were it a real choice, I would decline it. Sacrificing my homosexuality would require me to sacrifice something essentially me. I know that more than ever. I am normal. I am complete. My sense of self is increasingly whole and integrated. I am a father, a friend, a brother, a son, a companion, a boyfriend, a professional. And I am gay.
Rebuilding is never easy work. A year after Katrina, the storm that I adopted as a metaphor for the turmoil of my own life, New Orleans is still a city in crisis. And one year after my personal crisis came to its climax, there is still much work to do for me too—as a father, as a former husband, as a friend, as a gay man. But life marches on, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let it pass me by.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
"Because he's gay"
The mood has been heavy in these parts of late. So, in the interest in bringing a little humor to this blog, I share a story about my four-year-old, as told to me by her mother.
KK and the girls are living with KK's parents for the time being, and E, my older daughter, often plays with a little girl whose grandparents live next door. Yesterday, L, my younger girl, said something to KK about this friend living next door. KK corrected her and told her that she actually lived somewhere else but visited her grandma and grandpa often. KK also mentioned that the friend's parents are divorced and that she sometimes lives with her dad.
Referring to the friend's father's divorced status, L said, "Because he's gay." KK told her no, actually, he's getting married again. "To a girl?" The thought seemed bewildering to her! Alas, dear child, straight people sometimes get divorced too.
KK and the girls are living with KK's parents for the time being, and E, my older daughter, often plays with a little girl whose grandparents live next door. Yesterday, L, my younger girl, said something to KK about this friend living next door. KK corrected her and told her that she actually lived somewhere else but visited her grandma and grandpa often. KK also mentioned that the friend's parents are divorced and that she sometimes lives with her dad.
Referring to the friend's father's divorced status, L said, "Because he's gay." KK told her no, actually, he's getting married again. "To a girl?" The thought seemed bewildering to her! Alas, dear child, straight people sometimes get divorced too.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Joy, sorrow and wonderful normalcy
I had dinner last night with Uncle D. He asked me how I was doing. My answer: "My life is wonderful, and my life sucks."
First, the sucks.
KK and the girls went to Utah in early August. They planned to stay for the month, then return to New Jersey so the girls--all three of them--could start school. E is in second grade this year. L starts Pre-K. And KK was to start her second semester of graduate school studies in social work. I was also going to establish my own residence rather than continuing to live in the attic and in the city with friends as I had been doing for the past few months.
But if I've learned nothing over the past year of my life, I've learned that things change. Life happens. And after spending a week or so in Salt Lake, KK made an important decision. She looked at her situation, considered her need to start over and the emotional support that a new beginning requires, and told me that she thought it might be better for her to stay in Utah and start the next phase of her life there. I was devastated. I imagine I feel very much the way KK felt last fall when I first came out to her and then told her I wanted to end our marriage. She didn't want that, but she accepted it and supported me as I emerged from the closet and began living as an openly gay man. And now she has made a decision that I don't really want, but which I accept because I love her and support her and trust that she is making the best decision for herself, which is ultimately best for our children and our family.
As I have struggled to accept this new reality over the past couple of weeks, I have battled feelings of guilt. The guilt exists on at least two levels. I feel guilty about starting the chain of events that has led us to this point of separation. And I feel guilty that my children will have to grow up in a way that, at least on the surface, looks like the way I grew up--divorced parents living in different states. I am still dealing with the fallout from that experience and at times it is unbearable to think that my children will have to deal with that as well. In my good moments, I am able to remind myself that I am not my father and Keri is not my mother and we do not feel the mutual animosity and ill will that my parents felt. In my bad moments, Keri is able to remind me of this.
Is this ideal? No. But it is our reality. And Keri and I have decided that we need not let the ideal be an enemy of the good. We'll make the best of it. And I am looking forward to this weekend, which I will spend in Salt Lake with Keri and the girls. I miss them. All three of them.
Second, the wonderful.
