Previously On The Jason Show. . .

If you're just tuning in to The Jason Show, this is a chronilogical listing of all the posts that I've written about my journey "out of the closet" and into my life.

My Story

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Early Clues

As a little boy I loved to play with barbies. I didn't actually own any, but I had seven girl cousins that lived just across town (yes, seven girls and no boys all in one estrogen overloaded family), and they had barbies with all of the accessories in abundance. I would play with my cousins and their barbies until they couldn't stand it any more. They would wander off to play something else, leaving me happily in charge of a whole barbie world until my mom would drag me away, home to my boring toys for boys. Don't get me wrong, I liked my cars and trucks and legos and lincoln logs, but they just didn't fascinate me. Tiring of these things, I would make up fantasy worlds of my own, often starring me as Jamie Summers (the Bionic Woman), Diana Prince (Wonder Woman) or Isis.

At school, my friends were all girls, and I had plenty of them; even then I was attracting friends that were girls. I just always had so much in common with them and hardly anything in common with the boys. Other boys told me I acted like a girl, walked like a girl, and talked like a girl. They called me words like faggot, homo, and fem. I didn't even know what those words meant, although they made me feel terrible. Those boys sure had me figured out way before I did.
Then there was the summer that I spent in my mom's basement sewing room sewing barbie clothes for Katrine's barbies. Or the many times I begged her to let me style her hair (although the results were always disastrous and I ended up laughing at her and she ended up crying and running to her room). Of course there was the phase that I went through wearing a towel on my head pretending it was my long beautiful hair, or the months I spent convincing my mom I needed glasses because I wanted to have the same ones as Diana Prince (again, Wonder Woman). Imagine my disappointment when the optometrist said my eyes were fine.

I hated sports of any kind. Hated. Well, except tetherball and 4-square, of course, and those aren't even sports. Football and basketball games on tv would make me really mad, in fact I would seethe every time my dad stood in front of a BYU football game on the 13 inch black and white tv, loudly grumbling and shouting profanities such as, "Awwww, hellll!" or "Damn! Come on!" or our favorite, "Judas Priest!"

At about the age of eleven, the prepubescent hormones started kicking in.

That's when things started getting complicated.

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Confusion

I was eleven years old when I realized I had physically matured enough to become a father. With that realization came the innundation of relentless mental images, all of which had been made clear to me were wrong. Some of them involved women. Most of them involved men. They both led me down a path that every boy goes down. But not every boy is plagued with the intense guilt that lines the trail.

My intense involvement in my Mormon faith consistently reminded me that all of my thoughts regarding sex were bad, and acting on them in any way, shape or form was even worse. My beliefs even at that young age were strong. I didn't waiver, ever. I wanted to please God, my parents, and those in my congregation. I wanted to be good. I wanted to do what was right. I said my prayers, I read the scriptures, I went to church and all of the painful auxiliary activities that went along with them.

Regardless, I continued being plagued by sexual images, and I continued feeling worse and worse about myself. This bled into all of my relationships and stifled my social skills. I had no friends and experienced a couple of very lonely years. Not only was I some kind of freak of nature who had thoughts about men, but I was skinny as a rail, I had ugly homemade clothes, and my complexion was nothing less than pizza. My self-esteem hinged solely on my grades in school, and in the doubled edged sword of hopes that if I could be good then I would be worthy to live with God again. I made a concious decision to withdraw into myself, showing no personality or interest in other people at all.

But then I forged an unlikely friendship with Doug. He was one of the cool kids. All the girls liked him, nobody made fun of him, he was good looking, his family had enough money for a clean house, clothes, and a nice car, he was a good student, he was funny, and......he showed a genuine interest in being a friend. My friend.

The thought that somebody like Doug would want to be friends with me did both great wonders and even worse damage to my self-image.

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Obsession

As Doug and I became better friends, an unhealthy obsession began to settle over me. On a daily basis, I allowed my interaction with him determine my self-esteem. If he said goodbye to me before he got off the school bus, I felt good about myself. If he forgot, I let it ruin my day. If he called me, I was happy. If he didn't, my mood was dark. If we got together to do homework, or go to the movies, or just hang out, I felt complete. If days went by without any interaction, I was a mess.

As our friendship became stronger, I felt more and more confident, so much so that the little things didn't get to me much. Just when I thought everything was going great, he announced to me one day that he and his family were moving to Las Vegas. Las Vegas, eight hours away. Of course, I was devastated. When it finally happened, my unhealthy obsession intensified ten fold. For the first few months, all I could think about was him, how he was doing, what he was doing, and if he was making any friends that would replace me. My thoughts revolved around the two of us and what close friends we were. But of course, the truth went much deeper than that.
As all of his family on both of his parents' sides lived in the area, Doug and his family returned to visit on occasion. During the first visit, I was so worked up about him being there that when he arrived I broke into a cold sweat, I got tunnel vision, and my stomach was upset. So upset that I vomited multiple times during the course of the visit, unable to eat anything let alone hold it down.

