It’s More Than Just A Little Lipstick, It’s About Identity

Oddly, I didn’t feel scared. This was different for me. There was a bit of anxiety pulsing in my chest, but it felt different than normal. The pulsing might have even been more from excitement than fear.

The day after I officially came out as non-binary, I went to the Chanel beauty boutique at Saks Fifth Avenue with the sole purpose of buying a new lipstick. I am not new to lipstick or lip gloss, but my chosen colors tend to be pinks and nudes that are similar in color to my lips and therefore don’t stand out as much as they enhance the already existing color. These lipsticks don’t announce themselves to the world yet still give me the pleasure of feminine expression.

If you’ve read my previous post, you know how pink and red shades of polish on my nails once made me uncomfortable. The same can be said of lipstick. A bold shade that proclaims itself before the lips wearing it are determined to be mine is something that I have been unwilling to do. The culprits are fear and shame. Those two hateful siblings allow me to feel more uncomfortable in my skin than anything else.

But, just like my desire to wear the pink or red nail polish, I truly desire to adorn my lips with color. And so here I am.

 

I knew that I had to face my fear of being seen and what better time than the present? The eyes were done. The clothes were chosen. The earrings were in place. The final step before departing my house was to swipe that color on my lips. And as you can see from the above photo, swipe it I did.

As I said above, I was oddly calm when it was time to leave my apartment. I was ready to step outside of their protecting walls.

And you know what, nothing happened. No one said anything. The negative reaction I feared was not expressed. As one prone to holding onto the negativity provided because of other people’s insecurities, I know how important it is to hold onto the positive ones. I’m working on that.

I also know that no matter how small the steps, forward is forward. I am supported and loved by the people that I have chosen to share my life with.

Courage comes from within. But surrounding myself with people who encourage me and lift me up and push me forward makes being brave a little easier. And with bravery comes confidence.

Today I confidently wore Chanel Mystérieuse lipstick. A bold and vibrant choice for a (hopefully) bold and vibrant new me.

Another Coming Out: I’m Non-Binary, My Pronouns Are He/Him, But I Also Respond to Hey Gurl.

LGBT Foundation, a United Kingdom-based charity whose roots date back to 1975, defines non-binary as “people who feel their gender cannot be defined within the margins of gender binary. Instead, they understand their gender in a way that goes beyond simply identifying as either a man or a woman.” 

It can go deeper than that. Some people identify as both male and female while others identify as neither. Some feel that their gender fluctuates with fluidity between the two. 

I am that. That is me.

I have written more than a little about my young life in small-town Kentucky. As early as three- or four-years old I discovered my mother’s shoes. Specifically, a pair of white platform sandals. I loved those shoes. Who knows why? How often do we hear that children like playing with the box better than the toy that came in it? All I know is little boy Michael loved those shoes. 

What I also know is that I always got in trouble when I got caught wearing them. I know our memories can cloud and change as we get older. What was once just a statement can become a stern reprimand. But I do remember the words always being a stern reprimand to take off those shoes.

I will always believe that this is when the seed of my shame was planted. And that it has been growing since before I understood what shame was or that I was feeling it.

I’ve written about when my foot had finally grown to the size of my mother’s and what pure joy I felt when her high heels actually fit my feet. I loved getting to stay at home alone while my parents were away grocery shopping or running other errands. I wore a pair of her heels from the minute the car was out of sight until I heard it pulling back into our driveway. Of course, I always made sure to put them back where I found them because I didn’t want to get caught. And I sure didn’t want the reprimand (possibly in the form of a spanking) that would follow.

Fast forward to 40-something me living in New York City. I was dying to paint all ten of my fingernails, but afraid to do so. I allowed myself just one at first, then two. I professed them just a part of my style. I always felt like I needed an answer for why I only painted the one (eventually the pair). My therapist at the time said my answer need only be that I liked it. I tried that for a while. 

Eventually I felt brave enough to let my inner female show herself. But not on my hands.

