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andillbeancuteboyifiwantto · 6 years

Text

An flawed person

Warning: Long, my experince and by no means have I been perfect or will these words be.

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I was raised in an LDS family and I get that weird 'keep silent' feeling. It's strange to talk about church things to anybody except myself or in my chats with God. But also just feels so silly because it isn't at all secrets or anything shameful.

Hey there I am trans that means for me that God put my soul in this body. But for my soul to be comfy it is going to take some work and that maybe it was an lesson. Same with my sexuality. That it's not all about me or to punish me by any means.

Aside from that I am mentally ill and I have health issues. Put it altogether and add in hypersensitivity (I can sense/feel people's emotions and they affect my own) life can be an lot of frustration.

For 7 years of my life it really wasn't an big deal. But then in and out of church my life began falling apart. Feelings became more obvious, family issues and the feeling lost started settling in.

I got baptised for my family instead of myself. It was an big deal for them all, people came to visit, there was appropriate tradition gifts and everything. But I felt unsure and uncomfortable the whole time.

Now you know the big event in the baptisim and the room was so crowded with strangers, family that my anxiety was soaring higher each moment. I freaked out and had them close the door... With the witnesses just there in the side areas...

Made so much of my family upset and it was an disaster.

Them from there attendance was hit and miss, information didn't sink in well. I lamented being picked for any job or task and almost never sang along. Programs were the anxiety fuel of my nightmares but of course no wasn't an answer.

I was the kid who goofed off and drew in class as much I was the good,meek student. Who loved every pack of fruit snacks or handful of cheerios even on fast Sundays. But who could fast for no reason on weekdays due to my eating disorders.

That strung together words to bear my 'testimony' to the ward despite not having one and people thinking it was real for years. When the real one is an different outlook on life they might sneer at. The real one involves what nobody wants to talk about.

My best friend was that girl you know the one. From an seemingly so on point family with an sibling always off on an mission. Looking so attractive spiritually and otherwise that I lied and told myself it was nothing. Nothing when I let her play with my hair and felt so alive.

Nothing when I fibbed saying I did every thing in my Faith of God. She read her scriptures often, she gave thoughtful prayers, helped and tithing. I was depressed and lost finding myself in mental ditches.

For all church is an sore area and all the times I cursed at God. I also cried shouting apologies and found the Holy Ghost in trailing my fingers along the walls. In handing an dropped crayon to an child who didn't care I wasn't perfect.

I found comfort in the pitch black gym sitting or roaming the stage area, the empty classrooms. In the quiet walks home on sunny, summer days instead of getting an ride home. In just closing my eyes and talking to God informally to sort through things or act like I had somebody.

I found it on the floor of an old meeting house or in the way he seemed to scream at me that I was made to be and that I am not an mistake. That I can't be too mad every time they don't expand their hearts and heads. Because we're flawed and unique.

Sure I dreaded those days where it seemed like I had to bite my tongue. The conflict of laughing at not dating till 16 yet the relief it offered on another hand.

An roller coaster and maybe all I have to offer is what nobody's after.

Marriage is about an man and woman, only that is what people feel. There is only suits or frills. You'll never be recognized as who you are even if you want to participate. Because you won't be seen as eligible. Due to your feelings and due to your multi chrome soul.

An photo shoot an the Temple and I just wanted to go home. Feeling the most holy sat on an window ledge knees against my chest as opposed to silently looking in the eternity mirrors at the entrance inside. Baptisms for the Dead with no wish to have gone.

The tiny change room, and screaming head. Burning contacts and dissociation. Dead silence as I just wanted everybody to finish and to go home. Especially because it reminded me of the times I nearly drowned. Traumatic memories that ruined water for me.

Temple Square in Christmas less reverant more lost in thought. An cafeteria where I sat with just an cold soda while everybody else was having fun.

Temple opening tour thing in summer with an tendency to overheat easy. Nearly going unconscious and enjoying the architecture lost in that instead of anything my family was in awe over.

It's been standing on that picnic table at camp scared to step back, blindfolded but not because I knew nothing. But because it meant letting somebody catch me. And beforehand somehow knowing all the details of the 'surprise'..

The whispering freaking an kid who had hallucinations once or twice out. And I remember the bonfire afterwards. Notes from our parents and as they cried. As people were emotional I didn't even want to read mine.

Because my parents weren't accepting of me and my family was not the best. And it all felt condescending lies instead of actual love. So I just wanted to burn it in the flames. Or sharing an tent with my friends. The bathrooms and uncomfortable memories of camp in general.

Never feeling enough. It's been for years originally being so hateful towards the 'different' and not knowing why. Training myself to let myself think from my own source of perspective. That dyed hair is beautiful and God could care less if my hair is natural or bright blue. People look attractive in suits and anybody can wear an tie.

That family's aren't ever really perfect, that there is no right way to love or live your life. And gender is more than chromosomes and an doctors first look at your private parts. People are wonderful as much they aren't and I should try not judge too harshly.