This next carried over into phone calls. If he called, I would talk on the phone next to a garbage can or plastic bag, literally but silently throwing up during our conversations.
As time went by, things got worse. I lost weight. I worried that I had developed some kind of eating disorder. I didn't know if I was anorexic or bulimic, or something else. The only thing that saved me was when he wasn't visiting or talking to me on the phone, I was okay. I would try to compensate by eating five or six full meals a day.

I finally talked to my parents about it. They had no idea what to do, so they suggested I talk to the bishop (the leader of our congregation). I spoke to him and he referred me to LDS Social Services, and I spent a few sessions with a doughy man named Brother Burgoyne trying to figure out the root of the problem, and what could possibly be done to control it. We theorized that I was feeling more for Doug than what was acceptable, and that my subconcious was reacting to those inappropriate feelings, making me upset about it and perhaps trying to get me to change my own feelings. Complicated.

Fortunately, after about a year, I began making other friends, friends that were not obsessions.
Slowly, my highly intense feelings for Doug faded, I started high school, and I got on with my life, putting these disturbing feelings behind me. Or so I thought.
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A Dead Son is Better Than a Gay Son

In high school, things got better for me. Immensely better. Thanks to Acutane , my face cleared up, I started earning a little bit of money for clothes, I had learned how to stop making myself a target, and I settled into a very nice and fun group of friends. We enjoyed each other's company immensely, and yet we were the epitome of wholesome. We got together to play Monopoly and Pictionary, watched videos or went to movies, we attended dances together, we sang in choir and (gah!) some of us even clogged together. We were all pretty good students. We were there for one another. With the help of these friends, I began to feel confident, and I was able to let my guard down and be myself a little bit. What a debt of gratitude I owe to these amazing people.

During my senior year I was in a class that all seniors were required to take, called "Family Life." We had a very progressive teacher who did not fall under the traditional Mormon umbrella for that area. Looking back, I'm surprised she wasn't ousted from a position of such influence. She made it a point to talk about homosexuality, and at one point in one such lesson became enraged because many people in our town had said to her on multiple occasions, "I'd rather have a dead son than a gay son.""WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU'D RATHER HAVE A DEAD SON THAN A GAY SON? YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME! I WOULD WANT MY SON ALIVE AND WITH ME, ENJOYING LIFE, EVEN IF HE WERE GAY. NOT DEAD!!!" By this point her lips were frothy and white spittle residue had collected at the corners of her mouth. She then showed us a video about a boy in high school and his struggle with the realization that he was gay.

As you would expect, this movie hit home. Hard. It made me want to crawl out of my skin. Every time I started thinking about it, I knew it was ringing true but I just stuffed it down, way down, to a place where I hoped that if I ignored it, it would just go away. The topic of this subconcious realization was not part of my plan. It did not fit in with my life or my goals and aspirations whatsoever. I was very happy being the Seminary Council President (a big thing in Utah), I was happy with my reputation as a spiritual strength, and I was going to go on a mission, and then, get married in the temple and have eight children and eventually become stake president, and then, according to my dad, be a very powerful global leader within the LDS church.

My ultimate hope was that if I did as The Church had promised, and said my prayers, read the scriptures, paid my tithing, fasted on each fast Sunday, served diligently in church positions, and go on a mission, these feelings would be taken away from me.

And I knew that there must have been a special, beautiful daughter of God out there for me, and that when she came along, I would be so in love with her that I would be instantly cured of these horrific thoughts intruding into my mind all the time.

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The Guy Downstairs

Satisfied with a bittersweet end to my junior and senior years, I graduated high school in 1987 and began my first quarter at Utah State University the following fall. This commenced a very lonely period of my life. I had five roommates, some of which were friends from high school, but not close friends. I always felt like I didn't have anything in common with them and like an outsider. Nor did I really make friends with anyone in any of my classes. As I observed my roommates and other students pairing off, I longed for a close relationship. I kept trusting in God that she would just appear in some corny romantic way, like our hands brushing as we each reached for the same carton of milk in the grocery store, looking up, and from there it would be magic and true love forever.

In the apartment downstairs there lived an older group of guys, and we hung out with them on occasion. One of them was named Phillip. He had certain characteristics that made me uneasy, it was probably kind of like looking in the mirror and seeing a disturbing image, but not really realizing I was looking at my own reflection. Phillip seemed to want to strike up a friendship with me. He asked me if I wanted to hang out with him, go to the movies, meet for lunch on campus. I always refused, finding some excuse. I once took him up on his offer to take me to the grocery store with him, since I didn't have my own car, but the whole time I was in a cold sweat, wanting nothing more than to be away from him. I still didn't ever stop to reflect upon my feelings of discomfort and nervousness deeply, but I began avoiding him at all costs. There was just something about him.