I bought a pair of Gucci platform heels and I felt fabulous while wearing them and supported by those around me. Jewelry followed: cocktail rings, jeweled bracelets, earrings. It was baby steps in the coming, these outward expressions of femininity. 

Eventually I got all ten nails painted—September 12, 2019. I felt complete. I was nervous to be seen…a man with painted fingernails. But I loved them. I had been denying myself this happiness of expression out of fear for way too long. The color was dark slate gray. A very masculine color for fall. Masculine. I remember thinking that. As if the color being masculine would somehow be a distraction from the fact that I was a male with painted nails.

The gray was fine and the reaction was positive. But what I really wanted was pink. 

It took a while to get there. I had tried pinks and reds when I was still painting only one (or two) nails. The color made me uncomfortable. I found myself hiding the nail when coated with one of these shades. I was embarrassed by it. I had no idea why? Maybe because I saw pink as feminine?

Eye shadow, lipstick, perfume, and a white asymmetrical Halston jumpsuit joined list of feminine expressions

Eventually I succumbed to my desire and got all ten nails painted pink. It was life. It was empowering. Pink is so vibrant and alive. It has energy that no gray will ever possess. I became a pink-nail queen. I almost feel incomplete when my nails are not some shade of pink. I do allow other colors to live on my nails from time to time, but it always comes back to pink.

All of these things are mile markers on my journey: questioning myself, discovering myself, revealing myself, accepting myself (if only in small increments).

I’ve been questioning my gender for some time now, though I would always conclude I’m a cis gay male: assigned male at birth and living as male. However, the questioning began in earnest one day when I approached a person on my subway platform wearing pearls. I was curious if this person felt nervous and guarded like I always do when wearing categorically feminine attire and/or accessories. We got on the same train and as we rode into Manhattan we talked. She was a trans female and younger than I. She was kind and generous. She let me ask questions and she answered. She posed questions. After that conversation I couldn’t stop examining myself. I know there are a lot of people who hate labels but I wanted to figure out where I fit. I wanted a label to help me understand, accept, belong.

I did a lot of thinking. 

I thought about how when I was a child I always liked to be the wife or girlfriend when I played house with my male cousins. If I could be pregnant in our make-believe world I was even happier. And I loved being a bride.

I thought about how I often feel pretty not handsome. 

I thought about how I often feel female not male.

But I didn’t feel as if I was in the wrong body. One of the questions I asked the woman on that subway ride was: “When did you feel like you were in the wrong body?” She said she’d never felt that way. Her answer was a revelation. 

I couldn’t get there until I got there.

I don’t feel like I’m in the wrong body either. I like my penis. I don’t want breasts. I just don’t feel like I’m wholly male. I truly feel I am both male and female, yet not exclusively one or the other. I definitely feel more feminine most days but the male side of me comes out to play sometimes too.

I admitted the truth: to myself and others. It's been there all along. I finally feel brave enough to admit it.

On October 3, 2023, I finally had the courage to say that I am non-binary. At the time of this writing I feel happy. I feel light. I feel as if I might be even closer to understanding, accepting, and loving myself than ever before. I feel like admitting this out loud to my friends makes it even more real to me. As if admitting it has allowed me to breathe in my skin for the first time in years. Maybe now I will finally begin to dispel the shame.

My name is Michael Rohrer. I am non-binary. I am human. I am gay. I am queer. I am a person in progress. I am on a journey and my most recent discovery is “huge,” to quote my friend Mandy.

I am.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go put on some lipstick then change the sheets on my bed.

Seeing Myself in Jude: thoughts on A Little Life

The first thing I remember upon hearing of Hanya Yanagihara’s novel, A Little Life is that it’s terribly sad. And at 814 pages (the paperback version) that was a lot to consider. But I found myself more intrigued than intimidated.

 

At 10:49pm on the evening of August 19, 2023, I began A Little Life.

 

I won’t lie, it took me a few days to penetrate the world of the novel, find its rhythms. But once I did, all I cared about was setting aside time to enter it again, turn the page, find out what happened next.

 

This essay contains spoilers, so if you haven’t read the novel, and there’s any thought in your head that you might, you should stop reading right now.

