I haven’t published anything here in a long time. There’s something I’ve wanted to post, but I’ve been scared to make it public, so it’s sat dormant for months. But last weekend when my parents were here I read it to them and had a very important discussion with my mom about it. Taking her concerns and the ways I was able to explain myself, I’m trying again to write this post.

First, I have to try and explain why it is these blog posts are so important to me, and what’s happened inside my head over the last year.

These blog posts are more than entertainment or a way to flex my creativity and impress people. Ever since that coming-out post almost five years ago I’ve thought of this blog as a chronicle of my journey, the highs and the lows. It’s a record for my posterity and for anyone out there who might benefit from knowing my story. If I just wanted friends to see what I said, I’d post directly to Facebook. If I only needed a way to get my private thoughts out I’d stick with journaling.

This blog is how I want my life to be remembered, by myself and by others. I want the truth to be known, and this is how I tell it. When things are kept private they can’t help others, they can even be forgotten or ignored. When I post something here it’s because I want there to be a record of it that I won’t erase or hide. There is power in these messages. They let me explain the world and myself, and by solidifying it in text it becomes real. Things change, but I also love how that growth is captured, like a timelapse.

For a very long time I was unhappy and I didn’t know why.

I kept this pain to myself, because it was mine. I was both proud and scared. I didn’t want other people to know what I was doing because I wanted them to like me, and I was scared they would hate me. I disconnected from the world and everyone in it to avoid being hurt. But this emptiness needed filling and I couldn’t satisfy the hunger. My “normal” life was one of determined ignorance in public, and desperate searching for relief in private. I had a hard time responding to the simple question “how are you?” because I knew the answer wasn’t what they wanted to hear.

When I would think about things, I imagined how those important to me might respond. What would Mom say if I did this? What does the Church say about that? Will my friends be okay if I told them this? Each scenario felt like a separate voice in my head, and they often spoke on top of each other or had conversations of their own. Whichever voice was mine often got drowned out because, like I said, I was scared to speak up.

In my life there have been many times when I neglected my own needs or desires to avoid conflict or making someone else feel bad. Sometimes these situations were as simple as missing out on an activity because I was too scared to call someone and ask for a ride. Sometimes they led to weeks of internal struggle as I faced a problem I knew the answer to but was unable to act on. It was not healthy, but I was powerless. I simply didn’t have the strength to push back. Because what would happen if I did? What if I caused someone pain, or didn’t help when they asked? What if I accidentally angered someone and they began to resent me? These thoughts weren’t conscious. They were instinctual, primitive. The frightened animal cowering in the corner and scared of the shadows on the wall.

I began to wonder if I had some level of clinical depression, so I sought out a therapist. And through those sessions and all the thinking in between I finally knew all of this. I realized that the reason I couldn’t do something as simple as asking a friend for help was due to this primal fear. I was terrified that if I let people get close to me, let them see the things I kept well hidden away, that they wouldn’t just get bored or disgusted; I was terrified they would get angry and attack. So I avoided the conflict entirely. Better to go a little hungry than risk attracting the attention of the wolves. But I kept going hungry, and I got so used to it I forgot what I was missing.

And that therapist was such a powerful force it shook me. When I began to think something and the usual voices came to shut me down, his voice joined the throng and defended me. His voice demanded that I be honest. Honest about what I felt, even if it was anger. Honest about what I needed, even if others might think it unimportant. Honest about what I wanted, even if it made my mother cry. It insisted that these feelings, needs, and wants were real, important, and okay. And it gave me permission to feel, need, and want those things.

It told me I was worth defending. And that has made all the difference.

Where before I had defeated myself without anyone else’s help, now I had someone in my corner, holding me up. I could combat the tide of voices and clear my head enough to actually think things through. It was amazing.

What happened next is either great or terrible, depending on where you come from. And it’s the part I’m scared to write. In a blog post last December, I told this same story, but with a different conclusion than I’m going to give you today.

I’ve been quite lackluster in my religious activity for a very long time: possibly my whole life if you’re picky about it. I treated God, the Church, and everything that came with it as matter of fact; it was how the world worked. While this allowed me to go to church and the temple and feel it was a special place, it wasn’t a major source of motivation the rest of the time. I wasn’t very interested in serving a mission until high school and EFY got me fired up. And even then I wasn’t a uniquely spectacular missionary, if I say so myself.

I think it’s safe to say I let my private struggles get in the way of any religious potential. Pornography became a thing for me in high school and worked wonders as an escape mechanism for the stress of friends who needed more from me than I could give. After my Bishop found out I managed to abstain long enough to get back in good graces before graduating. My first year at BYU was wonderful in every way, but as any religious scholar could tell you, when things are going well, people tend to forget God. After I was back from my mission the pornography got started up again and I beat myself up about it so much my grades started to suffer.

It was a bit of a miracle when I finally figured out the whole gay thing. I finally had an “excuse” for why I felt different. And it wasn’t long before I had a community of other LDS queers to look up to and keep me in the good ship Zion.

But that also opened up so many boxes I had locked up. Now I knew what I was missing. I was starving for connection, but I had no practice or sanctioned example of how to go about finding it with other men. All these things became the main source of introspection for years as I worked to explore and study this new identity.

So it surprised me a bit when I started to question my faith. It almost snuck up on me. I wasn’t angry at the Church. I didn’t blame God or pray to be “cured.”

I came up with a definition of what I would call “true belief.” Here’s how I defined it in the blog post I read to my parents:

Belief is a strange thing. It’s not logical: it’s a feeling. You can’t choose to believe something, you do or you don’t. You can want to believe, and you can work to overcome known barriers to belief. But that deep down conviction that something is, that the world makes more sense with it than without, that even though you don’t or can’t ever know you’re willing to act without proof. That is a precious thing that doesn’t come just because you want it to.

My mom has this belief, and I don’t doubt the millions of Mormons, Catholics, Muslims, Jews, and other religious people who say they believe. I’m not trying to question their belief, and I don’t want their belief to be shaken by what I think. As I said, belief is a precious thing that should be cherished and defended.

But I couldn’t find that belief within myself.

I tried to look for it. I wanted to find it. It would make things so much better if I could find it, because then I could use it to grant me strength and comfort in hard times. I could use it to guide me in how to live, and which path to choose when important decisions were before me.

So I asked myself, can I honestly claim to have this belief in what the Church teaches. About God, eternity, priesthood, Christ, all of it. And to my surprise I couldn’t say yes. Many of the questions led to “maybe,” but nothing had that necessary conviction I was looking for.

So I kept digging down until I found something. A small sliver of belief beyond the reach of science, philosophy, or desire. Something that, without it, life itself would make no sense and lose its meaning. Something that must be true, even though I can’t prove it.

I believe in free will (meaning our choices are our own, not random or deterministic biology) and the soul (meaning what is “me” is more than this body and brain).

Now in my December blog post I worked back from that belief to rediscover most of the LDS gospel. But I’m not happy with the conclusion, because it’s not honest enough.

The truth is I’m still at that base belief, and I don’t think I’m going anywhere soon. I’ve asked myself, many times, if maybe now I believe something. Maybe this feeling I associated with the Holy Ghost is enough to guide me, even a little, back into the flock. But that voice, that wonderful voice that defends me from my worst demons, that voice also keeps me from giving in and declaring the issue decided until I can be honest about it.

So here I stay. Unable to say either no or yes.

And I’m okay with that.

To those of you who believe, hold on to it. But don’t say you believe just because it’s what your parents want for you. It’s hard, and it hurts, to tell your parents you don’t believe any more. But I needed to say it. And I need to post it here, as part of my history.

So farewell once again, and thank you for listening.