So I really had no social life as a freshman in college. Instead I focused my attention on my studies, writing letters to my family and friends, and getting ready for my mission.
Finally, just before the end of my last freshman quarter, I met Trudy. She was a senior in one of my classes who had already been on a mission and she was close to graduating in my same major. Her parents lived near mine about two hours away, so she started giving me rides home on the occasional weekend. There was something about her that I really liked; she was sweet and genuine. We began to share a closeness that was so refreshing after feeling all by myself for so long. I kept telling myself that maybe she was the one. I felt no attraction toward her physically, but I didn't think that was an issue. After all, I was trying to get ready to go on a mission!

I entered the Missionary Training Center in April of 1988 in preparation for my departure to Peru. And I again I felt certain that those gnawing thoughts that had plagued me since the onset of puberty would finally subside.

And as a matter of fact, those thoughts did subside for a time, but they manifested themselves in a way that nearly kept me from going to Peru and fulfilling my calling as a missionary for the fastest growing church in the world.

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Called to Serve
My two months at the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, were some of the hardest months of my life. Not because of the constant discipline and study, not because of the isolation from the rest of the world, not because of the new language in which I was being immersed. They were difficult because I was highly anxiety ridden with personal issues that I didn't understand. So much so, I could hardly eat. And when I did manage to get something down, I almost always threw it up. I spent many long days shaking in a cold sweat and feeling weak and dizzy, unable to focus on my studies or those around me, and running to the bathroom.
I believe that I had been suffering from an anxiety disorder since my early teen years and being in the MTC magnified it. The thing is, as I tried to figure out what was triggering it there, it always came back to the other male missionaries that were in my district. Spending almost every hour of the day with these five other guys and going through such intense experiences with them made me feel very close to them, very quickly. There were a couple that I especially admired and liked being around, and way back in the back of my mind, found attractive. The ironic thing is, even though I liked being around them, I couldn't, because it would intensify my anxiety and nausea so much that I was unable to function.

After a few weeks of digesting almost nothing, I knew I had to act, or my health would be in jeopardy. However, I was afraid to ask for help because I worried that they would send me home, which would be the biggest disgrace ever, in my mind. I truly wanted to go to Peru. Finally, I gathered up the courage to talk to one of my teachers about my anxiety without really disclosing the full truth. Much to my relief, she managed to get me an appointment with a church psychiatrist. After I explained as little as possible to him, he prescribed me a medication that I never wanted to admit was a tranquilizer. But the relief and hope that I might be able to continue my mission made it worth it.

And tranquilize, it did. In fact in turned me into a zombie of sorts, but I didn't care. At least I was able to eat and feel better, even though I struggled to stay awake all day long. I could fall asleep instantly at any time or place, which I had never been able to do before then, or since.
Thanks to modern medicine, I was able to leave for South America at the end of May, 1988. The tranquilizers in my possession and the experiences that awaited me in Peru far overshadowed my preoccupation with other guys. Yet there were times that my feelings surfaced, reminding me that I still wasn't cured, leaving me uneasy, uncertain, and afraid.

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Peru

My two years in Peru were rich with experiences of all kinds. I became close to families who lived in cardboard houses with dirt floors, I walked through Incan ruins, I wandered through banana plantations and papaya farms. I ate things I would have never imagined being able to eat. I witnessed things that shook my soul and taught people who ended up teaching me more. I lived and worked with thirteen different Peruvian missionaries. I learned Spanish and went weeks on end without uttering a word of English. I saw things in that third world country that simply did not calculate into my North American upbringing.

A few months into my time in Peru, I weaned myself off of the tranquilizers and saved them for bumpy spots. As soon as I did this, it was like the chemical dam that had been holding back my same-sex thoughts and urges began cracking and then crumbling. I was too busy and worked too hard for me to act upon those thoughts and urges in any way, but they were constantly there like an inner voice.

I was able to get through the two years with only minor incidents. A companion I had once decided to sunbathe in the backyard in a speedo (a big n0-no for a missionary), which sent my mind spinning for a while. In another town we taught a guy just a bit younger than I and I found myself thinking about him much ever so much more than a missionary should be thinking about his investigators, but that, too, passed without incident.

Trudi, the girl I had met just before ending my freshman year in college, wrote letters to me often, and I wrote back diligently. We wrote of many things, but in my unrealistic fantasy world I started imagining Trudi as my girlfriend, and that she was going to wait for me to come home and then we would get married. Our letters became gushy, and I was thrilled that she seemed to be showing a romantic interest in me. . . .maybe there was hope!

Throughout my mission I was frequently reminded of the counsel of the world-wide and local leaders of the church that I should be married or almost married within six months of my return home. If I wanted to follow the Lord's plan for me, I wouldn't put it off, I would marry quickly and begin a family almost as quickly. This would keep me away from serious temptation and being distracted from God's plan for me.

