How I Lost My Faith . V - Return to faith...sort of

In 2005 I was diagnosed with Bipolar II Disorder and learned that the symptoms—mood swings, deep depression, etc.—usually kicks in during one's early twenties.

My return to the Kingdom Hall in early 1985 occured when I was 22 years old.  That return also marked the beginning of over 30 years of guilt and shame over being someone or something that Jehovah God could never approve of, and 30 years of bipolar episodes where, for six to eight months I would be the consummate Witness, only to give way to six to eight months of hanging out at gay bars, getting drunk and getting laid.  This pattern repeated itself ad nauseum until I was finally disfellowshipped in 2008.

But, despite the pain, I was convinced that the Witnesses had the "Truth" and I would eventually win out over my carnal side, so I kept trying despite my inherent weakness.  Because I was not yet baptized (not until 2001), the Witness friends I'd made in Denver showed, for the most part, exceptional patience and love and did their best to include me in activities, including, at one point, the chance to go door-to-door with them in their preaching work.  Back then, they allowed non-baptized Bible students to accompany them as "observers" (a practice they no longer endorse) and I took to it like a fish to water.  Unfortunately, the unwanted sexual cravings I'd kept buried during this time began to resurface and I left the company of the Witnesses for that of other gay guys, shutting down the spiritual side of me for the next six to eight months, until the pendulum swung back in the other direction, leading to my return to the Kingdom Hall again.

This pattern repeated itself over and over for the vast majority of my adult life.  Everytime I returned to "the Truth," I was certain this was the last time, that this was where I was supposed to be and I would move heaven and earth to stay there.  That certaintly always failed to last, and it got to the point a number of times that I wanted to end the struggle once and for all; I could not live like that any longer.

When I was diagnosed with AIDS in 1989, my outlook changed dramatically, and all the things I wanted to accomplish, especially getting baptized, suddenly needed to be done NOW.  I'd been told by my doctors that I only had two or three years to live, and if I wanted to insure my place in God's Kingdom, I needed to get baptized as soon as possible.  Everything had to be compressed into a very short time-frame and I was bound and determined to make it happen.

It did not, nor did I die as the doctor's had said I would.

How I Lost My Faith . IV - Confrontation

In 1981, before I graduated High School, I made friends with a young Witness whose father was an elder.  He and I got along great so I decided one day to confide in him about the struggle raging inside of me.  I did not want to be gay; I wanted to be a Jehovah's Witness and thought, with this young man's help, I could overcome my sexuality and become a loyal, faithful Witness just as he was.

Instead of keeping my confidence and helping me through the rough spots, he told his father about me.  This led to a confrontation with the elders that would alter the course of my life forever.

The "presiding overseer" of the congregation back then was the husband of the woman who'd studied the Bible with my godmother, and the children's book with me at age 10.  

When I was about 15, I decided to keep a diary describing in detail the struggle between my spiritual side and my carnal side, in very explicit language.  I kept this diary hidden, but my godmother found it after snooping through my desk (she later lied about where she'd found it, but by then the damage was done).  It was then that she and the whole family discovered that I was queer.  My whole family was made to read my diary while I was punished by being forced to do squats for hours (that was her favorite punishment, deep knee bends for hours on end).  Not long afterward, she took me to see the aforementioned elder to see if he could "fix" me.

I still remember a few details about that discussion, particularly his question to her, "Have you ever discouraged Tim from reading the Bible and the Watchtower?"  In an outright, blatant lie, she responded, "No, I've encouraged him to do so."  This after she'd thrown out all my literature and my Bible in the dump, which I'd retrieved in the middle of the night.  She lied, and he believed her "hook, line and sinker."  I don't remember much more of that particular conversation; I could thnk about is how she'd lied and the elder believed her every word.  That was wrong, but several years later, after my previously-mentioned friend had told his father about me, it got much worse.

I'd been attending meetings pretty regularly during the first half of 1981 and had made some good friends.  I remember one family in particular; they'd invite me over pretty regularly and we'd have hours-long dicussions about the Bible.  I was very knowledgeable by then and could talk about Bible prophesies on a level most could not.  I felt very at-home with them and everything was fine for a while.  At some point, they asked me why I wasn't baptized yet and all I could tell them was that I was working through some stuff and hoped to be baptized in the near future.

One day at the Kingdom Hall, the husband asked the presiding overseer what it was that was holding me back.  Instead of keeping my confidence, the elder told them that I was a homosexual and might not be good association!  That's when I discovered that my young friend, to whom I'd confided my struggle, had told his dad, and subsequently would have little to do with me.  After the next meeting, I confronted the elder who'd betrayed my trust.  He, my "friend's" father and myself met in a room at the Hall and he proceeded to tell me, "We've been watching you.  We've seen you passing notes around [a complete, blatant lie].  We could 'mark' you as bad association but we haven't yet."  At that, I lost control.  I accused him of betrayal, reminded him of the conversation a few years earlier with my godmother, when he completely ignored me and believed everything my godmother'd told him.  I remember crying profusely and being completely devasted.  These were people who were supposed to help me overcome my weaknesses and become a loyal, faithful Witness of Jehovah; instead they falsely accused me of wrongdoing and threatened to mark me in the congregation as unfit for association.