 

Malcom, J.B., Willem, and Jude: college friends, post college friends, four young adults supporting one another as they build their lives in New York City, old friends. I have those friends in the presence of Neal and Matt. The novel’s four men experience a lot of life together in this chronicle, and so have we three—turning 21, coming out, learning ballet, graduating from college, living in NYC, marriages, cheating, break-ups, dating, divorces, births, deaths, laughter, anger, tears, silence, forgiveness.

 

But A Little Life really centers on the character of Jude. It struck me like a distressing blow to the face when I recognized my own reflection staring back at me in the way he feels about himself: the shame, the low self-esteem, the feeling that all good is undeserved. His desire to be alone, to fade away, to shrink himself into an unnoticeable figure—small and ignored. His anxious recoil at being touched. (I don’t so much recoil as I just don’t often put myself in a position to be touched. Yet I know my body craves that intimacy.) His fear of sex and dislike of it. (I fear men even as I desire to feel the closeness that sexual penetration can provide.) 

 

If you’ve read the novel let me state without further hesitation that my life experience does not mimic Jude’s beyond how we both feel about ourselves. I have not been molested. I have not been forced to be a prostitute. I have not been beaten to unconsciousness or run over by a car. I have not inflicted physical self-harm upon myself. And I have only half-heartedly given thought to taking my own life—the pills were in my hand, but I didn’t have the courage. I have not experienced his trauma—so much trauma. I don’t know how he keeps going, keeps breathing, finds any moments of joy or happiness. Yet I have experienced people who taught me shame and fear, which led to my feelings that I am undeserving of love or of a life without the expectation of suffering. My experiences have led to my traumas. Mine. (I know Jude is not real but that doesn’t change how powerfully his story affected me.) We all have some sort of PTSD from the traumas in our lives. Comparatively though, Jude wins hands down, and I feel like a whiny bitch.

 

I have thrived in the relationship/friendship/chosen family threesome that is Neal, Matt, and I. But I have also pushed them both away. I often feel that when I once again begin speaking about how religion affects me, about my family’s political beliefs, about how ashamed I often feel when expressing my femininity, or about the depression of the moment, that they roll their eyes when I’m not looking. I know I’m blessed to have them, but I also don’t see myself as easy. I often wait for them to say enough is enough and then move forward in their lives without me. Sometimes, I feel as if I’m trying to push them beyond their Michael limits so they will eventually prove my expectations warranted. This never happens.

Brother Luke to Jude; “When you’re with your clients you have to show a little life; they’re paying to be with you – you have to show them you’re enjoying it.” (Yanagihara, 2015, p. 473)

As I learned more and more about Jude’s life experience (the agony was often relentless), I felt gutted, sad, sick to my stomach, broken. When my heart wasn’t pounding out the rhythm of anxiety in my chest, (my breathing dancing in the shallows), it felt as if it had been ripped out of my chest. I wanted Jude to find happiness. I wanted him to feel safe. I wanted him to fight to get mentally healthy. I wanted him to stop apologizing for everything. I wanted him to share all his secrets in the hope that it would set him free. I wanted him to trust those who professed their love for him. But he didn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t.

We learn at an early age from the adults in our lives what is expected of us, what we’re worth, how much we’re loved, who we can trust. I know I was loved. Am loved. But I also learned to fear and to be ashamed and I didn’t trust. Jude learned those things, and more, but from extremely disturbing circumstances that no child (or adult) should ever have to experience.

 

At 4:22 pm on the afternoon of September 22, 2023, I finished A Little Life. 

 

I now know what happened next, and I feel relieved to know it. But I also feel tremendous sadness at the revelation. There was a lump in my chest. I’ve felt this lump before. I know how to deal with it. I need to cry it out. And while I had cried a few pages before the end of the novel, I needed to really cry. I needed to face my feelings and get them out of me. The first thought I had was to play “What Was I Made For?” by Billie Eilish. So I did. Music is magic at helping one express his feelings.