I feel more myself and more comfortable with the life I am living than I ever have before. I don't feel gay--and I certainly don't feel straight!--I simply feel... normal. Who knew that normal could feel so good?
In the midst of this wonderful normalcy, I have met someone. I have been reluctant to talk about him on my blog because the relationship is still new and I'm not always sure how to "come out" to people about it. I also don't want to expose this relationship to scorn and judgment from people who disapprove for whatever reason. But he is a source of joy for me, and I want to acknowledge that here where I have written so much about my changing life.
He has a Mormon background, so he understands that part of my experience. He is kind, caring, compassionate, funny, smart and terribly good looking. He shares my values and is respectful of my family and our unusual and evolving family structure. In short, he has become an important part of my life and I feel blessed to have him.
As my friend Leonard once wrote to me, life is wonderful even when it sucks.
First, the sucks.
KK and the girls went to Utah in early August. They planned to stay for the month, then return to New Jersey so the girls--all three of them--could start school. E is in second grade this year. L starts Pre-K. And KK was to start her second semester of graduate school studies in social work. I was also going to establish my own residence rather than continuing to live in the attic and in the city with friends as I had been doing for the past few months.
But if I've learned nothing over the past year of my life, I've learned that things change. Life happens. And after spending a week or so in Salt Lake, KK made an important decision. She looked at her situation, considered her need to start over and the emotional support that a new beginning requires, and told me that she thought it might be better for her to stay in Utah and start the next phase of her life there. I was devastated. I imagine I feel very much the way KK felt last fall when I first came out to her and then told her I wanted to end our marriage. She didn't want that, but she accepted it and supported me as I emerged from the closet and began living as an openly gay man. And now she has made a decision that I don't really want, but which I accept because I love her and support her and trust that she is making the best decision for herself, which is ultimately best for our children and our family.
As I have struggled to accept this new reality over the past couple of weeks, I have battled feelings of guilt. The guilt exists on at least two levels. I feel guilty about starting the chain of events that has led us to this point of separation. And I feel guilty that my children will have to grow up in a way that, at least on the surface, looks like the way I grew up--divorced parents living in different states. I am still dealing with the fallout from that experience and at times it is unbearable to think that my children will have to deal with that as well. In my good moments, I am able to remind myself that I am not my father and Keri is not my mother and we do not feel the mutual animosity and ill will that my parents felt. In my bad moments, Keri is able to remind me of this.
Is this ideal? No. But it is our reality. And Keri and I have decided that we need not let the ideal be an enemy of the good. We'll make the best of it. And I am looking forward to this weekend, which I will spend in Salt Lake with Keri and the girls. I miss them. All three of them.
Second, the wonderful.
I feel more myself and more comfortable with the life I am living than I ever have before. I don't feel gay--and I certainly don't feel straight!--I simply feel... normal. Who knew that normal could feel so good?
In the midst of this wonderful normalcy, I have met someone. I have been reluctant to talk about him on my blog because the relationship is still new and I'm not always sure how to "come out" to people about it. I also don't want to expose this relationship to scorn and judgment from people who disapprove for whatever reason. But he is a source of joy for me, and I want to acknowledge that here where I have written so much about my changing life.
He has a Mormon background, so he understands that part of my experience. He is kind, caring, compassionate, funny, smart and terribly good looking. He shares my values and is respectful of my family and our unusual and evolving family structure. In short, he has become an important part of my life and I feel blessed to have him.
