Journey

From Mark P Minervini

I handed my parents the letter I had written. It was not how I wanted to tell them, but after being home a week and not being able to get up the courage to come out and say it—after they had tried to bully it out of me more than once—I decided it was the only way it was going to get done. So I gave it to my mother to read with my father, and continued to play Nintendo.

They called me downstairs. My mother looked a little distraught, but fine. My father seemed okay, too. We talked for a little while. I explained why I was in therapy. It wasn’t because I was gay, or had any problems with that. I had problems relating to people, with making friends and keeping them, and with coping with college life, with a whole new experience. (To tell the truth, I think I just needed someone to complain to.) They accepted that, and things were okay.

What I didn’t realize at the time was what that letter represented, what a turning point this was in my life, and what freedoms I had gained for myself.

On the path

I was born May 5, 1974. (I like telling people that the entire nation of Mexico celebrates my birthday.) I’m a Taurus, if you follow such things. That makes me stubborn—true, actually, but I’m also Italian.

Much of my childhood I can’t remember. There were parties, and fun, and funerals, and fights. It all sort of melts together after a while. What I do remember is mostly happy.

I remember summers up the lake with my grandmother, at her house in the most rural area of West Milford, NJ. Down at the end of a cul-de-sac the small one story house stood for years, tolerating generations of my family. The house is sold now, but the memories endure.

I remember holidays, mostly Christmas, when the extended parts of our family would gather and eat, and laugh and share. And Christmas mornings with all the wrapped boxes under the tree, waking up too early, and having to wait for every one else.

I remember, vaguely, the earliest years of Catholic school. Every year our class grew smaller, but we grew a little closer. We had packed lunches. There was first Friday mass, and a half day. And I remember some of the funniest times, like when the stray dog got into the building and Sr. Whoever yelled at it.

I remember summer vacations to places all over the east coast. Hours in the car, with almost nothing to do. We were well-behaved, though—usually. Even on the way to Walt Disney World which took two days.

I was your average child, give or take, from birth to prepubescence. I’ve been told I was a quiet child. I stuck to my mother or grandmother a lot. Pretty shy, a little scared sometimes. I never wanted to try anything new. I was a smart child though—if I remember correctly—and self-sufficient. Imaginative and playful. I loved being a child.

I also remember getting stomach aches once a month, for almost no apparent reason. When I was old enough to understand such things, I began to think of them as a monthly period, and worried about it sometimes. I never felt much like a boy, was something of a sissy. Not that I felt like a girl, but I knew I wasn’t like other boys. But I didn’t worry too much about it, at first.

Into the abyss

As I neared adolescence, things started to change. Well, they always do, of course. But the more I grew up, the more I noticed others growing up. And the more I noticed things were not the same among us.

By eighth grade, puberty had begun. My mind and body raced, pumped full of hormones I couldn’t control. I began to fantasize, to develop a sense of what stimulated me sexually. It began with vague ideas of what I thought sex was. The more I learned, the more complex my fantasies became, eventually including actual people. It was soon that I realized that it was the men I imagined that got me more excited than any of the women.

I entered high school a very frightened boy. It was a new experience, and I wasn’t good with such things. But I struggled, and within weeks had gotten quite used to it.

As time went by, and I plunged more into adolescence, I got a clearer picture of who I was. And I wasn’t sure I liked it. I was confused, and frightened by what I felt; but also couldn’t stop it. Finally the word for it entered my head, and I knew what it meant, and what people thought about it. One day, while alone in my house, I was lying on my bed. I said out loud to myself, “You’re gay.”

It was a significant point in my life. But not a positive one. I didn’t revel in the truth and accept myself. Instead I turned inward. I developed something of a split personality. There was the outside me: happy, friendly, well-adjusted. Inside I was angry and sad and confused. I tried to ignore this side, but it didn’t always work.

