How I Lost My Faith . XXII - You cannot run from yourself.

In 1989, after being diagnosed with AIDS and losing my job at 7-Eleven, I moved into a Veterans Affairs/Section 8-approved building for seniors and those with disabilities. That September, I adopted a kitten I named Niche (pronounced “nich”). She was destined to be one of only three things that kept me from taking my own life over the years — the other two being the effect it would have on Jehovah God and my Witness friends, and what it would do to my mom. Those things alone are really why I’m still here.

There were already several AIDS-diagnosed gay men in the complex, one of whom was the spitting image of Country Music star Tim McGraw. We all became good friends — until the Pendulum once again swung to the right and I had to return to “the Truth.” This happened repeatedly, back and forth; living that close to other gay men made it extremely difficult to keep my mind focused on spiritual things, but a chance meeting in 1993 would make it virtually impossible.

Earlier that spring, I’d been going to meetings at the local Kingdom Hall and was doing well...until one evening in late April when I was completely overcome with the desire for physical contact. I couldn’t stand it, and, almost against my will, I found myself there, around my “own kind.” I debated with myself all the way to the bus-stop, up until the bus actually came and I boarded it. Had I just turned around and walked back the two blocks to my apartment, I could get through the evening with a clean conscience. I failed miserably.

I met a young man that night, MJ. I gave him my phone number, with the full knowledge that “I’m about to fuck up everything...if he calls me...what have I just done??” He did call and we began hanging out together, a lot. He and I eventually developed an emotional connection that even God, it seemed (after a while), could not break. 

 The very first thing I told him was that I had AIDS; it was a confession that he remembers to this day (I’d reached the point where I could not be intimate with someone without telling him that part upfront; I did not want to the one to blame should he get sick). That year, we took a road trip and I finally got to see the Pacific Ocean. Turns out, our timing was perfect; just a month or so later, Malibu was hit with fires and devastating mudslides!

In the fall of 1993, I worked part-time at one of the local bathhouses for a couple of months...then something clicked and my thoughts again began returning to “the Truth” and the Witnesses, and how to extricate myself from this mess I’d created — the Great Pendulum was about to swing again, only this time the repercussions would be much more far-reaching than I could have imagined. I didn’t say anything at first to my friend, but I know he could sense that something was wrong. During the last week of that year, I began planning for January 1, 1994, as the day I would quit smoking and doing drugs, distance myself from the gay community and my gay friends — including MJ.

On New Years Day, 1994, I resolutely informed him of my decision: “I have to try again. I have to return to the Truth, which means we can’t hang out together anymore,” “You can’t smoke in here any more” — all physical contact and all drug and alcohol use was terminated as of the 1st of January. I basically threw him by the wayside, as I had done previously with Jed back east. My pronouncement stunned him; he’d assumed that my library of bound volumes of The Watchtower and Awake!, dictionaries and lexicons, and numerous Bible translations were connected to something I’d left behind in my past, not something related to an ongoing, massive struggle for my identity.

I could tell I’d hurt him, but I had to do what I felt was the right — the moral — thing to do, and I could not present myself to Jehovah God as clean and upright with MJ in my life, and he would never learn “the Truth” as I had if I continued to perpetuate a doomed friendship/relationship. So I pushed him out of my life.

That summer I took a trip to Oklahoma to visit Mom and while there, I decided that the best way for me to be faithful to Jehovah was to physically remove myself from the situation in Denver, so I made plans to be with Mom when I died. Remember, I had no time left; I’d been told five years earlier that I had only two years to live, three at most; I was way past my “expiration date” and was expected to get sick and ‘kick the bucket’ “any day now”. 

 

I’d already watched several friends die from AIDS-related conditions and knew exactly what I was in for, and the most noble thing I could think of to do was be with Mom when it happened, so she would be comforted in knowing that at least we got to say goodbye face-to-face. In order to make me feel comfortable, she didn’t object when I smoked pot in the house. I was very naïve when it came to the smell, as I had none. I thought I was being clever by hiding the joint or pipe, or pretending to be smoking a cigarette, but I have no sense of smell, and never stopped to think that I was stinking up the whole house.

But Mom didn’t mind. In fact, the only truly-unconditional love that I have ever received in my 49½ years on this earth came from her; I am largely the person I am today because of her.

Spiritually, I had absolutely no time to mess around, and the distractions in Denver were destroying whatever chance I may have had at finally becoming one of Jehovah’s Witnesses. It was, once again, all or nothing; pass...or fail, as I’d always done, which of course I did, within three months of moving in with Mom. I called MJ and re-established our connection; he came to visit several times over the next two years, but only when the Pendulum swung back in his direction; the rest of the time was spent studying the Bible and attending meetings at the local Kingdom Hall.

Back and forth, back and forth. It was enough to drive most men mad, but I was determined to succeed in my efforts to overcome the evil, unnatural inclinations toward my own sex if it was the last thing I did. Against all odds, I would prove that even someone as inherently wicked as myself could take a stand for Jehovah God against Satan the Devil himself, and the neutralization of my sexual orientation would be a shout of praise to God unlike any other. This is no exaggeration; I genuinely believed that I was fighting for my life, and I refused to give up, at one time vowing to Jehovah, “I will never stop trying, no matter what it takes, until the day I expire!” That vow gave me the strength, on numerous occasions, to return to God and the Witnesses; I had to keep trying, fighting “the fine fight of the faith” (1 Timothy 6:12). 

I felt I had no other choice; I took everything my teachers taught me as THE TRUTH, the only Truth — everything was shown to me straight from the Bible, so how could I not accept it? — and my life literally depended on winning this battle between good and evil that never stopped raging inside me. It would not go away, and I interpreted that as Jehovah continuously trying to guide me in the right direction, drawing me back from the pit over and over. I was taught that my willingness to pick myself up and try again, as many times as it took, was a clear sign of humility, a willingness to sacrifice for Jehovah, and that He could only bless such spirit. It never got any easier, no matter how much I wanted it to, but I refused to admit defeat.

That’s the answer to an as-yet-unasked question: Why was I still trying? Why, after so many failed attempts at trying to overcome my nature, had I not lost my faith already?

I believed that it was me, that I was weak, that I wasn’t praying enough or living piously enough, and every time I fell back into “the world,” I proved it all over again. But I refused to accept that I was hopeless, would not “go out” with a mere whimper, and so would inevitably crawl back to the Kingdom Hall and try again...and again...and again... My life was on the line, and I would neither quit nor rest until the day I finally “got it right” and could serve Jehovah God with a clean conscience.

That day never came.

It turns out that moving to Oklahoma accomplished absolutely nothing, other than the time I got to spend with Mom. The Pendulum never stopped swinging, and I found myself facing the exact same struggles within the first six months of living there. I spent two years waiting to die, but fighting back, nonetheless, by working out and walking everywhere --- mainly to impress MJ the next time he took a road trip to Oklahoma.

Then, in 1996, rumors began circulating about new HIV medications, “protease inhibitors” that were making people feel better for a change. Unfortunately, they were not yet available  in Oklahoma; there was actually a waiting list, and there was no telling how long the wait would be...so, in September that year, I moved back to Denver, where the new “miracle drugs” were readily available.

Over those two years spent with Mom, I learned the hard way that you cannot run from yourself. I moved 600 miles for a fresh start, only to find the same old demons waiting there for me. I learned that change must come from the inside; no amount of distance can separate you from yourself. Even years later, another similar move 200 miles away would ultimately prove to be just as fruitless.

Maybe I’m finally learning...