As my friend Leonard once wrote to me, life is wonderful even when it sucks.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
My Cheetah
I was watching the movie "Duma" recently with my girls. I highly recommend it, by the way, to any of you with kids. Anyway, it's the story of a boy who lives on a plantation in Africa with his parents. He's riding in a car with his dad one night and they see a baby cheetah in the middle of the road, and stop. They can't see the mother anywhere and the boy begs his dad to take it home with them. The dad agrees, but makes sure the boy knows that he can't keep the cheetah forever, that they can help it learn to take care of itself but that they'll have to return it to the wild someday. The boy says he understands. They take it home, name it Duma (Swahili for cheetah), nurse it, raise it, try to teach it to hunt (which it can't do) and have fun with it. After a series of other adventures, the boy goes to return the cheetah to the wild. Duma runs into the savannah and immediately finds another cheetah to hang around with, and is finally successful at hunting and being the cheetah he was born to be. He turns back to look at the boy, and obviously recognizes him, but then runs away with the other cheetah and the boy is left in sadness. Of course, the moral of the story is that the boy loves Duma, and so he sets him free to be who he was meant to be. He understands that keeping him in captivity, while it's great for the boy, won't make Duma the happiest he can be.
I'm sure you all have guessed my intention in posting this story here. At the end of the movie, I told my daughter that was kind of how I feel about her dad. Of course I'm sad to set him free, but I know he's meant to be a cheetah, and because I love him, I want him to be the happiest he can be. She liked that.
Chris is running with another cheetah now, and though he looks back at me, I know he's happier in the savannah than on the plantation.
The problem is that the movie ends there. How does the boy move on from his relationship with the cheetah? Does he get another pet that is meant to be domesticated? How can that pet ever hope to compare to the beauty, grace, speed of Duma, and how can the boy possibly love another animal? I love my cheetah, but I feel like I am at the edge of the savannah, watching him run and hunt and play and be happy, while I just watch. I don't feel the capacity to move away from the savannah, and I can't imagine what that cheetah will need from me now. It's a sad realization for me, that I know he needed me to get him to this point, to help him realize his potential, but I don't see how I fit into the wild now.
I'm probably going to take a break from posting here for awhile. It's Chris's blog, and it should be about him and his life, which is increasingly separated from mine. Maybe I'll take up residence on another blog, or maybe keep quiet for now (I'm a lot more introverted than Chris...). Thank you for listening and responding. Have fun with my cheetah.
Keri
I'm sure you all have guessed my intention in posting this story here. At the end of the movie, I told my daughter that was kind of how I feel about her dad. Of course I'm sad to set him free, but I know he's meant to be a cheetah, and because I love him, I want him to be the happiest he can be. She liked that.
Chris is running with another cheetah now, and though he looks back at me, I know he's happier in the savannah than on the plantation.
The problem is that the movie ends there. How does the boy move on from his relationship with the cheetah? Does he get another pet that is meant to be domesticated? How can that pet ever hope to compare to the beauty, grace, speed of Duma, and how can the boy possibly love another animal? I love my cheetah, but I feel like I am at the edge of the savannah, watching him run and hunt and play and be happy, while I just watch. I don't feel the capacity to move away from the savannah, and I can't imagine what that cheetah will need from me now. It's a sad realization for me, that I know he needed me to get him to this point, to help him realize his potential, but I don't see how I fit into the wild now.
I'm probably going to take a break from posting here for awhile. It's Chris's blog, and it should be about him and his life, which is increasingly separated from mine. Maybe I'll take up residence on another blog, or maybe keep quiet for now (I'm a lot more introverted than Chris...). Thank you for listening and responding. Have fun with my cheetah.
Keri
Friday, August 04, 2006
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Regret
I have only a few regrets in my life. I regret that I voted for George W. Bush in the 2000 presidential election. Seriously. I regret that I didn't attend the funeral of a friend's mother when she passed away a few years ago. She was a second mother to me and I've kicked myself a few times for not flying to Utah from New York to pay my final respects and say goodbye.
And I regret that I did not tell KK sooner that I am gay.
Here's what that does NOT mean. It does not mean that I regret the life that I have lived with her. It does not mean that I regret having children with her. I have no regrets about the life I chose then or the life I am choosing now. But I do regret that I didn't have the courage to let her in sooner and share with her what I was struggling to understand.
