I am stained. I am broken. Sometimes I wonder why. Why did it have to be this way? Why did it have to be me? Why couldn’t I just meet a beautiful girl and fall in love with her and marry her and have children and raise a family? Why couldn’t I just become a monk or a priest – a religious where my life would have meaning, and where I could be useful?
Why did I have to like other men too?
Those who do not struggle with homosexual inclinations may think I am exaggerating the problem when I should be more concerned about charity, about others. But the way I deal with people is so often colored by sexual affectivity. Even if I tried, there would still be something different.
While two straight men would have no problem being in the same room together, I can’t. While most of my male peers could watch an action movie and remain unaffected by the shirtless, bearded superheroes, I must so often close my eyes discreetly to avoid nurturing my imagination. While it’s easy for others to talk about professional basketball leagues, I hide in my room watching replays of volleyball, a sport that is often seen as less masculine. While friends can watch romantic comedies and TV series without feeling uneasy, I am always wary about the melodrama and sexual tensions and how it often leaves me longing for companionship too.
There isn’t a day my disorder does not rear its ugly head in my consciousness. Memories of my past life are littered in the city, resurfacing and filling my thoughts without warning. There are streets, establishments, and spaces which remind me of the life I lived before, the great sins I committed, and the lies I had been immersed in. And there are faces I meet along the way which stir affections I continue to struggle with. Sometimes these faces are real, other times they’re just made up: billboards, television characters, imaginations. At times, I give in to a second glance or two. I find myself spending more than an hour gushing over the male lead or listening to sentimental music as I daydream about the love that cannot be.
After it all is nothing but loneliness. I am ashamed to say that even the most mundane of things is a threat to the sanctity of my soul. I am ashamed to say that I have failed so many times in my struggle for holiness. But, if I can admit these things to myself, then hopefully, I can battle the unhappiness too. And what is this melancholy which plagues the soul of a man with homosexual inclinations? It is quite simply the loneliness of knowing everything passes, that all these consolations and validations are fleeting. This infatuation? – it will end too. This obsession? – he will be part of the long list of crushes I’ll look back and laugh at too. I’ll get over this and that anyway. I’ll be happy again, soon.
Sometimes I wake up and realize that I have walked away from so many of these men and moments and I feel stronger than ever. I am grateful too for God, and the grace He pours. But there are also days wherein I wake up longing for a touch too – the simple pat on the back, the joy of holding hands with someone you love, the mundane conversations of lovers. And then, I move on – I get over it, perhaps in a day or two, or sometimes a few months. Nothing lasts. Nothing satisfies. My brokenness seems to be a hole in my soul where the joys seep out leaving my heart dry.
Why was I made broken then? Why the stains in my heart? Why this disorder? Perhaps it is to become an instrument of God’s mercy and power. Perhaps so I will depend on Him more. Perhaps, so I can experience the sweetness of true happiness to a degree that can fill what the wounds and scars have scraped from my being. Perhaps, so I can make atonement for my sins. Perhaps, so I can lift up those who are lonely and lost, desperate and doubtful, worried and wayward. Perhaps…