I left the Kingdom Hall that day utterely distraught...and remained gone for the next four years.  I wanted nothing to do with the Witnesses at that point, so when I had the chance to move away from home, the first place I moved to was a house with two other gay guys.  

It was then that I came fully out of the closet and fearlessly embraced my homosexuality with a fervor.  I discovered the gay scene in Washington, D.C. and the rest, as they say, is history.  For the next four years I was myself, someone with self-respect and dignity, and I had a blast!

During that time, circumstances led me to Denver, CO in 1984.  I was homeless for the first three or four months, then got injured on a day-labor job.  That winter, 1984/85, I found myself in a flea-bitten hotel in downtown Denver (thanks to assistance from Welfare; this was apparently the best they could do for me).  Something snapped one day and made me realize that my life had taken a turn for the worse; I needed hope, and friends, so, on a cold, snowy Sunday I found the local Kingdom Hall and walked over a mile through the snow to get there.

Thus began the roller-coaster ride that would define my life for the next 30 years or so.

How I Lost My Faith . III

I was introduced to Jehovah's Witnesses by my godmother at age 10.  She'd started studying the Bible with an Elder's wife and took some of us with her to the Kingdom Hall.  I was fully aware spiritually even at that tender age and what I heard from these people was music to my ears, and it gave me a feeling of hope such as I'd never known before.  That was in 5th grade, the year I befriended Michael, who would later betray that friendship.

In sixth grade, Michael and I diligently studied the Bible using the Getting the Most out of Your Youth book.  One of the chapters of that book dealt with homosexuality and how wrong and immoral such a lifestyle is to God.  This was the first big wall I'd run into regarding the feelings growing inside me, and Michael was there to help me win this battle, which was tantamount to a war against me and Satan, good and evil—a war that would rage non-stop for the next 30 years.

About this time, I discovered, thanks to Michael's mother, the 1975 Yearbook of Jehovah's Witnesses which dealt at great length the moral battle the Witnesses waged in Germany against Hitler's regime during WWI.  The stand they took of civil disobedience (i.e., refusing to say, "Heil, Hitler" or involve themselves in any capacity with his political engine, though it meant thousands would die in concentration camps alongside Jews, homosexuals and others.  The latter were slaughtered for who they were; the Witnesses for what they stood for.  (This has been recognized and championed by historians the world over.))

The following year, my friendship with Michael continued unabated.  We even shared a locker together, for a short time.  For, as our friendship grew stronger, my godmother's new-found intolerance suddenly appeared on the scene.

After she stopped studying the Bible with the Witnesses, she became very opposed to my association with Michael and my desire to become a Witness.  On one occassion that has stuck firmly in my mind ever since, she found and threw out my Watchtower books and magazines, including the Yearbook I'd borrowed from Michael's mom—as well as my Bible.  At that, I grew thoroughly incensed and that night, I snuck out of the house and across the road to the dumpster and retrieved my books—and began to hate my godmother even more, who'd blasphemously disposed of a holy Bible and Bible-based nourishment.  It was then that the lessons I'd learned from that Yearbook began to come into play.

I began to view Ginny as a Hitler-figure, and myself as a martyr, who would resist until his last breath.  Ginny made me get my own locker at school: "Do not come home [from school one day] until you have your own locker."  She also said once, "You can be a Witness all you want when you turn eighteen, but while you're living under my roof, you will not be a part of that cult.  Michael is to you what Jim Jones was to Johannesburg!  They're a cult!"

I complied with the locker demand, but my determination to worship my God, Jehovah, would never be quenched and my voice would never be silent!  I had my own "concentration camp scenario" and I would die before I complied with her wishes!

I was only twelve, but I'd found a hope, a future and full spiritual life ahead of me and nothing would interfere with my achieving that goal!

However, all the while my sexual orientation was striving to assert itself.  I was convinced that my homosexualtiy was a direct result of my childhood—no father figure to speak of and dominant women in control of every aspect of my life, to the point that, to this day the idea of being intimate with a woman is utterly repulsive to me.  

For the next twenty years or so I believed this: it wasn't my fault and I was not born this way.  That's what I told each of my counselors/shrinks over the years, that I did not want to hear, "Just accept yourself for who you are and give up on this rigid belief structure."  That's exactly what the Witnesses said they would say, so I looked upon such advice as demonic propaganda designed to draw me away from Jehovah.

There were many struggles throughout my teen years, but when I turned eighteen I did exactly as I'd promised and moved out.  The response I received when I told my godmother only served to strengthen my resolve: "You're just doing this to spite me!"  She didn't get it.  You see, both of my older brothers had stayed at home until at least the age of 20; I was the first to assert my independence at the earliest possible moment. 

Oddly enough, the first place I moved into was a house owned by two gay guys.  I'd only had one or two encounters up to then, but this move opened up a lot of new doors—gay-bar doors, to be exact, but that's another story...

That brings us back to 1981, when I would experience homophobic bigotry from the very ones who were supposed to care for my "soul."  This will be the subject of Part IV.