Ideally, I would have told her before we got married. I loved her. She was the only woman I had ever fallen in love with, the only woman I was ever able to have a physical relationship with. So I wish I had done her the service of putting more trust in her. She gave me a few opportunities to do just that. She shared some very personal things about herself before we got married that she felt I should know. I remember thinking then, "Should I tell her?" But I couldn't. I really couldn't. And the closer I got to her the more convinced I became that I really wasn't gay. But still, I regret that I didn't say anything.
I also regret that I didn't tell her at some point sooner in the ten years of our marriage. Again, that regret arises not from a sense of guilt or because I wish I had lived a different life, but because I didn't trust her--the person to whom I was closest--with my most painful struggle. I shared everything else with her, but not that.
KK has pointed out to me that, with hindsight, it's easy to regret not telling her. It's easy because I know now how she reacted--lovingly, compassionately, empathetically. None of those things surprised me then or now, because Keri is loving, compassionate and empathetic. Her greatest happiness comes from seeing the people around her do well. And I have to admit that perhaps she is right, at least partly. I can look at how she handled this and say, "Ugh! Why didn't I tell her sooner!" But it goes deeper than that. I feel sometimes as thought I dishonored Keri by not telling her sooner and by not trusting what I knew about her character. I dishonored her by not empowering her sooner. That is my true regret. I regret that I didn't give her the choice of marrying a gay man, even recognizing that knowing something is not the same as understanding what it means--and I don't think either one of us would have understood what undertaking a mixed orientation marriage would entail. So even as I move past my shame of being gay and my guilt about divorce, I think I will always regret that I denied KK the power of choice.
And I regret that I did not tell KK sooner that I am gay.
Here's what that does NOT mean. It does not mean that I regret the life that I have lived with her. It does not mean that I regret having children with her. I have no regrets about the life I chose then or the life I am choosing now. But I do regret that I didn't have the courage to let her in sooner and share with her what I was struggling to understand.
Ideally, I would have told her before we got married. I loved her. She was the only woman I had ever fallen in love with, the only woman I was ever able to have a physical relationship with. So I wish I had done her the service of putting more trust in her. She gave me a few opportunities to do just that. She shared some very personal things about herself before we got married that she felt I should know. I remember thinking then, "Should I tell her?" But I couldn't. I really couldn't. And the closer I got to her the more convinced I became that I really wasn't gay. But still, I regret that I didn't say anything.
I also regret that I didn't tell her at some point sooner in the ten years of our marriage. Again, that regret arises not from a sense of guilt or because I wish I had lived a different life, but because I didn't trust her--the person to whom I was closest--with my most painful struggle. I shared everything else with her, but not that.
KK has pointed out to me that, with hindsight, it's easy to regret not telling her. It's easy because I know now how she reacted--lovingly, compassionately, empathetically. None of those things surprised me then or now, because Keri is loving, compassionate and empathetic. Her greatest happiness comes from seeing the people around her do well. And I have to admit that perhaps she is right, at least partly. I can look at how she handled this and say, "Ugh! Why didn't I tell her sooner!" But it goes deeper than that. I feel sometimes as thought I dishonored Keri by not telling her sooner and by not trusting what I knew about her character. I dishonored her by not empowering her sooner. That is my true regret. I regret that I didn't give her the choice of marrying a gay man, even recognizing that knowing something is not the same as understanding what it means--and I don't think either one of us would have understood what undertaking a mixed orientation marriage would entail. So even as I move past my shame of being gay and my guilt about divorce, I think I will always regret that I denied KK the power of choice.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Survey
How many of the gay married men out there were products of a divorced home? I'm wondering because one of the reasons Chris had such a hard time accepting himself as gay, even though he didn't come from any kind of conservative or religious home, but had totally liberal parents, was that he was determined to have a better family than the one he came from, and didn't see how he could do this as gay. He felt like the divorce of his parents put pressure on him to form a perfect family. I've noticed that several other of you gay married bloggers also came from divorced parents. Is this a trend? Just wondering...