 

When her breathy voice gently breathed, “I used to float, now I just fall down,” I couldn’t hold myself together. All I could think of was Jude as a little boy. (Me as a little boy.) The word “float” in the context of this song conjured for me images of that joyous time when one fears nothing. Memories of me playing, laughing, running flickered through my mind. Jude never really had that. I could picture him as a little boy, at the monastery where he was raised, happy in the greenhouse helping Brother Luke, the monk who had always treated him with the most kindness. This was before Brother Luke revealed himself to be the catalyst of Jude's ruin. Jude never felt safe. But I did, until I didn’t. I have fallen down.

 

I bawled. I howled. I shook as I wept. For Jude. (For myself.) I held the book to my chest, over my heart, as if Jude was a real person and by holding his story over my heart, I would somehow comfort him, and me. I listened to the song twice. The deluge continued. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. My heart was so broken.

 

After the tears stopped, and the nasal congestion that accompanied them began to clear, I took myself outside for a walk. I needed to move. I needed to clear my head. I wanted to have a cigarette. I focused on my breathing, the inhale and exhale of the smoke, and the beauty of the colorful flowers still in bloom around me. I noticed a vibrant pink and yellow flower with a bumble bee sitting in its center doing what bees do. It was life. A little life.

 

If I hadn’t seen myself reflected in the form of Jude’s own feelings about himself, I have no idea how I would feel about A Little Life. It is gripping and rich in description. But there’s no use wondering what might have been as I will never know because I did see myself, and when the story was over, I cried for us both.

 

Again, I know Jude is not real. But I am. I’m alive. I’m a 52-year-old man-child whose heart is old but tender because I’ve rarely let it get broken (no calluses). But I should be able to change how I feel about myself, shouldn’t I? There's still time, right? But will I? I’ve been trying for years, but I’ve been stuck longer than I was ever free. I know that I have to believe that I matter, that I’m worthy. I have to believe that I have nothing to be ashamed of. With each new day, as I wake to breathe again, I wonder if there is still a chance I will believe it. Will I live more than just a little life? Will I one day finally loosen the shackles of my fear and shame and live more freely, more fully, more vulnerably, more happily, more openly? I’m not sure I believe I can.

 

I see A Little Life as a story of friendship: its challenges and rewards. I see it as a love story: unexpected and thrilling. It’s also a story of child abuse and its detrimental effects. It’s a story of physical damage that, for Jude, is too difficult to overcome. It made me think about my life, my friends, my family, the relationships that still exist and the ones I’ve walked away from. My anger. My avoidance of vulnerability. My internalized homo- and femmephobia. The dates I wouldn’t go on. The sex I’ve refused to have. The loneliness cultivated by solitude. All the wasted years. 

 

Referencing the aforementioned Billie Eilish song again, these lyrics weigh heavily on my heart: “Think I forgot how to be happy. Something I’m not, but something I can be.” It isn’t that I’m always sad. There is joy. There is happiness. They’re just harder for me to hold on to.

 

This story clearly had a profound effect on me. Jude’s story touched me deeply. It is one that I will not soon forget. I may never forget it. And even though its pages are singed with sadness, it is quite possibly a book that I will one day read again

Convinced

When one has convinced himself that no one truly cares about the things he cares about — merely indulging him as he romanticizes about the scent of a new perfume, humoring him as he reenacts a moment from his favorite soap opera, tolerating his frustration with the lack of consequences for rule breakers — it is incredibly difficult to convince oneself otherwise.

When one has convinced himself he is his family’s shame and disappointment — welcoming him into their home, yes, but avoiding conversations about his life as a gay man, flippantly replying when faced with gay topics, silently reacting to his emotional outbursts on phobic occurrences, ultimately tempering his own shame — it is incredibly difficult to convince oneself otherwise.

When one has convinced himself that he is a unicorn peacocking among the regular horses — chin up, aloof, lips glossed with color, lashes mascara’d, perfectly armored (um, adorned), an inkling of knowledge that makes him seem well versed, a pretender even after he is safely hidden away and has removed the horn he foolishly believes makes him special — it is incredibly difficult to convince oneself otherwise.

