Melancholia

***Warning: Not the least bit sexy***

I will admit to a certain amount of melancholia at this time of year.  Birthdays do that to me.  It’s a reminder of where I am, and where I thought I’d be, and how disparate those two really are. 

Add to that a certain amount of upheaval—new job, new lifestyle (working from home)—and it’s a bit of a recipe for disaster.

So, imagine how my evening turned out when someone posted a link (below) with little preamble.  Once I clicked on it, I found it to be an 11 minute section of Prayers for Bobby.  Never having seen it, I watched it.  Fair warning—if the rest of the movie is anything like these 11 minutes—it’s an amazingly moving story, heart wrenching and uplifting in turns.  All the more so because it’s not just a story.  Bobby was a 19 year old boy who, having come out to his mother—a Christian (capitol C)—was greeted with all of the litany of things I feared when I grappled with the realization that I was gay.  You see, I was raised—at least for the latter part of my formative years—in a born-again Christian household.  I heard, often, how gays were sinner bent on hell and damnation.  It wasn’t my parents (or in this case foster parents) trying to convince me—though maybe, at some point, at some level, they knew long before I did.  It was just them espousing their beliefs.  Hell and damnation, and the knowledge that I was, less than.  To be prayed for, but not accepted.  “Love the sinner, hate the sin.” It’s a charming little sound byte.  But what happens when a person realizes that, at their very core, it’s not a phase.  It’s not just a habit or behavior, but it’s who they are—as integral as their hair color or eye color.  I didn’t choose to be gay.  I didn’t choose to face a world where even your family aren’t necessarily your allies.  What I did choose was to walk away from my family.  From people who never really understood why.  How could they understand that ‘love the sinner, hate the sin’ translated for me into ‘how could you love me when you reject something that is so part of who I am?’  It was, in a few small words, the assurance that they would never really be able to love me for me.  There would always be, at some level, a hope that I would change—that prayer, and ‘trying hard enough’ would make me different. 

Bobby chose a different way out.  At the age of 19, rejected by the ones who were supposed to love him the most, he took his own life.  I was reminded how often, at a similar age, I felt cut off from those in my life who were meant to be closest to me.  Thoughts of a similar fate weren’t foreign to me.  I’m not entirely sure what kept me going. 

Yes, this blog entry is atypical – for this blog at least.  I will say that, having watched the clip below, I was touched both by the memories of my own life and the way that Bobby’s mother changed.  She has become a strong advocate for gay rights, and sees how her rigid beliefs failed her son.  It is her goal to make the world a safe place for people like Bobby. 

I share this link with you because it hit so close to home.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N3hxop0pHkw&fb_source=message