I plunged myself into academia. I became the quintessential student, the smartest kid in the class, who always did his homework. I socialized with my fellow classmates, laughed and joked with them. But when the bell rang at the end of the day, I went home and stayed there. There were no parties for me in high school, no hanging out or going to the mall on the weekends.

I went out on my own, usually for long walks, or to the video arcade, or a record store. Always by myself, though. I felt at the time that nobody liked me. I realize now that I was projecting, that I feared anyone knowing what I felt inside. So instead I just stayed away.

The last year of high school rolled around mercifully. I graduated valedictorian of my class and gave my speech. I was surprised to get the cheers and adulation that I did. But now it was time to move on, so I said goodbye to everyone I knew. I also said goodbye—or so I thought—to the hell of my teen years.

Battling my demons

I had decided to go away to college. I felt I had to, that my mental survival depended on it. Living at home had been stifling (again, I was projecting). I saw college as a chance to escape, and reinvent myself.

My father and I packed up the car early on a Saturday morning, and traveled the five hours to Elmira, New York. I was sort of numb on the way there. I was tired, and a little apprehensive, but mostly I was anxious. I had plans and expectations.

We arrived, and I got set up. Hours later, I sent my father on his way. Elmira had an intricate orientation planned, with all sorts of activities to get us used to college living, and being away from home.

Soon enough, though, the academic year was in full swing. By this point I had gotten quite used to getting up for an 8 o’clock class, and showering afterward before finally getting to breakfast. I had also gotten used to showering in a room where other men were showering behind plastic curtains, but not always bothering to wear a towel outside of them. I usually went straight back to my room, and never wore my glasses, for fear I might stare too long and give myself away.

I knew by now with a certainty that I was gay, or at least attracted to other men. I had decided though that I simply wouldn’t do anything about it and tried my hardest to ignore it.

My roommate and I had become friends, or friendly. I realize now, much to my own chagrin, that the relationship was not totally reciprocal, and I followed when I wasn’t wanted.

I had met other people in the meantime. One was a girl named Kelly. Kelly liked me. I found this out within the first month of school. We went to the movies one night, and I guess that qualified as our first date. We held hands, and all of a sudden I felt happy. Someone finally had shown some interest in me. I was elated, and decided to pursue this relationship.

The next day she came to my room. Cuddling turned into kissing. Actually, she was kissing. I was just following, this having been my first experience at intimacy. Within hours I was filled with confusion. Suddenly a girl liked me, and I liked her, or I thought I did. Maybe I had been wrong all those years, and my life would be normal. But then, I couldn’t deny the feelings I had for men. I walked around the campus, crying. I wrote her a letter and explained that I didn’t mean to hurt her, but for reasons I couldn’t enumerate, nothing but a good friendship would ever be between us. She explained to me, after reading it, that she felt similarly, that she already had a boyfriend and wanted to remain faithful. So, we stayed friends, and I got out of that situation. But it didn’t solve the problem underneath it.

I had been slightly attracted to my roommate this whole time—which also explained my latching onto him—but in an abstract sort of way. I knew nothing would ever happen, because I sure as hell wasn’t going to start anything. Living a lie and denying it to myself had worked too well for me up to now.

Within weeks of the second semester, I noticed that my roommate was acting strangely. He stared at me a lot, and made more than one suggestive remark. I thought he was kidding. Maybe deep down I knew he wasn’t, but I was too scared to believe it. The truth finally came out one tense night. He revealed that he was attracted to me, and that he’d had same-sex experiences before. I hadn’t. I wanted to but was scared. It would mean giving into all the instincts my body had been feeling, but also admitting a truth I was not yet ready to accept. It took me two days to make up my mind, and on a Friday night, I had my first sexual experience. It backfired Within days, I became very emotionally attached, almost neurotically so. I didn’t feel comfortable revealing my feelings to anyone else but him, and he didn’t feel the same way. The weeks that followed multiplied and intensified my feelings, until we were no longer talking, and I was tossed between love and hate, happiness and depression.