I left Peru with tears streaming down my face; I had fallen in love with the country and the people. I was deeply thankful for the life-changing experiences it gave to me. I cried a lot after I returned home, too. I cried because I hadn't seen wall-to-wall carpet in two years and it seemed like such a luxury. I cried because I missed Peru. I cried because I felt overwhelmed by the future. I cried because when I was reunited with Trudi, I knew instantly that I was not interested in anything she had to offer.

And I cried because I felt like a monster when I drove her to the shores of Utah Lake and told her it was over before it really even began.
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The Rules of Engagement

I now begin the most difficult chapters in my story because they involve deception. Deception on all sides, deception with me at the center, deception that had a ripple effect on countless, untold individuals.

This deception started early in my life but never really did any damage to people besides myself until I returned from South America.

One of my best friends from junior high and high school was just coming out of a marriage that lasted approximately two years, and she and her thirteen month old daughter had just moved back in with her family in Pleasant Grove when I came back. She and I had been very close throughout certain periods of our teen years. Finding her home and available for friendship was very comforting to me, and resuming our friendship is exactly what we did. In a matter of weeks our relationship rapidly evolved into something more.

Her name was Claire.

Claire and I already shared a lot of history on which to base our relationship. I instantly fell in love with her little girl, Hilary. And Claire showed me a kind of female attention that I had never experienced before. She thought I was attractive. She thought I was special. She thought I was funny. She wanted me for more than just a fun friend. She showed me the answer that I had been seeking. . . and all the time it had been right under my nose. Claire was the one! It made perfect sense! Claire was the answer to my homphobic fears both conscious and subconscious! The best part was that we even had the beginnings of a physical relationship that I wasn't sure would ever exist. . . not with her, or any woman. And I loved her. I loved her as much as I possibly could.

We quickly progressed from friends to boyfriend/girlfriend to engaged in a matter of months. I had returned from Peru in April. We made plans to be married in December. While our engagment was very rewarding in many ways, it was also very intense and nervewracking to me. After being engaged for a few weeks, I began having second thoughts. They were second thoughts that I couldn't really identify. I knew I felt unsure, but I didn't know why. So I did what all good Mormons do when they can't find an answer....I went to the bishop. He counseled me that if I didn't feel good about it, then I should break it off. But he also said that I needed to remember that no engagement is perfect, and that doubts often come along, so I should be careful to not be too hasty.

After giving it a lot of thought and a lot of prayer, I wrote a letter and drove to Claire's parents house on Battlecreek Drive. Apprehensively, the three of us sat on the living room couch and I gave her the letter. Claire read it with tears streaming down her face. Hilary, seeing her mom crying, started crying, too. I told her I was sorry, I couldn't go through with the engagement, saying I just didn't feel right about it. Deep, deep down inside, I knew. I knew, but I refused to think about it even for a second. In spite of all of the thoughts and feelings I had experienced throughout my life, I still could not bring myself to consciously accept the truth. I stood up and walked out of the house, leaving both of them sobbing. My heart broke into pieces.

As I drove back to my house, my shoulders shook with the sobs that choked me and tears prevented my from seeing the road; I don't know how I could have possibly driven in that state. Going downstairs to my room, I threw myself onto my bed and cried for at least two hours. Then the phone rang.

It was Claire. She softly asked me if I would come and pick her and Hilary up. She wanted to talk. Feeling so sad about upsetting them so much and feeling doubtful about my decision, I said yes.

We drove around town until it got dark and Hilary fell asleep. After much discussion, I agreed that I would think about changing my mind, I would give us another chance. Maybe I was just feeling too rushed, maybe I just needed more time.

Less than two weeks later, we resumed our engagement and our plans.

The deception? I was deceived by outside sources about my truth. I then deceived myself into thinking that I was something that I was not. And in turn, I unintentionally deceived Claire into thinking that she was entering a valid marriage, one that would last for time and all eternity.

We were married on December 15, 1990, in the Logan Temple in Logan, Utah, and I ignored the voice deep down inside of me that screamed that what I was doing was wrong.

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Hope

Jason and Claire
Married December 15, 1990
in the Logan Temple

The honeymoon was a disaster. From the light in our hotel room that was controlled by a switch in somone else's room to the onset of Claire's flu, to my nervousness and lack of natural excitement, it was a disaster. After giving it our best, Claire fell asleep. I tried waking her up and the only response I got was, "I'm thirsty. Can I have a glass of water?" She sat up in bed and as I handed her some ice water, the glass slipped and spilled all over poor Claire's fevered bare skin, soaking the sheets and matress. She cried as I got some towels and dried her and the bed the best I could. Then I turned out the light, defeated.

I didn't sleep that night, bothered. This was not what our wedding night was supposed to be like!

As the sun came up the next day, things brightened up. We got up and drove to our married student housing apartment in Logan. We spent a couple of days inside, unpacking and turning 500 square feet of cinderblock into a home. Our efforts in the bedroom yielded moderate success. But they were efforts, and they remained just that: efforts.

