My Father & Me: An Examination Of A Relationship And Its Effect On My Life

Hindsight can provide so much clarity but only if you allow yourself to see.

My father was young. A few months shy of 19. I have no idea what life was like for him before me. He doesn’t really talk about it much. Then again, I never really ask him. 

I have no idea what he felt upon learning the news that he was going to be a father. He was an unwed senior in high school. I don’t know how mature he was. I don’t know if he felt shame. I don’t know if he was afraid. Again, he doesn’t talk about it, and I don’t ask. 

He told me once that he wasn’t very present in my life at its beginning. He blames that on his youth. He regrets it. I don’t think I hold that against him. 

I didn't connect with him. He didn't connect with me. I have a vague awareness—a muscle memory if you will—that exists in my core, suggesting to me that I was uncomfortable around him from an early age. I wasn’t like him. I was different and didn’t yet know how. I was always afraid he was going to see this difference and point it out. My uncomfortableness, I soon realized, extended to the other men in my life—cousins, uncles, grandfathers. 

As I crossed the bridge from childhood into adolescence, I realized that to be left on my own with him filled me with anxiety. I didn’t know then that it was anxiety, but that feeling is something that I now recognize as an adult. I now wonder if he felt as uncomfortable alone with me as I did with him. The truth is, we had nothing in common other than blood.

He was the first male relationship in my life, the first male I was ashamed to be myself around. He was the first person to point out what he perceived were my flaws. He was the first person to make me feel ashamed of some of the things I enjoyed. 

To this day I am convinced that the relationship I have with my father is the reason I won’t let myself be vulnerable enough to connect with other men. They who I long to hold me, kiss me, love me. I'm scared to be myself around them; to reveal myself to them. I was scared to reveal myself to him. I feared the punishment. I still am scared in some respects—of his reaction, his disappointment. I won’t let myself be vulnerable in front of other men because I couldn't be vulnerable in front of him. Shame and fear walk hand in hand.

I don’t remember of time when I didn’t feel like I was a disappointment to him. Because of that feeling, I feel I’m in constant need of his approval, and by extension, everyone else’s. My need for approval fucks me up to this day, e.g., pleasing my boss, appeasing my landlady, low Instagram likes. My desire for approval points back to wanting his. I know it. It’s as if I was never able to validate myself enough.

When Lady Bird, in the eponymously titled film, says to her mother, “I wish you liked me.” Her mother responds, “Of course I love you.” Lady Bird then asks, “But do you like me?”

I’ve never felt like my father was proud to call me his son. I’ve always felt like he was ashamed of me; that I was his biggest, well, disappointment. I’ve convinced myself that he doesn’t really like me very much—his feminine son who would rather pursue musical theatre than hunt, watch soap operas than play outside, paint his nails than get them dirty. I realize that my possibly imagined thoughts have led to self-inflicted wounds and presumptive allegations. But the thoughts exist nonetheless.

I believe that my lack of self-esteem stems largely from the fact that I was, and continue to be, afraid that my homosexuality—and feminine mannerisms—brings him shame. Then again, maybe the shame is all my own and has nothing to do with him. Since I’m already emotionally cutting I might as well cut a little deeper and get it all out there, right? Scars are scars.

I do my best to convince myself that I don’t live in his shadow. But his shadow threatens me from time to time, lurking at the edge of my light. Why? Maybe it’s because his shadow carries with it the testimony of a Christian man who is respected in his community. Maybe it’s because his shadow’s essence holds what I perceive a man is supposed to be? Ouch! But aren’t I too a man? Yes, I am. I often forget that I too cast a shadow informed by the courage of a man who does his best to fight against his own fears to live his truth. My father has always been so concerned with his reputation, and by sheer proximity as his child, I too am concerned with what people think about me. I hate it. We both need to trust ourselves and let that go. Easier said than done. My father is a good man, but so am I. 

