Why I Stay

I am one of the lucky ones.

For the first five years of my life, my mother was my constant companion. I would follow her around the house and she called me her "little shadow." As I grew, I was her helper, her protector, and her confidante. She was my best friend. In many ways, it's because of her that my family ties are stronger than those of most people I know.

Early in the year 2000, I was in my first semester at ISU and living with my parents. Because my folks expected it, I attended church with them. It was the ward I had grown up in, so I fell easily into the role I'd played before I had left home to go to Ricks' College.

My bishop wanted to put me to work in the ward. One Sunday, he asked me into his office to issue me a calling. I refused, telling him I was in a relationship with a young man that had physically exceeded the bounds acceptable to the Church and was therefore not worthy. My confession led to a disciplinary council that concluded in disfellowhipment from the LDS church. At the conclusion of that meeting, I begged my mother to just let me go, as I knew it would be easier in many ways for both of us. With tear-filled eyes, she told me she would never let me go.

On that pivotal night, asking for release was the furthest extreme to which I could go.

As time went on, my family and I developed a method of discourse that protected us all from the discomfort of dealing with reality. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it was the best we could do. Years went by.

Then I met someone. It was the first time I had been that in love with anyone. He seemed like the perfect man in every way. He was handsome, educated, and well-spoken. He was also endearing, tender, and so much more even-headed than I was. We had many interests in common, yet there were also fascinating differences. I was flattered by his interest and excited to absorb all of the good things he was that I felt I wasn't.

As a returned missionary himself, I thought he understood the difficult position I was in. He let me read his coming out journal which detailed his struggles with his own family. He told me he wanted me to really know him. The intimacy of his trust was intoxicating.

I gave him my heart, transferring to him the spot my family had occupied and preparing for the rift it would cause with them. More than once I returned to his arms after visiting them, sobbing because of the pain of separation that was going on inside me. I was like an addict going through withdrawal while becoming addicted to something else.

Then suddenly, he ended the relationship. I was devastated. I couldn't eat. Sleep was fitful, and when I awoke, thoughts of him haunted my every movement and interaction. My heart leapt at every car that looked like his. I saw his face everywhere.

From something he said to me the night he left, I decided that my ties to God and family would always keep me from finding someone who loved me. I also decided that as long as I didn't love myself, no one else would either. I had a talk with my parents and told them things had to change, that I was never going to hide my life from them again.

Four months of working out, losing a lot of weight, and mentally demolishing long-cherished landmarks in my soul didn't lead me to love, but I was feeling very alive. It was a different kind of alive than I was used to. It was animal rather than spiritual. The close friends that I selected to replace my family were worried by the drastic change. I didn't care; I was never going to be hurt like that again.

Then came a week in January where I was fighting a cold. I usually follow the "feed a cold, starve a fever" mantra, so I was feeding the cold with Papa Murphy's Chicken & Garlic pizza. The creamy garlic alfredo sauce was apparently the last straw for my gall bladder because it kicked out the biggest fuss I've ever felt inside my body. The pain was excruciating. I seriously thought I was going to die.

I called my new "family" in a panic, but none of them were available to come help me. Finally, I called a cousin who lived in town. He came and sat with me for two hours while I writhed in an agonized indecision. I didn't have health insurance at the time and I didn't know for sure what was going on inside, but I finally couldn't take it anymore. My cousin drove me to the hospital. He sat with me until 5 in the morning when my parents came down from Idaho Falls. He had a lesson to teach in church at 9.

For the next couple weeks, my parents were both by my side, helping through the surgery and subsequent convalescence. They supported me as I struggled through finding a way to pay for the medical bills, and they listened to me talk about my broken heart.

It became starkly apparent to me that I'd made a grave mistake in trying to replace my family with friends. Although my friends had been sympathetic, it was my family who actually came to my aid. Since then, there are friends I've made that I know I can rely on for many things. Some of them are frustrated that I continue to grapple with the differences between me and my family, but I've learned better than to place those relationships above my family.

Like I said, I'm one of the lucky ones.