Claire, Hilary, and I had some very happy times during those first few months together. Claire made our home warm and comfortable. We did our best to be active in the church in our area, go to the temple, have family prayer and prayer as a couple, and have family home evening. After about a year, we decided we were ready to have a baby, which was one of my life's biggest desires. After a few months of trying, Claire became pregnant. We cried tears of joy and hugged Hilary close to us when the test at the doctor's office came back positive.

Ironically, this was about the time that I became completely obsessed with men. Images and fantasies filled my head in a swirling, endless array. I had difficulty focusing on my studies. I couldn't keep my mind on my job. I began spending time in the library, stealthily reading anything I could find on homosexuality. The paradox that had existed in my mind most of my life became more pronounced. One side of my mind I continued believing that I was a straight man living the righteous life that had been prescribed for me. The other side of my mind started becoming more consciously aware of what I was really thinking and feeling. During this time the only thing that kept me grounded was the thought of the baby girl that grew inside Claire.
Waiting for Amelia to be born was a magical time. The ultrasounds, the shopping for tiny little clothes, the La Maze classes, and most of all, the way Amelia woke up in her mother's womb as soon as we settled into bed each night and started talking made me gleefully eager. I could not wait.

Amelia Hope was born in November of 1992. The first few days of her life were very spiritual ones for all of us. As I gazed night after night at the amazing little baby girl in my arms I promised God, myself, and my infant daughter that I would keep my thoughts under control and spend no more time thinking about things that could jeopardize the security of my little family. If this little miracle of ours couldn't keep me motivated enough to continue living according to Mormon standards, nothing could. Amelia's middle name held special significance in my mind.
.
She was my last hope.

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California, Here We Come

I graduated from Utah State University in 1993 and was immediately offered a position in Los Angeles County. We had never dreamed of moving to California, or even leaving Utah, but there were no job offers in Utah. After a quick visit to LA to check things out, we relocated to a wonderful city and beautiful community, and I began my career.

We became instantly involved in the local congregation of our church, and loved it. We found everyone to be so kind and genuine, and aside from the cost of living shock, we adjusted and enjoyed living here.

After the birth of Amelia, the physical relationship that Claire and I shared diminished from what it was before to practically nothing. This only added fuel to the fire burning in my mind. That and in California adult magazines and videos are easily accessible compared to their virtual non-existence in Utah, and when given the opportunity, this was a temptation I couldn't resist. Of course I had to be sneaky. Having Claire discover what was going on in my head was simply not an option.

Then, on January 17, 1994 at 4:31 a.m. the Northridge Earthquake slammed our apartment building and everything in it with unrelenting fury, and the little life we had built for ourselves in Southern California was turned upside down. Our apartment was rendered uninhabitable, and we were terrified. Still recovering from Christmas, we had no money and no food and no gas in the car. We spent the next night in a park sharing a tent with some church friends of ours, huddling our two little girls between us to keep them warm as the earth beneath us shook with aftershocks. I tried to be a strength to my family, but inside I felt nothing but grief and guilt for my behavior. What if I had died in that earthquake? I'd go straight to hell. Was this God's way of warning me in no uncertain terms that I had better knock if off and if I didn't next time He wouldn't be so lenient on me?

The next day, we borrowed $20.00 from our friends, filled the car with gas, and drove back to Utah. We weren't sure if we wanted to ever return to Calfornia, so in the meantime, Claire rented an apartment in Utah and got a job. I ended up going back to Calfornia at least for a while, to work and figure out what we were going to do.

I rented a room from some friends, and we lived apart. I missed Claire and the girls terribly. We spoke every night on the phone expressing how much we loved each other and needed each other. But at the same time I had a lot of extra time on my hands and my mind returned to what it and my body still wanted. During the two months that I was without my family, I very easily could have ventured out into the big world of Los Angeles and West Hollywood and sought the kind of male companionship I obsessed over. I never did. But the magazines and videos provided me with more than enough, at least for the time being.

I continued to play in the cycle of guilt that was the story of my life. I sinned, I felt dehabilitatingly remorseful, I began steps to repentance, and then I sinned again. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Of course, I ended up going to my bishop, who was a great guy that Claire and I both loved and respected. While I didn't want to disclose the entire truth about the kinds of adult material I had been viewing, he finally got the whole truth out of me anyway. For the first time ever, I voiced everything out loud. His counsel was that I needed to get my wife back to California as soon as possible. Having her with me, along with increased commitment to the church, prayers, and scriptures, would most likely solve my problem.

The great excitement and hope that I felt when Claire and the girls moved back to California was overshadowed by more guilt and more fear. I was starting to lose confidence and faith that God would take these burdens from me. Yes, I was getting tired of fighting the fight and feeling like I was always at odds with myself, constantly failing, constantly out of control no matter how hard I tried. I didn't know how much longer I could last.