©️MichaelRohrer

The Time I Realized It’s Me Who’s Ashamed Of My Femininity

“Another round of bullets hits my skin.” 

That lyric from the song “This Is Me” from the film The Greatest Showman is really resonating with me at the moment.

I’ve come to believe that the bullets hitting my skin are from a gun being held in my own hand. I’m pulling the trigger. The question is: Am I trying to commit emotional suicide or am I trying to keep myself just wounded enough so that I don’t have to face the reality of my own emotional prison. 

I rarely give myself the permission or the freedom to do all the things that I want to do in my life. Instead, I give myself fear, anger, frustration, shame, and regret.

I’ve spent many years thinking that it was other people who were ashamed of me for being homosexual or feminine or whatever other disparaging word one could use when belittling. But honestly, it’s me who’s ashamed...of me. I hadn’t even realized how stagnant and toxic my internalized shame had become? 

Lady Gaga reminds me that I was “Born This Way,” and I know that’s true. I’ve been a homo since I can remember. But it’s my bend toward femininity, which in terms of outward expression I like to call gender-expansive, that brings with it a special cloak of shame that I can’t seem to fully abandon no matter how much I grow and change and understand about myself.

I’m so tired of being afraid of the reaction of others at my outward feminine expression. I believe this fear is the root of my shame. I’m embarrassed to be the fabulous, stylish, flamboyant, feminine man that I am. 

I recently published the piece My Father & Me: An Examination Of A Relationship And Its Effect On My Life. In it I pointed out that I have always felt like I was my father’s biggest disappointment, his shame. That examination, and the questions I posed in that piece, have led to more questions, but also a deeper understanding that it’s me who is ashamed. I love who I am in the safety of my own home. But when I leave the confines of that sanctuary, my joy goes to hell. 

A few days ago I found myself in exactly that state of mind. I was in my living room applying a finishing swipe of lipstick before leaving for work. I took in my reflection. I loved what I saw: black jeans double rolled to fully reveal my silver Louis Vuitton boots with 4.5” heel, which I had never worn so exposed before; the green, gray, and black patterned short-sleeved jacket with a pink, jeweled set of lips dangling from the zipper pull. My eye makeup was bangin’; my jewelry the right amount of sparkle and pop. That man reflected in that mirror felt fabulous, was happy. 

Then I walked out my door. As I was turning the key in the lock I could feel a change coming over me. Literally feel it. My chest felt heavy, my face fixed itself into resting bitch. By the time I'd walked down the short hallway and through the two doors separating me from the sidewalk my joy was gone. It had been replaced by a heaviness that I soon realized was anger. I was angry. Mere moments before I had been happy and joyous and basically singing, "Ooh, don't lemme start lovin' myself!” from Bette Midler's “I'm Beautiful.” Damn it! I still looked fabulous but the bliss was gone. 

The best way I can describe this anger that came over me is thus: it was the guard I so often pull up around me for protection mixed with my frustration at being afraid of expressing myself.

Two days later it finally sank in: I’m ashamed of my femininity! 

Christ! I’ve been blaming—or trying to blame—other people and specific situations for my fears when it comes to expressing myself for longer than I care to say. But it’s me. I’m the one. I knew I was firing the bullets. I just didn’t realize how deeply I was wounding myself.

But you know what? Just because I can more clearly see my own self-sabotage doesn’t change the fact that being bullied in my youth fed my fear and stunted my growth. Just because I more clearly understand the huge part I play in my own shame doesn’t change that fact that my father did indeed point out what he perceived were my flaws (mostly my feminine traits) as I mentioned in the above referenced piece. The seeds were sown.

When we’re young we are so susceptible to the words and actions of others. Not that we aren’t susceptible as adults. But in our youth we are still forming and becoming. We often aren’t yet mature enough to form our own opinions. We don’t often understand what we’re feeling or why something brings us joy. We just know we like it or we’re happy. My life seemed rife with mockery, from my love of singing to the way I walked to my fashion choices. It wasn’t a constant barrage of negativity, but it was often enough that I went inward, felt ashamed of what brought me joy, found safety behind closed doors.

