Grieving What We Never Had
This article was co-authored by my friend, Zach Anderson.
In the United States, the concept of “coming out” and celebrating pride among many LGBTQIA+ folks suggests embodying some sense of fulfillment, dignity, and complete acceptance and confidence of self.
But American culture leaves little space to explore the grief of life before we became open about our sexuality, and the reminders of grief that regularly occur for what might have been prior to coming out.
Many LGTBQIA+ folks who have chosen not to disclose their sexual orientation silently struggle with the perpetual conscious preoccupation with ensuring that the pitch of their voice, body language, and posture conform with those sounds and behaviors associated with American cultural heteronormative stereotypes. The rumination, hypervigilance, and fear that accompany the meticulous monitoring and assessment of every movement we make and every syllable we speak began for us before we were ten years old, and it never became easier. In fact, the greater visibility of masculine bodily ideals marketed by the diet and fitness industry and increased politicization of LGBTQIA+ folks and their bodies over the past decade made all of this somewhat more challenging as we aged and progressed in our careers.
The purpose of this constant surveillance snowballed from simply wanting to fit in with the other kids at school, to shielding ourselves from homophobia and transphobia at work, to ensuring our psychological and physical safety, and ultimately contributed to the manifestation of complex post-traumatic stress, depression, ADHD, generalized and social anxiety disorders. It’s no surprise that recent research authored by The Trevor Project found that LGBT+ youth are at a greater risk of attempting suicide, and are more likely to experience depression, anxiety, eating disorders, and bullying. This was especially true among those with disabilities, on the autism spectrum, or non-white. Although not directly correlated with the conditions and demands we’re describing here, it doesn’t require an astute and rigorous scientific inquiry to make an inference as to what sort of conditions contribute to the mental health of LGTBQIA+ people in America.
Both of us have been in therapy for many years. Tim started going to therapy at fourteen, and Zach at twenty-two years old. Zach would have sought mental health therapy earlier, but Mormon ecclesiastic leaders continued to iterate the benefits of prayers, fasting, and obedience to be the elixir of mental health. This was all exacerbated by the idea of “praying the gay away,” which was reinformed by Mormon doctrinally based therapists and other Christian therapists who were inherently homophobic and misinformed. Despite having access to mental health care, many years of our therapy were focused on everything but how being gay affected us.
Even though we’ve been to therapy, sought out community support, and gone through the Western process of “coming out” (which is a privilege and custom that many LGTBQIA+ folks in America do not and may never have, nor do they have an obligation to do so), there are many things we continue to struggle with accepting.
We struggle with accepting that virtually every aspect of our youth — the “good times” and sexual discovery often experienced during adolescence that many heterosexual people acclaim and cherish — was stifled by our engrossment with acting straight and isolating, disconnecting, and censoring ourselves to ensure our perception of safety.
We’re haunted by the experiences and relationships that we voluntarily opted out of or simply weren’t mentally present for because of the shame and fear of being outed or having our sexuality revealed when we weren’t ready.
We frequently take inventory of how we created barriers in our relationships with our friends of the same gender, and we wonder what it would have been like if our time spent with them wasn’t weighed down by the almost unbearable weight of secrecy and how humiliating we thought it would be if they knew we were gay.
We struggle with the fact that, despite the abundance of awareness and educational resources available in modern-day, queer and trans people (especially Black, Brown, Asian, and trans people of color) have been and continue to be harmed, murdered, or die by suicide as a result of anti-trans and anti-LGBT+ beliefs, stereotypes, racism, bigotry, xenophobia, weight stigma, and oppressive public policy and fundamentalist legislation.
Perhaps the most prominent struggle amidst this medley of multilayered and nuanced emotions, thoughts, and feelings is grief.
The grief of the impossibility of knowing who we may have become if we were able to remain fully present during our developmental years without so much doubt and censorship of who were really were.
The grief of not gaining experience with acting on romantic desire, navigating relationship conflicts, and communicating our desires with the same conviction as our straight friends and peers.
The grief of not being able to participate in sports, extracurricular activities, fraternity life, and work without carefully selecting each word and eye movement so as to not send even the lowest frequency of a signal to others that we’re gay.
The grief of collapsing romantic relationships, family dynamics, and friendships with people we love and cherish as a direct consequence of choosing to share with the rest of the world who we really are.
The grief of stifling the dynamics of those relationships when we attempted to be straight, and upon our coming out, ultimately ended or drastically changed the trajectory of those relationships.
The grief of losing an entire religious identity, one that marked generations of servitude that was practically imprinted in our DNA. Even if being in those spaces meant not living our true sexual orientation, it was a familiar place of belonging, community, and surety.
The grief of knowing that the majority of our life was spent creating detachment of self-image with our external identity in an effort to shield us from judgment, stereotypes, and stigmas.
The grief of the notion that some of this grief may never evolve or resolve.
The grief of losing everything that we never actually had.
In many ways, this sense of grief is virtually identical to what we have both experienced after the death of a loved one or the loss of an intimate relationship. Some days the grief comes in waves that wash over our entire body, and other days just gentle splashes around our feet. Sometimes it’s a sloppy, red in the face, snot gushing out of your nose loud cry, and other times, it’s a deep sigh and gentle smirk accompanied by a sense of gratitude for our (albeit unintentionally developed) resiliency and honoring our recovery.
For so many years, our biggest regret and fear was people seeing us for who we really are. The fear that people knew of what we considered to be the most illustrative inadequacy that we attempted to hide. Now in our thirties, despite all of the potential implications of doing so, our biggest regret is that we didn’t let people see us for who we were sooner.
Amidst this large pool of grief and regret is an even larger pool of growth and recovery.
Amidst or own individual trauma, adversity, and hardship is post-traumatic growth and healing.
We’re both okay. We’ve both built successful careers and businesses, completed advanced degrees, formed new relationships, and are continuing to deconstruct, unlearn, and divest from ideals and practices that no longer serve us. We’re continuing to find purpose and outlets for our passions by supporting and educating others through our own lived experiences. And really, we’re both living lives that our past selves could not have even fathomed.
We’re certain that we’re not alone with these experiences and this sense of grief — especially among other Millennials and the generations LGTBQIA+ folks before us. We’re also certain that, unfortunately, others will experience this grief as we continue to witness regressive anti-LGBT rhetoric, policy, and legislation sweeping across the country.
Despite the inevitability of these experiences and the pervasive nature of this grief, it’s our hope that sharing this small piece of our story reassures others in the LGBTQIA+ community that they’re not alone, and that it helps others find a way to identify, describe, and make sense of what they’ve been through.
We honor the nuance and individuality of each LGTBQIA+ person’s individual story and lived experiences, and we recognize that others likely have experiences that differ greatly from our own. We acknowledge that those who are members of minoritized, marginalized, and systematically oppressed communities, and those who are from countries outside of the United States, likely have different perspectives and views, given that we are both white, cisgender, and American.