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An Inconvenient Truth
After a few weeks of separation, the decision became clear quickly. I wanted to stay in California and Claire did not like living in Utah, so she and the girls moved back. It was so nice having them home again, but at the counsel of my bishop, I did not tell Claire anything about the inner workings of my mind. He didn't think it would be helpful or productive, and might make matters worse. I kept my mouth shut.

And you guessed it. My mind slipped back into its old habits soon after we got settled together again as a family. In spite of things, however, on the surface we managed to have about a year and a half of normalcy and pretty happy times. My job continued to go well, we purchased our first home, we made new friends, and several of our family members came to see us. We continued to be busy in the church (I even was called to be Cub Master--much to my dismay) and Claire started a very profitable daycare business. We loved our life.

Underneath it all, things festered. The guilt and hopelessness that I was feeling was coming to a head. My feelings of desperation escalated so much that my conscience got the best of me and I decided that I had to do something; I simply could not exist in this endless cycle any more. In spite of the bishop's counsel, I realized that I needed to tell my wife, or I would never be able to stop. I figured if I had her watching me and talking to me about it all the time I would be better able to restrain myself. But once again. . . my plan was to not to tell the whole truth. I couldn't bear it. There was still some part of me in a huge state of denial. I was just going to say that I had been looking at pornography and I wanted to stop. Nothing about my strong attraction to men. No way.

Since I express myself better in writing than in speaking, I wrote Claire long, heartfelt letter. I confessed to having looked at magazines and videos. I insited that I loved her, how sorry I was, and how I was telling her so I could get her help. So, one afternoon, we sat down on our bed and I gave the letter to Claire to read in my presence. It was my hope that this would open up a productive discussion and even though difficult, it would make us stronger as a couple. And I my battered conscience would finally get some sort of relief.

She read the letter with slightly shaking hands and then looked up at me. She asked, "What kind of pornography are you looking at? What exactly is it that you find enticing about the pictures that you see?" Her teary eyes bored holes into me. It was then that I knew I had to tell the whole truth. The whole, entire truth.

As the sordid details spilled out, Claire's eyes took on a deeply haunted expression that stayed there for months and months to come. After pouring it all out to her but trying not to make too much of a big deal about it, I assured her that this changed nothing between us. I still wanted to be her husband, I still wanted her to be my wife, I still wanted us to be a family. I stressed that I would never be unfaithful to her. I expressed confidence that with her help, I would be able to get over this problem of mine once and for all.

It never occurred to me that she would disagree.

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1996
It was a Helluva Year
Looking back on it, I sometimes can't believe that we went through all that we did and lived to come out on the other side. It was a year of extreme highs and devastatingly grueling lows. It was a year of grief, pain, fear, frustration, and desperation. It was also a year of peace, joy, self-acceptance, self-awareness, relief, discovery, and hope. The events of this year could easily be written into several sizable chapters.

My mom spent the year dying. Her previous diagnosis of advanced breast cancer had been held at bay with chemotherapy. But in 1996 her remission came to an end and when she started spending seven or eight hours a day in the bathroom and she got out of the car one day and crawled up the driveway into house we all knew the cancer had spread to her brain.

A thick tension developed between Claire and me. Soon after I had confessed everything to her we made the decision to stick together through it all and try to make it work. In spite of this, I caught Claire staring at me with those wide, haunted eyes several times a day. She started bringing up issues of homosexuality in general terms, which angered me. I wanted to just not talk about it anymore. I wanted her to forget the whole thing, but of course she couldn't. I started to feel like she was trying to punish me by repeatedly bringing it up. At one point, angry, I challenged her by snapping, " Why do you insist on punishing me? I'm trying to move on, I'm trying to repent. I said I was sorry! What more am I supposed to do?"

In February we booked a 3 day cruise as an unspoken final effort to work things out between us. We enjoyed ourselves in many ways. However, my attempts at rekindling our physical relationship were met with distance and apathy. It began dawning on me that Claire was having second thoughts about a lot of things. While sitting on deck watching the ship cut through the Pacific, she told me that she had done a lot of thinking that that she didn't want to have much to do with the church anymore. This sideblinded me; I was shocked. This was no small thing. She said that if I wanted to continue being involved with the church, that would be fine, but she was done. I didn't know what to say. It was then that knew we weren't going to last. Leaving the church had never occurred to me, in spite of everything.

The next few weeks things crumbled, quickly. Claire began pulling away from me and became passionately involved in rally car racing. Who could blame her? She spent most weekends away, while I dutifully stayed home with the girls and took them to church and continued teaching the three-year olds there.

We continued in this frame of existence until that fateful day in April when we had the tearful, gut-wrenching conversation that had been a long time coming. Holding hands and crying, we agreed that we were much better friends than spouses, and for the sake of the emotional health of both of us, our marriage relationship needed to end. We made a list of mutual agreements that would make it easier for us to go through the impossibly painful transition. She gave me her wedding ring and I gave her mine, and we hung them on gold chains around our necks, right over our hearts. Along with our rings we gave each other our blessings in going out into the world and trying to make sense of what our lives had become.