Church doesn't 'cure' mental illness and every time that was implied or I got so desperate to believe it just hurt me more. Nor does it mean I can help who I am or who I love. Because trying to pray it away never was right. And every time God had to watch me struggle.

I know it's harsh to yell at him because it's not an burden. And he can't be training wheels for us. He has to watch as we either pedal or fall down. That I bet he has cried for me and knows what it is like my suffering.

But if I was 'normal' I would have less insight to offer, lessons to teach those around, been less helpful. And I would have been too involved fixing everybody else's scrapped knees so they couldn't actually learn for themselves.

Maybe it's all complicated but I stopped being mad. Did it hurt at times? Of course. And I may never feel entirely welcome in church. Endured years of people not taking the word no and pretending. Whenever they asked if I was attending and grinned saying sure I was.

Or standing there shaking the bishops hand with an empty promise. How I felt an neon sign in an church with dyed hair. Or in my first button up and slacks with dyed hair.

Or wearing my full suit and combat boots to an old ward with short short hair. The way my family has acted at various points. Some in disgraceful ways that God would scowl about because they missed the point of love one another.

My suit hangs unworn because I really don't go and quietly it has been less and less begging. Part of me wants to go roam the hallways, trace fingers on the scratchy walls and pay my respects in quiet reverance.

I miss cleaning on Saturdays but don't miss the tears standing between the bathrooms.

And part of me wants to indulge the person I wish I had been. To show up suit and tie dyed hair or not. Bare my real testimony because if even one teenager found peace then I gave more than I was offered.

To visit even if in passing or come back to my home town with my boyfriend in tow. Take him to the church building that will feel like home. Even despite the rough times and bad memories. On an sunny summer day its more peaceful.

Whisper all my stories and trace my fingers down those walls. Sit on the gym stage soaking in that I made it. To stand on an stage and just let it out. Even if I could never be officially an saint in most eyes.

I want to not think too much about letting missionaries in briefly or be scared to show I exist. Because I could learn more just like everybody else. And everybody else is just as flawed.

Maybe I will only take some of the good morals and lessons. Or maybe I will find myself only praying, skimming scriptures for years and the rest of my life. But maybe at some point I can see brighter days even if its an brave walk of the halls I once grew up in.

The ones I ran down, the ones I cried in, and the quiet chapel where I found comfort in the kids who offered snacks. Or played games with me because I was just the person who paid attention. That gave back lost objects and did peek a boo.

I think there is solace in how there can be change. That maybe one day my cousin who I found out was an lesbian doesn't have to 'understand what it means to be her and LDS' because my aunt had to whisper she was with my grandmother in the room.

After somebody joked about her falling for an missionary one day. Or the support my aunt had for her child that I didn't and still might never. Yet it still seemed terms and conditions. It was in my sister in law daring to say she's bisexual.

In as murky my coming out and well recoming out and misunderstandings... The letter I got back from my mother that showed progress. In the words she wrote in response to my words especially about God.

(Previously something she used against me but now) Now it was: "You say God made you this way, I agree!"

"God is real, God does love you."

If through all she put me through, all the murky water left to wade through. If my older brother who once teased me, abused me about supporting lgbt+ rights could be the first to ask me my pronouns and name. If my sister in law can give me an present with no name on it because I was still closeted.

And my aunt can love her daughter, support her being an lesbian. Enough she lightly joked in whispers that it means asking 'is it anything serious' and embaress her daughter about hanging out with her female friends. If people could just see the soul as most important.

God just wants us to try our best, to live this mortal life. He wants happiness for us, love not tears and screaming to be fixed. When he made us to be who we are. That he can't help us all the time even if it sucks.

I may not be flawless, the best saint around, active or even feel I get to say I am Mormon. Room for learning and growing. Have my lashing outs, scrapped knees and long nights. Make God cry an couple hundred times and tire him out with informal messages.

Because really who would want an prayer along the lines of 'yo so here's the thing its me yup anyways hope heavens doing good just wanted to talk about this cute person I passed by today or how handsome I felt briefly'. But at the same time its far more personable.

Have this little sign off and occasionally an peace sign across my face just in case he actually is watching me/the holy ghost or whatever. Because I can only be so depressing before I have to goof off and God won't just appear like 'please stop its 4 am why are you this way'. Even if that would be hilarious.

Though nobody would believe me afterwards.

#personal #lgbt mormon #long text cw #queerstake #(Woah wait is this like my testimony but unrefined and at length? Yeahh apparently)#(Just had an lot of feelings right now and felt bold enough to share)#(I really should make an faceless for now youtube channel where I can talk about my growimg up in the church)#(Growing up in it mentally ill and lgbt+ and all the things I felt were hush hush)#(That really werent and arent oh could share hilarious stories as well if not possibly relatable lds lgbt struggles)

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