I can no longer regret the relationship that we don’t have; that of shared experiences and Norman Rockwell imagery. The responsibility of a relationship falls on both people in it to nurture it and make it grow. I have shouldered the blame for the lack of our closeness for the majority of my life. I am his son and he is my father, but a relationship with him is not, nor has it ever been, solely my responsibility.

It is not my fault that I am gay. It is not his fault. There is no fault. He responded to learning that truth from me more positively than I expected. But I believe it is the wall that divides us. My reason for waiting so long to come out to him was that I feared I would no longer be welcomed in his home. The third thing out of his mouth during that coming out conversation was, “You will always be welcome in my home.” I wept with the relief of a weight lifted. He did, however, respond exactly how I expected in one specific way. He said he believes what the Bible says in regard to homosexuality. Homosexuality and religion: a great divide.

I long to be held in the arms of a man who makes me feel safe and protected, in the arms of a man that I trust. I love him, but my dad doesn’t make me feel safe. I don't have a memory of feeling safe in his arms, merely anxious. I do remember feeling comforted in his embrace when each of his parents died. But those were special circumstances, with heightened emotions, not life’s every day situations. 

I didn't trust him with my truth for so many years because I couldn't face what I feared would be a negative reaction. It didn’t turn out that way, but I still don't trust him. To this day I don’t fully relax alone in his presence. I'm always on guard, waiting for whatever probing question he may ask. It's exhausting. I want him to see me—accept me—but at the same time, I won’t let him. I fear his reaction. So, I don't let any man who might find me handsome, kind, funny, smart, sexy, whatever, see me. I'm always protected, always on guard. 

Why does approval and acceptance of my father matter more than my own validation? Why is the joy that I find in wearing makeup, high heels, and spectacular jewelry not enough? Why is fear mingling with the joy I feel at having my toenails painted? Why do I diminish myself in his presence when I’m at his house for a visit? Am I ashamed of what makes me happy? Why do I snuff out my light? Am I protecting me…or am I protecting him? Would the joy be more delicious if I had his approval or didn’t fear his reaction? I don’t know. I won’t give it a chance. And where my gender expansive expressions are concerned, I constantly think that the men I find handsome, the one’s I’m attracted to, are going to be so turned off by my outward expression that I make sure the key to the gate in my wall of protection is securely out of reach so that I don’t give in to the temptation of happiness beyond the door. Vulnerability is a naked journey.

I’ve spent most of my life protecting myself and now I don't know any other way to live. Days have become years and now I'm 47 and nearly bursting with desires that I won't act upon because I won't let myself be vulnerable. I wear my heels and my makeup and my jewelry out into the world, but I’m on guard. I want to be seen but I also hope that I blend in with the background noise.

He was 19, and I was an accident. Hindsight definitely shows me that our relationship is the root of my self-worth issues and my fears where men are concerned. I am blocked, stuck. I can’t seem to move forward, at least not at the pace I would like. He is not solely to blame. He is merely a factor. This examination is the same shit different day…with a little more clarity and a lot more honesty.

My journey continues...

Resolving the Conflict Starts With Me

A few days ago I read Kevin Thornton’s HuffPost blog, “I Was a Teenage Fundamentalist: How I Resolved the Conflict Between Jesus and My Sexuality.” (You should read his before you read mine.) I was immediately taken with his ability to draw such a distinct portrait of my life. I mean, he doesn’t even know me, yet there I was beginning to take shape in the words I was reading. I knew he was telling his own story (and that his story, like mine, is not unique), but the similarities were uncanny…at least through the first paragraph. 

Churchgoer…check. Singer of the Baptist hymn Just As I Am…check. Early 90s…check. Dark secret…check. He’s from small-town Southern Indiana I’m from small-town Kentucky. There I was coming into focus. I was standing in front of my pew in the church building where I attended worship services with multiple members of my family, singing my heart out for Jesus, concealing my truth, hiding my secret, scared to be me.