And then I fell to pieces. I cried all the time, I didn't know who I was any more, I didn't want my marriage to end, I didn't want to put my girls through a divorce. I didn't want to leave the church. I didn't want to stay in the church. I certainly didn't want to go throught the process of leaving the church. I didn't want to tell my family. I didn't want to tell my friends. I didn't want people at work to find out that Claire and I were through. I didn't want my family to be broken. I didn't want to have a failed marriage. I didn't want to be gay.

I went through days and weeks in a stupor. I wasn't eating; I was losing weight. I wasn't sleeping; the bags and dark circles under my eyes became the dominant facial features. I would put my head down on my desk at work and wish for the world to go away. Thoughts of suicide crossed my mind. The only thing I was able muster up the energy for was hugs and smiles for my beautiful daughters, who were still blissfully unaware of the drastic changes that were about to undergo their family.

I had to get some help, or I wasn't going to make it. I didn't know where to turn; I had no idea of what kinds of support groups and help existed for people like me. A gay Mormon father who was just coming to terms with his sexuality and going through the break up of his marriage?
Thank God for my two friends at work, Sue and Jane. Up to this point I hadn't told anything to anyone about the things that were going on in my life; everything was getting very bottled up. Sue and Jane could tell something was very wrong and one afternoon they cornered me and demanded I tell them what was going on. Through my sobs it all came pouring out, even though I was afraid that they would think differently of me. I will never forget the way that they listened to me and hugged me, and said, "It doesn't matter that you're gay! We're just sorry that you're having to go through such a rough time. We're here for you. We love you just the way you are."

I felt such relief finally telling somebody! Somebody who didn't care if I was gay, somebody who loved me anyway, somebody who didn't pass judgement, somebody that didn't come with a predetermined prejudice about homosexuality. This encouragement made me think that maybe, somehow, things would be okay.

Then one day while absently flipping through channels on tv, I came across the real estate/public service channel. I couldn't believe my eyes when I read the words:
Need help? Nowhere to turn?

Affirmation: Gay and Lesbian Mormons
Monthly Meetings
Call for information!

What??? Gay and lesbian Mormons? Talk about an oxi-moron! But I was fascinated that there might be other people like me, going through what I was going through. I began attending meetings which opened up a whole new world to me. I realized that I wasn't alone. I realized there was hope. I realized maybe I was going to be okay. I also learned that there was another organization out there called Gamofites, which was similar to Affirmation except everyone was just like me, a gay Mormon father. This nationwide group of men served such a huge purpose in those critical months of 1996 when I was struggling to figure out who I really am.

This year of transition was tumultuous to say the least. We rented a big house in order to accommodate Claire's growing daycare business and then things got really crazy. We invited a friend of ours to live with us for a while because she needed a place to stay, and Claire's brother, Lincoln, lived with us too. My little brother, Paul, came to spend the summer. I finally decided to fix the trainwreck that I called my teeth and got braces, sentencing myself to two months of agony, soup and yogurt. Toward the end of the year, Claire's new boyfriend, Dennis moved in. I started meeting guys and having some of my new gay friends over. My mother' health declined very rapidly. And then Claire and Dennis decided to have a baby.

Everything moved so unbelievably fast. We seriously could have been guests on Oprah. There was a popular song that year that went, "All I can say is that my life is pretty strange. . ." That was our theme song for a while. I'm sure there may have been better ways for us to go through this transition, but we did the best we could at the time. The neighbors and the church really started wondering what was going on, and the gossip flew. But the most important thing was that there was peace inside that house. Claire and I never fought; we placed the other's needs and comfort at the top of the priority list, along with Hilary's and Amelia's.

In November, our condo that we had rented out in order for us to rent the house became vacant, so I moved back in, just a couple of miles from the house, and we equally shared in the responsibilities of taking care of our children.

Then, on December 22nd, I put the girls in the van and drove through a blizzard back to Pleasant Grove, knowing that it was the last time I would travel to Utah to see my mother. When we arrived, she was no longer coherent and in tremendous pain. All six of us kids gathered around her bed on Christmas Eve and tearfully told her that we were all there now and that she didn't need to hold on anymore. We told her how much we loved her and we encouraged her to let go. When I woke up the next morning I went into her room, and she had done that very thing. She let go.

Claire, about five months pregnant, flew up to be with me. She insisted on going to the mortuary and putting my mom's make-up on her because she knew how she liked it, soft and subtle. I will never forget how Claire sat there, pregnant with another man's baby, holding my hand and crying with me all through the viewing and the funeral.

We were no longer husband and wife. But we still shared a love and a bond that would never die.