In a class journal entry around that time I wrote “My oppression doesn’t come from without, it comes from within… Every time I want to change, every time I think I’m going to become the person I’ve always hoped to become, something pulls me back…I try to end the oppression, but I can’t. I try to overcome, but it’s just so hard.” What was pulling me back was lies, and the person I wanted to become was a happy, well-adjusted man. But I didn’t know this at the time.

Reading this entry to my teacher prompted her to try and get me some help. Later that day the school nurse came to my door. We went to her office, and within minutes, through a torrent of tears, I revealed everything to her. She set me up with an off-campus therapist.

Coming out alive

I had decided to tell my parents, and as a practice, I was told to write a letter explaining to them why I was in therapy. (I probably would never have told them if they didn’t have to pay for it.) I wasn’t supposed to actually give them the letter of course, but I had always been much better at expressing myself on paper.

That following summer was a learning experience. I learned who I truly was inside, and let go of a lot of the facades I had placed on myself. I didn’t come out to everyone, but I knew that I could. I had told my parents, and as far as I was concerned I was out. After all, my parents were the only people whose opinion mattered to me. If I told any one else, and they didn’t like it, well, too bad. Their loss, really. That letter had set me free.

Through that summer, and the years that followed, I went through a change, again. Actually I look at it as a reversion. I began to rediscover my youth, my childhood, and the happiness I had felt. I made my way through the darkness and awkwardness of my teen years, emerging happy, proud, and alive.

Now I had to find a boyfriend.

Read more at http://gaylife.about.com/lr/coming_out_stories/104058/1/

Andrew Cirner tells the story of his relationship with a military man, evading “don’t ask, don’t tell,” a blackmailing ex-lover, and the extreme steps his mother took to save the day.

By Andrew Cirner

Andrew Cirner

I met Rocco in April of 1993. He was a Navy master chief serving in San Diego. He was 35, butch, built, and very sexy.  I was 24, good-looking, and a psychiatric nurse working for the state of California. I first laid eyes on him during registration at the Buffalo Bar in Las Vegas. He was wearing shorts, a tight-fitting T-shirt, and construction boots.

After my friend Eric told me a little bit about Rocco, he warned me, “He does have a lover, but they’re in an open relationship.”

“I just want to meet the guy, Eric,” I told him.

I spent the better part of the meet-and-greet staring at Rocco as I mingled with other motorcycle men. Eventually, he introduced himself as I was walking away from the bar. “Hi, I’m Rocco. I understand you want to meet me?” Speechless and feeling awkward, I stammered for words.

Soon I was at ease and laughing at his witty humor. I later met his lover, Christian, who was there with Drill, who was, fittingly, a drill sergeant. He looked like a pit bull on steroids with a penchant for getting drunk and picking fights. I realized that most of the people around me were in the military. Aren’t any of them afraid of being caught? I wondered. Rocco was a master chief, Drill was a drill sergeant, and another guy was a first lieutenant and a pilot.

At 3 a.m., I was exhausted but still sitting in the bar. I had to sponsor the eye-opener cocktail party in three hours and needed to get back to my hotel room.

“Hey, um, we are leaving too. Would you like company?” Rocco asked.

“I am sorry, I don’t do groups,” I said. Rocco laughed, and for a second I felt insulted.

“Did you think I meant all of us?” he asked. I told him I was staying at the MGM Grand. Coincidentally, he was staying right across the hall.

The moment I opened the door, we were on each other, ripping clothes off as if they were on fire. After a night of wild passion, I was falling for him. I knew this was completely crazy — I barely knew him.

When we met up with everyone, Christian asked if I’d had a good time with Rocco. I did not know what to say or how to react. I was not used to being the other man. Christian said he didn’t mean to surprise me, but Rocco had returned to their room in a happy state. “He told me he had a great time with you,” he said. That didn’t sit well with me.

Andrew's mother, Anita Mae Comerford.