My shame was instilled in me but that makes it no less my shame. I let that negativity take root in me and flourish into the gnarliest tree, which continues to thrive on my self-doubt and self-hate…products of my shame. That tree has a far-reaching canopy of leaves that represent my fear. And those leaves don’t provide shade as much as they block my light. Every time I was mocked, laughed at, ridiculed, I internalized my shame and gave the roots of that tree the nourishment they needed to get stronger and to more deeply anchor themselves. That tree must be riddled with bullets.

I’m damaged. But I survived my youth. And I continue to survive every day.

I have a co-worker who unknowingly gives me strength every time I see him. He’s gay, paints all ten fingernails, wears makeup, wears dangling earrings, has pink hair. I don’t know if anxiety overtakes him as he leaves his apartment. I don’t know if he’s afraid as he walks to the subway station. To me he appears happy and alive in his gender-expansive expression of femininity. Seeing him nourishes me and fills me with the desire to get over my shame of being who I am, loving what I love, and just BE. He inspires me to be the brave and courageous person that others think I am. 

My mom has always said I march to my own drummer. She’s right. Nobody else marched in time with me where I’m from. But the little feminine boy inside of me has always been afraid to just BE. Even still, there are those who see me as brave and courageous while I see myself as holding my breath until I reach safety. 

I recently heard Rupaul say, “To watch a boy play with feminine things, in a society that is so masculine, and come through it, and find their fire and their own voice is a very powerful thing.” 

I have not come through it, but I have definitely found my voice, and a shard of power. I am replacing that gun with lipstick and putting on a fabulous pair of heels to pour positive poison on the roots of that tree.

“Well, fire away 'cause today, I won't let the shame sink in.” I’m working on it.

My journey continues…

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...

This Is Me Without The Not

Anyone who's seen the trailer for The Greatest Showman has heard the song "This Is Me." If you've paid any attention to the lyrics you know that it's a veritable anthem for anyone who is different. Being a man who is gay that seems to still include me.

I latched on to the empowering song about not making apologies, being seen, and being who I'm meant to be, the minute I heard it. But recently I've been catching myself incorrectly singing this lyric: "I'm not scared to be seen, I make no apologies, this is me." I've been leaving out the word "not." Therefore, singing, "I am scared to be seen..." I began to ponder if this was less mental snafu and more subconscious admission--yet more proof that I'm not really comfortable being seen.

For all of my #BeYourself hashtags, mascaraed lashes in public, and high-heeled shoes wearing moments on the subway, I'm still uncomfortable in my own skin. I don't love myself. I show up but I'm still afraid to be seen. Even as I defy you not to see me.

I am never more confident than when I'm safely inside the walls of my own apartment.

There are moments (beyond the walls) when my confidence rages within me like a fever consuming every cell. But the fever never burns for long. I sabotage my well-being, turning my own thoughts of self-loathing into an antibiotic; curing me of my "undeserved" happiness and leaving me a little more debilitated in the aftermath.

The more I begin to externally express my internal awareness, the sadder and lonelier I feel. How odd. I would have thought my life of secrets would have been a lonelier life to live. But no. I feel like an aging queen--hair coiffed, perfectly mascaraed lashes, clothes on point, fabulous bag--smiling and waving at the men, all the while convincing myself the men don't want the mascara and that the wave is just too limp wristed. I see them turn away,  averting their eyes so quickly that they appear to be afraid someone will catch them looking at me.

I don't know what man wants a man who likes nail polish, mascara, flamboyant jewelry, and high heels. I've convinced myself I'm undesirable number one. I feed my own self-contempt. I'm guarded. I don't want to get hurt. So I pretend I'm not interested so that when I get home, safe behind those walls, I can fall apart in private, not being seen. This is me.

I'm ashamed that I like makeup and high heels. I'm ashamed that I'm not more masculine. I'm ashamed that I'm ashamed. I've lost my way. I no longer know what my purpose is.