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Up North
Thursday night I left my daughters with my mother in Appleton, Wisconsin, got in my rental car, and drove three hours north to my dad's house on Vandercook Lake in the woods of northern Wisconsin. The locals refer to this part of the state as, simply, Up North.
Up North has special meaning for me. I've spent part of nearly every summer of my life here. For many years, my dad had a small piece of land with nothing built on it on Broken Bow Lake, several miles east of here. When I was a kid we would camp there. I would fish with my dad every day, swim in the lake, catch turtles and frogs, play in the woods, and sit by the campfire each night. I lived in Salt Lake City with my mother for most of my growing up years and saw my dad only during the summer and on holidays. I cherish the memories of the time I spent with him at Broken Bow. Even in my teenage years, when I often did not want to spend an entire summer away from my friends in Utah, I enjoyed the time I spent fishing with my dad Up North.
A few years ago, he bought a house on Vandercook Lake and the Up North tradition has continued uninterrupted. I still come to northern Wisconsin each summer, now with my family. This part of the world is a touchstone for me. A place where I can renew myself and share the experience of being here among the lakes and the trees and the wildlife with my family. It is a place where I can strengthen the father-child bond with my dad and with my own daughters. I wrote about an experience I had with my dad out on the lake on my old blog. I go back to it and read it every once in awhile, especially when I am feeling the need to connect with my dad or to remember what a summer night on the lake can feel like. This is sacred ground.
I am here for a few days, on this sacred ground, by myself. This is the first time I have ever been alone in northern Wisconsin. A year ago when I was here, I was in full crisis mode. I could feel my grip on my life slipping and my relationship with Keri deteriorating. Now, I am here to rest and renew myself after the most difficult 12-month period of my life. It has been quiet. It has been energizing. It has been relaxing. It has been what I hoped it would be. The promise of Up North has been fulfilled yet again.
It has also been difficult to be here without Keri. I have never been on vacation to this house without her. Next week, I will go back to Appleton, retrieve the girls and bring them here. We will do what we always do when we come--we will fish, we will swim, we will make a campfire and roast marshmallows and make smores. But we will do this all without our Mommy here with us. And I would be lying if I said that it doesn't make me sad to be here without her. She had become a part of the touchstone experience for me. And it is hard to imagine spending time with my kids in this very special place without her. But that is what we will do next week.
When I came out to Keri on September 17, 2005, our lives changed for ever. Since then, almost no part of my life or hers has been untouched by change. Most of the time, I think that's just good. We needed things to change. I needed things to change. As I wrote in my last blog, I think we are and will be better off. But that doesn't mean that I don't mourn the loss of the life I had. It doesn't mean that I don't miss some of the things we did together as a family--like come "Up North" to Vandercook Lake.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Better Off
Restored Vows (a married man who says that he "struggles with same-sex attractions") posted this comment a few days ago on HURRICANE:
If you want to get divorced and lead a gay lifestyle, go for it. But you need to think through to the outcome of your decision. I'll leave you with a modified version of what President Reagan said in 1984: "Are you better off (gay and divorced) than you were (married)?
Better off. It seems like that ought to be fairly easy to figure out, right? But what does it mean? Better off.
I have considered this at length, and I think I will be better off gay and divorced than married. (And really, Restored Vows should have left "gay" out of it. I can stay married. I can get divorced. I can't change being gay.) Here's why...
KK and I had eight or nine really great years together. The last bit of our marriage before I came out was not a happy time for either one of us. Most people we know didn't see that. Really, in some ways we didn't see it either. But I was deeply unhappy and unsatisfied with my life. From about the time my younger daughter was born, I developed a death wish. I wasn't suicidal in that I wasn't planning my own death. But I was hoping for it. I imagined a plane crash on a business trip. Getting pushed in front of an oncoming subway car. A heart attack. Cancer. I was deeply unhealthy. I was overweight and out of shape. I had acid reflux disease that I hoped would become something much more serious.