Early Monday morning Rocco and I had decided to go for a motorcycle ride. We arrived at Hoover Dam as the sun started to peak. I looked at Rocco in leather chaps, a wife beater, and a half-skull helmet, and I pulled my bike up beside him.  He leaned over and kissed me. I asked him why he wanted to come all the way out here to Hoover Dam. Rocco looked at me and said, “We only live two to three hours away by car. I would like to continue seeing you.”

We made plans for dinner that Wednesday.

We returned to Las Vegas to say our goodbyes to everyone. We packed up and headed out to our cars and bikes. I kissed Rocco and watched him, Christian, and Drill drive away. Eric could see that Rocco and I had fallen for each other. He also warned me not to play any dangerous games that I couldn’t afford to lose.

I drove home to Palm Springs, Calif., with feelings of excitement and uncertainty. I wondered if I would hear from Rocco and how I should deal with Christian.

I told my mother about my weekend as I unpacked my suitcase. During our conversation my cell phone rang and my mom reached for it. I quickly grabbed it from her and told her to go find another one of her children to torture. She laughed. “They all caught on and left home,” she retorted. “I keep hoping you will get the hint.”

I was still laughing and shooing my mom out of my room when I answered the call. It was Rocco. He had made it home and wanted to make sure I had too.

When I met Rocco two days later, my jaw dropped to the floor at the sight of him — he was in full uniform. I walked up and Rocco put out his hand to shake mine. I realized this is how it would be. As we made small talk, I made a checklist in my head: He has a lover, he is in the military, and we would have to be secretive. Was this worth it?

He invited me to his and Christian’s home for the following weekend. I expressed my concern for his lover, but he told me that they had been together for 15 years and had not not slept together or had sex with each other in years. In fact, they had separate rooms. I asked why they were still together. “We have so many financial ties, and I am afraid he would come after me and try to ruin my military retirement,” he said.

“Rocco, I don’t know if I can handle this,” I said. I got up to leave. “We had a great weekend. Let’s just leave it there.” But he explained how out of love he was with Christian. He knew it would come to an end. He had been trying to hold out longer than Christian, so he would have no reason to fear being blackmailed.

“Had he done that in the past?” I asked. “Had he used the Navy as a threat?”

“All the time,” Rocco said.

Christian had gone to officer training school after graduating college, at Rocco’s urging. While on duty in Key West, Fla., out of uniform, Christian had been identified kissing another man. He was brought in for questioning and asked if the allegations were true. He said yes. Christian said that the Navy claimed to have photos of the kiss. After confessing, Christian asked to see the photos. The investigating team told him it was a ruse. There were no pictures. He was discharged for conduct unbecoming an officer.

I knew this was plausible. I did not want to get involved in the drama, but I could not deny that I really liked Rocco. Christian was a hurdle.

Thursday night I had my bags packed, and I was off to San Diego early Friday morning for the weekend. When I arrived, two people were playing pool, steaks were cooking on the grill, and Fleetwood Mac was blaring from the Bose speakers in the garage. Looking around, I thought, These people are out there for being military. Outside their house was a huge leather flag flying in the wind. I rationalized this because it wasn’t specifically a gay flag but a leather one. No one knows what a leather flag is, I told myself. They could live a little less in secret since they lived just far enough from the base. After dinner, Christian and Drill went off while Rocco and I sat in the Jacuzzi drinking margaritas and played cribbage.

The next day Rocco wanted to get his hair cut, and he talked me into a high-and-tight cut. I looked severe. I looked intimidating. I liked it. My hair had not looked like this since I was a kid and my dad dragged my brother and me out to the garage and took clippers to us. We got back to Rocco’s and put the back fence up. Drill and I dug holes, hammered and nailed dog-ear six-footers, and tore down thorn-riddled bougainvillea bushes.

Eventually Rocco and I started to meet up each weekend, and our relationship flourished. One weekend, I went to San Diego to celebrate Rocco and Christian’s 15th anniversary at a friend’s home. Rocco assured me that it only appeased Christian’s craving to have a party. To deal with the kisses and hugs between Rocco and Christian, I had a few cocktails and chatted with everyone. I did my best not to be on Rocco’s arm too much but began to ask myself why I agreed to be here. If I had not, I would appear jealous, and being there, I felt more jealous.