I risk nothing yet I risk myself every day when I express my true self. I'm wallowing in self-pity--almost drowning in it. I am Michael Rohrer yet I feel like I am nothing, no one; an invisible entity moving through life longing to be seen while fervently hoping no one will notice me. I'm trapped between worlds.

This can't be "who I'm meant to be." I am boldly rambling through my life right now. Not so much Rohrering as whimpering. I've got to add the "not" back to the lyric.

My journey continues...

Fear, Shame, & Discrimination: It's Enough Already

Have you ever had fear of family rejection from doing nothing other than being born? I have. Maybe you've experienced the fear of your family’s reaction when you got your girlfriend pregnant, or wrecked your car, or got a DUI, or failed a class. But that’s different than fearing your family for the way you felt inside because of who you were attracted to. 

Have you ever felt completely isolated from everyone (your parents, your preacher, you teachers, your guidance counselor, your friends), unable to ask questions or talk about how you were feeling, because you feared their reaction? Well, guess what. I have. It was sad and terrifying and lonely. And I felt ashamed of myself for most of my life. That fear was caustic; it tried to destroy me.

I’m done with that! I’m done with it. I’m not going to apologize for being attracted to men, for enjoying kissing a man, for wanting to hold a man’s hand. I’m not going to apologize for enjoying makeup and a fantastic shoe. I won’t do it. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anyone condemn me as less than worthy of rights and protections because of how I feel, who I love, what I wear. I WON’T DO IT!

Too much time was wasted living with shame and fear. Too much time is still being wasted with the residual effects of those feelings. I am not a victim. I am a survivor: of my childhood, of high school, of religious men and women who would have me believe that Hell awaits me if I continue down my path. I could easily play the victim card, but that is unproductive. I am not a victim, but I am angry. I have risen up and I will continue to rise further.

Even the hint of a whiff, via Twitter today, that Mr. Trump might sign an executive order allowing for discrimination against LGBTQ humans has incensed me. It’s enough already. I stand proudly, a capital G, with my LGBTQ brothers and sisters. It is time to stop this nonsense. LGBTQ humans needing protections wouldn’t even be necessary if so many homophobic people, hiding behind religion, afraid of what they won’t or can’t understand would just get over themselves and realize that equality isn’t going to change their lives. It’s going to change the life of someone else. And by doing so will make life better for all. 

We could indeed make America great(er) if we all took a second to support, love, and help each other. We truly are stronger together. I just hope we haven’t destroyed each other by the time we figure that out.

Your Bogeyman: Whether You Stalk Him or Face Him...Defeat Him

I recently saw a production of Stalking the Bogeyman at New World Stages in NYC. The play tells the true story of David Holthouse: the rape he endured in 1978 as a 7-year old, and his plan, as an adult, to murder his rapist.

I can’t even begin to comprehend the pain, fear, and shame attached to the horrific event that is the catalyst for this play. David’s rapist told him if he told his parents what had happened they would be angry because he (David) had done a bad thing. He convinced David that his parents would spank him. Then true to bullying form, the rapist said that if David told anyone he’d come to his house in the middle of the night and gut him like a salmon. As I listened to these words spoken from the mouth of the adult actor playing the 7-year old David my heart broke for the loss of innocence and the life altering event that David kept secret for 25 years after. 

I wanted desperately for David to run to his mother and tell her what had happened. I wanted desperately for David’s father to confront the father of this most nasty of bullies. I wanted desperately for someone to beat the shit out of the cocky 17-year old high school athlete that thought he was untouchable enough to torment, traumatize, and change the course of a child’s life. 

I, in no way, intend this piece to make light of or trivialize what happened to David. There is nothing light or trivial about it. But in watching him as an adult continue to protect his parents from his experience, his secret, his shame, I found myself remembering my own parental protection quandary although it is trivial compared to David’s. It is nothing like his, but shows how we, the children, will do things to protect our parents even when they don’t need protecting. When do children start protecting their parents? 