I wanted out of my life. I figured it would be better if I were to go to my grave at an early age with my secret still mine than shame my family with my homosexuality. I figured my children would be better off with a dead father than a gay one. I knew KK would be better off with a dead husband than a gay one.
Better off. Better off dead.
Surely, part of my emotional pain came from keeping a deep, dark secret from the people I loved the most--especially KK. It could be argued that once I came out to her, I should have been able to press forward together with her. We could share the burden. We could make it work, despite our mixed orientations. Many couples try to do this, and some find a measure of success. We could be like them.
KK wanted this, at least on some level. She wanted the security and love that a husband would provide her. And she loved me. And to this day, I feel sorrow for the pain that this has caused her. I love her. She is my closest friend. But once I came out to her, I found myself driven to feel self acceptance and happiness about being gay. I didn't want it to be a cross I had to bear. I didn't want it to be a challenge we would struggle through together. With her love and encouragement, I began to embrace my gay self, and that set me on a path that leads out of the marriage.
I'm 34. KK is 33. There is a lot of life left ahead for both of us. She has gotten a grip on her depression and begun the process of realizing professional ambitions she didn't know she harbored. I am openly and happily gay. I'm meeting new people and feeling no shame for this simple fact of who I am.
Better off? I think so. There is pain in the short term, and there will be challenges in both the short and long term. But this is the best chance for both of us to find lasting happiness. And that's better off.
If you want to get divorced and lead a gay lifestyle, go for it. But you need to think through to the outcome of your decision. I'll leave you with a modified version of what President Reagan said in 1984: "Are you better off (gay and divorced) than you were (married)?
Better off. It seems like that ought to be fairly easy to figure out, right? But what does it mean? Better off.
I have considered this at length, and I think I will be better off gay and divorced than married. (And really, Restored Vows should have left "gay" out of it. I can stay married. I can get divorced. I can't change being gay.) Here's why...
KK and I had eight or nine really great years together. The last bit of our marriage before I came out was not a happy time for either one of us. Most people we know didn't see that. Really, in some ways we didn't see it either. But I was deeply unhappy and unsatisfied with my life. From about the time my younger daughter was born, I developed a death wish. I wasn't suicidal in that I wasn't planning my own death. But I was hoping for it. I imagined a plane crash on a business trip. Getting pushed in front of an oncoming subway car. A heart attack. Cancer. I was deeply unhealthy. I was overweight and out of shape. I had acid reflux disease that I hoped would become something much more serious.
I wanted out of my life. I figured it would be better if I were to go to my grave at an early age with my secret still mine than shame my family with my homosexuality. I figured my children would be better off with a dead father than a gay one. I knew KK would be better off with a dead husband than a gay one.
Better off. Better off dead.
Surely, part of my emotional pain came from keeping a deep, dark secret from the people I loved the most--especially KK. It could be argued that once I came out to her, I should have been able to press forward together with her. We could share the burden. We could make it work, despite our mixed orientations. Many couples try to do this, and some find a measure of success. We could be like them.
KK wanted this, at least on some level. She wanted the security and love that a husband would provide her. And she loved me. And to this day, I feel sorrow for the pain that this has caused her. I love her. She is my closest friend. But once I came out to her, I found myself driven to feel self acceptance and happiness about being gay. I didn't want it to be a cross I had to bear. I didn't want it to be a challenge we would struggle through together. With her love and encouragement, I began to embrace my gay self, and that set me on a path that leads out of the marriage.
I'm 34. KK is 33. There is a lot of life left ahead for both of us. She has gotten a grip on her depression and begun the process of realizing professional ambitions she didn't know she harbored. I am openly and happily gay. I'm meeting new people and feeling no shame for this simple fact of who I am.
Better off? I think so. There is pain in the short term, and there will be challenges in both the short and long term. But this is the best chance for both of us to find lasting happiness. And that's better off.
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