There was a time in my life when I used to sound a lot like Rick Perry. In fact, for
more than ten years I was one of the nation’s leading spokesmen for the
“ex-gay” movement. I traveled the country telling audiences that being gay
was a preventable condition, and it could be treated if only you followed a
simple plan, obeyed God and sought repentance for your sins. “Ladies and
gentlemen, homosexuality is not a genetic, inborn condition,” I would say. “It
is the result of traceable causes that, once unraveled, can bring about
understanding and transformation in the life of one who is motivated and
submitted to God.”
Oh, I was a believer: Homosexuality
was just WRONG. And I was Exhibit A, a self-declared convert who had managed to
overcome my own shameful gay past.
I even appeared on the cover of Newsweek magazine in 1998, posing
alongside my wife as a poster boy for “going straight.” And I was happy to do
it: Those stories gave me a national platform to advocate for what is called
“gay reparative therapy”—basically, convincing gay people that they were
sexually “broken” and could be provided with a way to change.
But I was in denial. It wasn’t in fact true, any of it. Worse than being
wrong, it was harmful to many people—and caused me years of pain in my own
life. Which is why I have this to say to the Rick Perrys of the world: You
don’t understand this issue. At all.
What worries me more is
the ignorance betrayed by Perry’s comments—an ignorance that I believe is still widespread among
conservatives in the straight world—about what being gay means. The kind of
ignorance revealed by those in Perry’s Texas Republican Party who recently
inserted a plank in their party platform declaring homosexuality to be a
“chosen behavior” and recognizing the “legitimacy and efficacy” of gay
reparative therapy.
As long as this widespread misunderstanding in the straight world about
homosexuality persists, that it is a choice or a “lifestyle,” as Perry put it,
not only will we never be fully accepted by society, some of us will remain
unable to accept ourselves. It’s internalized homophobia: you hate what you
are. It is a form of self-inflicted torture that has haunted me my entire life,
and I do not want young gay women and men today to go through what I went
through. I want to tell them—and Rick Perry: We are not broken, damaged,
inferior or throwaways. We are created in the image of God—just like everyone
else.
I came out as a senior
in high school in Ohio and embraced my homosexuality. I found wide acceptance
within my family, and I lived openly as a homosexual until the age of 24. But
around that point in my life I found myself becoming very despondent, even
suicidal. I attributed my unhappiness to my homosexuality. In reality, I was
tremendously insecure, lonely and searching for an identity. I could no longer
accept myself.
[T]he campus pastor
introduced me to Christianity. I told him, “God can’t love me because I’m gay.”
The pastor replied, in essence, that this wasn’t true, that God could love
me, but he added that if I continued being gay, God would not be pleased with
my life. I came to believe that homosexuality was something that God was
against, and if I continued to embrace it, I would not be pleasing to Him.
And I very much wanted please Him.
I signed up for a
year-long residential program called “Steps Out of Homosexuality.” There were 12 of us in a house, and we ate,
worked and did bible study together. We went to church together too. On Tuesday
and Thursday nights, we had long discussions about various aspects of
homosexuality—including the Exodus view of how it developed from a breakdown in
family relationships such as that between a boy and his father. There were
plenty of lapses, but we persevered.
Reparative therapy is, by definition, based on the notion that something is
“broken” in one’s identity, needing repair. You are meant to feel like damaged
goods, and the therapy is designed to fix that.
I so wanted to be and to
feel “normal.” I would look at men at
the checkout counter wearing wedding rings, and I’d want to be one of them. I
thought, if I’m straight I’ll feel normal. In those early days after my
conversion, the temptations to be among my gay friends and once again be part
of the gay community were so strong that I would kneel down in my bathroom and
beg God to help me not be gay. And so even as I pursued this career as
a professional ex-gay man, and raised a family and loved my wife, I was in
utter torment.
I struggled off and on
with addiction and wanting to take my life. I knew I was living on the
inside as two people. I wanted to believe it was true so badly that not only
did I lie to other people, I primarily lied to myself. I wanted my
homosexuality to change, but the truth is: For all my public rhetoric, I was
never one bit less gay.
More and more, when I’d have to get up and speak to crowds about my gay
conversion, I felt like a wind-up toy. I’d go back to my hotel room, fall on
the bed and start weeping. I thought, “If I have to go out and do that one
more time, I will literally throw up.” I was in agony.
Everything began to
change in 2000, when I was photographed in a gay bar in Washington, DC. I had not gone into a gay bar since the late
‘80s, and I wasn’t looking for sex. I just wanted to be among my own kind,
to feel at home, for a brief period. I was board chairman of Exodus at the
time, and after the news broke I had to resign. It was an enormous public
scandal.
[I]t was more and more apparent to me that I was what I always had been:
gay. The older I got, the lonelier I was becoming. Three years
ago, I was driving down a suburban street and I saw two men holding hands. I
burst into tears. I realized that … I wanted to be one of those men. I knew
my decision would hurt my wife and family, but I began to move toward
authenticity.