The words David’s rapist used to scare him perpetuates the idea that victims think it’s their fault, that they’re to blame, that they will be punished. The play exposed to me the fear we possess at revealing the things that happen to us. Even if revealing them might gain us the most needed help.

I have never experienced what David went through and my heart hurts for him now that I know his story — for his 7-year old self and for his present day self. But I do know a thing about keeping secrets. I never spoke to my parents about being bullied in junior high or high school. I was ashamed of myself because I was afraid of my emerging homosexual feelings, and to be quite honest, I was afraid that my parents would side with the bullies. Not that they would bully me too, but that they wouldn't be sympathetic to my plight. I was a child. I was afraid — of the bullies and of my parents. I’ll never know how that scenario might have played out as I never shared my adolescent pain or teenage fears with them. I didn’t trust that they would protect me. When do shame and fear replace trust?

After I moved to New York City in 1997 a new set of fears entered my life. I was in the land of Broadway and my main desire at that time was to be a musical theatre star. Yes, I say star because I had them in my eyes and I wanted to be one. I used to joke about how I wanted to become so popular, so dependable as a performer that Stephen Sondheim would write a musical role for me. I was joking, but I was serious. I had big dreams. But there was always something lurking in the shadows of those dreams. I was gay and not out to my parents. 

I had a recurring waking nightmare that I would actually make it as big as I’d dreamed, and my mother would be in the check-out line at Smith’s Supermarket in Mayfield, KY and look over at the National Enquirer or Star and see me, her son, outed on the front page. I realize I would’ve had to’ve been playing in the big time big leagues for a tabloid in the late 90s early aughts to out me, but my dreams were to be playing in those leagues so it wasn't such a stretch for my theatrical mind to create that dramatic scenario.

I couldn’t handle that nightmare. I couldn’t handle the idea of the ridicule my mother might face from other residents in my small KY town of approximately 600 people. I wanted to protect her from any of the harsh words that I was convinced would be hurled at her or spoken about her behind her back because she had a gay son. I wanted to protect her. I also wanted to achieve my dreams, but I didn’t know how to accomplish both. Being gay was nobody’s fault. There was no blame. The truth as I now see it is that if someone chooses to hurl nasty remarks that is their shit and is no reflection on me or my mom. Of course the simple answer in 1997 would have been to come out to her, but I wasn’t brave enough to do that yet.

David Holthouse was convinced that he couldn't share his terrifying, life changing experience with his parents, even as he got older, because he had to protect them. I understand that yet at the same time I don’t. If his attacker hadn’t made him believe the rape was his fault might he have run to his mother and confessed to her the horrible incident? If not immediately, sooner rather than 25 years later? Without the weight of that secret, what might his life (and that of his rapist — hopefully behind bars) have been like if he had shared his fear and pain?

David carried the weight of his secret until he was in his 30s only to be confronted by his parents after they read about it in 10-year old David's diary. He was caught off guard and with no warning to prepare a lie told the truth. Heartbreak. His mother’s heartbreak washed over me with complete sadness. I became aware that I was holding myself, my arms wrapped tightly around my midsection, as I sat in the back row of the darkened theatre.

In Stalking the Bogeyman the bogeyman is the rapist. An actual living, breathing person. But under cloak of fear and secrets we all have a bogeyman that shadows us. I think that part of the reason I write so honestly when I’m telling my life’s story, leaving out no detail no matter how honest or ugly, is because I don’t want to go back to a time when my life seemed like one big secret. I won’t do it. Some people may say I reveal too much information, but for too long I hid too much information. 

David finally faced his Bogeyman. I don’t even know how he found the courage. Then again, I came out to my parents who at the time were the people I dreaded — feared — telling the most. I continue to fight my inner demons to be my true, authentic self. I realize that these experiences are no where near the same, but each of us must face down our demons in order to let them go and move forward. Some demons live and breath. Some are in our heads. All of them can be paralyzing.

David originally shared his story in the Denver Westword News in May 2004. Later he told his story "When I Grow Up" on NPRs “This American Life.”