At the end of the night, Rocco came over to me. “We have a problem and we need to leave,” he said. As we made our way to the car, Christian took a blow from Drill. Before I knew it, they were beating the hell out of each other. Rocco and I grabbed Drill to separate them, and as we did, I took a punch to my face. Drill had turned on me and started to throw blows. All bets were off, and I started to strike back.

Eventually the fighting died down, and I was later blamed and targeted for getting too involved. Their argument shifted focus onto me and how I was coming between Rocco and Christian. It became a swirl of emotions and resentment, with everyone involved.

After that incident I started to feel the heat. I refused to come to San Diego for weeks. Rocco started coming to Palm Springs more to spend weekends with me at my mother’s house.

Both my parents (who were divorced but still friendly) took a deep liking to Rocco instantly. Soon enough, Rocco and my mom would go off house-hunting. Since her recent appointment at a major state developmental center, she wanted to be closer to work. Rocco would play golf with my dad while I was at work if he came up for the weekend. Rocco and my dad had the military in common, and soon Rocco had become very good friends with not only my parents, but my family of golfers, who welcomed Rocco to every tee-off we planned.

After eight months, I knew I had fallen in love with Rocco, and it was Christian’s time to go. Additionally, it was time for Rocco to decide. I went to San Diego to talk with Rocco. I invited him to lunch in the Rotunda Room of the Hotel Del Coronado.

“I came here to break up with you — I cannot be the other guy,” I said with tears in my eyes. In uniform, he started to cry too. “OK, but do I have a say in this?” he asked.

We left quickly, and he apologized, vowing to leave Christian. To avoid a skirmish, we decided to approach the situation as though we had broken up so that Christian would not think their separation was because of me.

Christian took the news badly even with Rocco’s offer for him to keep the house. They split up, and Rocco moved into military housing. Rocco agreed to everything as long as Christian would just let him walk without further threats. They made a verbal agreement (anything written could be used against Rocco). But in time Christian’s demands increased. We had no choice but to submit to the demands and threats of blackmail. It came to a point where we stopped having friends over for parties. It seemed that whenever we had friends over, Christian would know what happened. To my surprise, my best friend, Eric, was informing Christian of everything.

Early on a Tuesday morning I kissed Rocco goodbye, and he drove off to San Diego to leave for Pensacola, Fla., for training. I was sitting in the kitchen talking with my mom when I got a call from Rocco.  He was in tears.  I could not understand him at all. Finally, he gained enough composure to tell me that Christian had called the Naval Investigative Service. He was to report to them the following Monday morning in San Diego.

“Fuck it, I am going to tell them everything!” he said.

My mother overheard what was happening and grabbed the phone. At this point I was in tears. She asked Rocco where in the house in San Diego were all the papers, documents, and pictures that could possibly link him to Christian. My mother got off the phone with Rocco and told me, “We are going to San Diego to get things out of the house while Christian is at work tomorrow.” Since Rocco’s name was still legally on the house, we were technically not breaking in — we had his permission.

While on the way to San Diego, my mother called my dad on the car phone. “Our worst fear happened,” she told him. “We are on our way to San Diego. I will call you later, but in the meantime, check flight arrangements.”

I threw a tantrum as my mother drove. She pulled over to give me a reality check.

“We do not have time for you to fall apart. You must listen to me, because I’m only going to say it once. I came up with a plan in the event that this was to happen, but I need you to go along with it.” Her plan was to marry Rocco to protect him.

I laughed hysterically, partially masking my fear of losing the man I loved. But I went along with it, because being discharged from the Navy under “don’t ask, don’t tell” would destroy Rocco.

