Growing Into Myself

Growing up in the Midwest had been no easy thing.

I assume that if you were the kind of rough-and-tumble, party-till-the-cows come home, beer-drinking, women-attracted guy that had surrounded me most of my life, maybe it was a lot more fun. At least when someone waved a Bible around they could nod and smile without wondering if the religious folks would personally try to send them to Hell themselves.

Although that would only happen if they knew who you really were.

That was another thing: how were all they so sure of exactly who they were, and who I was, when sometimes it felt like I didn’t know myself?

After so many years of hiding myself, with no one to talk openly to, the internet had been a life-saver. Not because it gave me a place to spend hundreds of hours mindlessly scrolling, but because it literally saved my life. Without someplace to go, and someone to talk to, I not sure I would have made it out.

Things are pretty grim when you’re a young gay man in the Midwest.

Shaking my head, I thought back to the dark phase when I had seriously considered doing something to get sent to prison. Apparently there were more people “like me” there….and I so desperately had wanted to be around people who understood.

No judgment. No religious scorn. No raised eyebrows.

Looking back now, I feel only compassion for the young version of myself that had thought prison was the only place to find belonging.

As the music pulsed, I looked around The 10, one of my favorite gay bars in the area. There were a few other good ones, but they tended to be pretty heavily skewed towards men. Not that I minded, but Sasha Rae was working through some things, and she needed some women in the mix.

As I watched her, my heart twisted a bit. It was clear to me she was struggling. Even if she hadn’t been in the midst of massive chaos in her own life, she wouldn’t be 100% herself. Something just seemed off. And no matter how beautiful she was to me, I knew that something in her inner world was going to have to change for her to feel it herself.

The bartender brings my Old Fashioned to the counter, and I toss it back and then head for the dance floor. Even though this is my life now, and I get to be seen and heard and fully myself with everyone I let into my life, I can’t help but feel a surge of joy as the beat drops.

I am still here. I am me. I am free.