I had no one to talk to about any of the desires and feelings that were bubbling just under the surface, struggling for freedom, trying to take a breath in the light. I couldn’t talk to my pastor who would pound on his pulpit while his raised voice told me of the fire and brimstone that God rained down on the Sodomites of Sodom and Gomorrah for their sins — the major sin being homosexuality. (Uh oh. He’s talking about me. I’m beginning to feel those homosexual desires.) I couldn’t talk to my friends at the time because they would just as easily call me queer or sissy as come to my birthday party (then call me queer or sissy at the birthday party). I couldn’t talk to my parents. Oh no. I didn’t trust them to understand or accept that their son was gay. (I didn’t know what my parents would do with the information, but I was so riddled with fear that I couldn’t find out.) So I kept pushing those desires and feelings down, keeping them at bay. I was tormented, alone, scared.

I never experienced any “pray away the gay” organizations like Thornton’s referenced Exodus Ministries. But I spent more time on my knees behind the closed door of my bedroom, crying, pleading, begging, praying to not be gay than I can even remember. I created my own hell of trying to “pray the gay away.” The gay feelings never went away though. I attended worship services three times a week. I prayed. I sang. I had asked Jesus into my heart and believed my soul was saved from eternal damnation in hell. But I was still gay. Those homosexual desires never changed except to grow stronger. 

Thornton says that going away to college saved his life. I never thought of college as saving my life. That’s probably because it took so long for me to start living my life after I got there. Getting there did help. It got me out of my small town. It opened my eyes to other ideas and beliefs. It helped me start questioning and forming my own opinions. I was drawn to and surrounded by people living the life I wanted to be living — I was on the five-year plan with a double major in Performing Arts and Advertising — but still it took me until the summer before my fifth year to finally achieve enough courage to come out. I didn’t get to college and suddenly find my freedom. I was thinking differently, yes, but I still felt the heat of that fire and brimstone keeping me restrained. The truth is: I still feel the chains that want me bound to those beliefs that were so rigidly instilled in me in my youth. I’m still afraid of that fire and brimstone hell.

I’ve recently come to realize that that scared child is still very present inside me, and he’s been responsible for many of the fear-based choices I’ve made in my life. He’s also very responsible for the fears that I still allow to prevent me from living my adult gay life to the fullest without concern of parental disappointment and eternal damnation. And unlike Thornton, I never really resolved my conflict with God. It’s a struggle, and I’m trying, but right now I feel as if I’m stepping away from God completely so that I can come back on my own terms with my own goals for our relationship. I should have done this years ago, but fear (like I learned in the pew of my church building) is something that is used to keep one in line and therefore holds one back. 

Communication is the way Thornton says he resolved his situation. I believe in the power of communication. But with communication can also come disappointment. One has to find the courage to hear even as he finds the steadiness to speak. I recently took a huge step out of my comfort zone and shared, for the first time, my childhood feelings of fear and loneliness with my mom. I shared how afraid I was, how untrusting. I opened that door before I even realized I was turning the knob. I’m in my 40s now, but it’s never too late to start a dialogue. It’s hard for me not to feel as though I’ve wasted a lot of my life living in fear, but I also believe there is truth to the universe presenting things to you when you are ready to accept them. 

Not long ago a friend of mine presented me with the concept of getting my hands dirty. Holding back and not communicating, at least with my mom, was me not getting my hands dirty, not rocking the boat, even at times being a victim. I realize now I was more afraid of being disappointed in her possible answers or responses, than I was afraid of having the conversation. I may never change the mind of someone who believes that homosexuality is wrong, but there is no comfort, no freedom, in living in silence or fear. There’s just avoidance. Even a baby step forward is a step forward. I’m glad mom and I took that step together.

As you might have noticed, that portrait of me that Thornton began drawing with such seemingly definitive strokes veered into Monet territory — recognizable from a distance, fuzzier upon closer examination. There’s still conflict in my life between God and my sexuality. That’s based on deep-rooted religious fears more than anything else. There’s still conflict between my family and my sexuality. That will probably never change, but I know I’m loved. What can change is me. That scared inner child has to grow up and face his fears. I have to be willing to speak…and hear. I have to change my expectations. I have to change my pattern. I have to believe that “just as I am” is good enough.