We cleaned out Rocco’s house, removed pictures, specific documents, and anything that linked Rocco and Christian as a couple. Later that night we picked up Rocco and boarded a plane to Las Vegas, the city where we had met only months ago. When we arrived, we checked into a hotel, and then a justice of the peace legally married Rocco and my mother as I stood witness.

Rocco went to his scheduled NIS meeting the following Monday. I never did know what was said, and I never asked Rocco. Despite all of these efforts, Rocco retired a year later. At the end of his retirement ceremony, a single sailor blew a ship’s whistle as my mother and Rocco walked past naval officers saluting him. I fought back the tears, as I knew something Rocco loved so very much was now at an end.

Rocco and I had a wonderful six years together, but eventually our relationship ended too. We grew apart and finally started to see other people. My mother helped him get a job with the state, and Rocco rose in the ranks rapidly. What was initially a good idea became my biggest regret. I realized how Rocco used me and how it was about him and his career with the state. Everything became rooted in business between him and me. What was a matter of convenience was now taking on the appearance of a legitimate yet sexless marriage between Rocco and my mom. I felt insignificant, small, and invalidated. It seemed that Rocco and my mom got in over their heads with power and greed, and both gained so much from each other. My mother provided the connections, and Rocco had the intelligence to pull off climbing up the ladder.

On several occasions I proposed that we leave and he break things off with my mother, but Rocco would not do it. I left our relationship mentally — I had already felt excluded from their inner loop, since they were married to each other and working together.

The last straw was that when a manager position became available, my mother would not help me get the position, but when she was offered an administrator position, she declined it, passing it off to higher-ups to give to Rocco. My own mother passed me over for an opportunity for promotion but pulled all kinds of strings for my lover. In February 2000, I moved out. It was a bitter breakup, and my mother sided with Rocco. Shortly after I left, my mother recognized his manipulations, and we repaired our fragile relationship. She realized I had been treated unfairly and that Rocco did not do enough to make our relationship work. She admitted to getting caught up in her career while neglecting her son’s needs. I am glad I mended fences with my mother.

In 2004, Rocco and my mother’s divorce became final. My promotion finally happened, and I became a unit supervisor at Napa State Hospital. My mother retired and moved back to Michigan, where she grew up. Five months after retiring, she was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. I received the call at work, and for the next six weeks I took care of her. On March 31, 2005, she died in my arms. Rocco never showed up at the memorial service I held for her.

Rocco and my mother had a bitter divorce. I was told that Rocco trashed my mom, who helped him advance his career to where he is now as an executive with the state of California. It was through me that he got there. When I walked away I lost everything. My mother had the ability to say she was wrong and tell me how sorry she was. I had asked Rocco to marry me many times. We had matching bands, and my mom had one hell of a rock on her finger from Rocco. My mother requested that I scatter her ashes on Elia Beach in Greece. I took the ring I wore for Rocco and the ring that Rocco had given her, and with her ashes, I said goodbye. I watched the rings disappear to the bottom of the Aegean Sea. Forever bound in time, a memory frozen in time. A love for a man, my mother who protected him, and my thoughts; the death of these these things will remain scattered in the wind.

Looking back now, I do not regret the action, only the outcome.

Source: http://www.advocate.com/

Amanda Howell Artsci11

I was born and raised Catholic in a small town in central Ontario. I attended Catholic elementary and secondary schools complete with uniforms, multiple daily prayer times, in-school masses, and compulsory religion classes.

People are often surprised to learn that I’m very proud to be a Catholic, because I’m also an out and very proud lesbian.

It’s true many of the doctrines of the Catholic Church are, in my opinion, old fashioned and closed-minded, but I believe in the faith above the institution.

The Catholicism I identify with is the general spirituality offered by God, rather than the fine print details that have been imposed by humankind.

The core message of Catholicism—and Christianity in general—is love and goodwill.

The other primary tenets are found in moral guideline packages such as the Ten Commandments and the Beatitudes, which encourage behaviour globally accepted as good: do not kill people, do not steal things, be merciful toward others, etc.

Read more at www.queensjournal.ca