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The Other Side

What you've been reading is really a love story, more than anything.
While it has been about me, it is only half of the story. To fully understand everything that happened, and why we each made the decisions that we did, you would need to read things from Claire's perspective. Perhaps someday you will be able to do just that. Then you will see that this is actually a story about an astonishingly generous heart.

There are so many things that could have happened during 1995 and 1996. I think most women in the world would have reacted very differently if they were faced with the things Claire faced. I've spoken to people and I've read stories about other peoples' similar situations, and my heart has broken every time for them. Almost every time, the wife has acted out of fury, resentment, and scorn, with ugly custody battles, finger pointing, and attemtpting to turn their children against their gay fathers. And who could blame them? To realize that the happy life you are living is actually a great big lie is beyond devastating. Why wouldn't you act out of pain, anger, and betrayal? But when Claire realized the truth, she did a very unique, selfless thing: She chose to act out of unconditional love, and I was the undeserving recipient.
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Why? Why did she react this way when she had every right and reason to react differently? Maybe it was because she and I shared a history that went clear back to junior high. Maybe it was because she was able to grasp onto the friendship while letting go of the marriage. Maybe it was because even though our marriage was a lie, it really wasn't in many ways. Maybe it was because she had the foresight to see that fighting would only hurt our family's future. Or maybe it's just because she is an extraordinary woman.

But it was more than love for me and love for our daughters that drove Claire's decisions. It was survival and self-preservation. She was faced with some incredibly difficult situations and choices, and I can't imagine anyone dealing with them better than she did. Nobody understood her decisions. Plenty of people judged her for them though. Somehow she ended up taking the brunt of all the judgement, aimed at both her and me, mainly because she refused to drag me through the mud.

I owe the happiness and fulness of life that I enjoy now largely to Claire. If it hadn't been for her desire for me to find happiness, I would have quite possibly continued living the lie. If it hadn't been for her wanting me to continue to play an integral part of our childrens' lives, I may have lost the joy of my daughters. Though it caused her immense pain, she opened the closet door and allowed me to walk through it out into a world where I could find fulfillment as a human being, finding out who I really am instead of what society tells me I should be.

Thanks to Claire, I am who I am today. And it's a great thing to be.

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The Sin Next to Murder

And now I come to a post that I have been dreading. I will only post on this topic once and I will not debate this issue. But I can't leave it out because it is a very real, very important part of my story. I fear this post because the topic has the potential of offending some of my readers, some of the people I love the most. Please read knowing that this is how I feel, but that I maintain my respect and support each of you in your own life choices. This post is not meant as a challenge, it is not meant to be slanderous, it is not written in anger or spite. It's just part of my story.

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints played a primary role throughout my entire life. I was keenly aware of what the results would be if I chose to face reality and try to figure out who I really was. Time after time I had seen people excommunicated from the church, cast out, alienated, and scorned precisely at the time they needed help the most. Oh yes, I knew what the results would be.

Spencer W. Kimball, one of the prophets of the Mormon church, wrote a book called The Miracle of Forgiveness. One of the chapters is entitled "The Crime Against Nature." In this chapter he describes homosexuality as the sin next to murder in its degree of heinousness. As I pondered things after I admitted to being gay, I knew that God did not--could not --view me, once I began having gay relationships, as someone so evil. It just didn't make sense. It just didn't feel right. And on that basis I began questioning the truthfulness of some of the other teachings of the church for the first time in my life. Mormons are taught to never question church doctrine. Mormons are taught to have faith in things that they don't understand, even if they don't seem right. Mormons are warned that if they don't do what the Church teaches, they will lose the spirit of Christ in their lives, they will be miserable, denied blessings, they will suffer the consequences now and for eternity, and ultimately, cast out. Of course, not in those exact words. They're much prettier than that.

The details of Claire's excommunication from the church and my subsequent excommunication are so disheartening. Those who would say that it was done out of love for us would think again if they witnessed first hand how we were treated. We were cut off without any further contact whatsoever. Not one phone call. Not one visit. Not one follow-up interview. Hate the sin but love the sinner? It felt like hate the sin AND hate the sinner. Is that what Jesus would do with us? Cast us aside?

While this was all extremely painful for both of us, after a while it turned into a huge relief. Finally, finally, finally I was able to turn inward and take a really good look at myself. And for the first time in my life, I began to look at the man in the mirror and like what I saw. It feels so amazing to be me. I am finally alive!

Realizing that the belief system that was such an integral part of my life was no longer valid for me presented some very tough questions. Unfortunately, Mormonism is an all or nothing religion for most. You're taught that every bit of it is God's truth because each teaching hinges on the previous, and it all eventually ends up at the prophets of the church who, according to doctrine, have direct communication with God. And prophets don't make mistakes. If you're truly living the Mormon religion you cannot just pick and choose the doctrine that you like and not worry so much about the doctrine that you may not agree with wholeheartedly.

So, I had to do what so many people like me have to do: Throw out the baby with the bath water. This led me to the crucial question: What do I believe? What is right? What does God really want me to do with my life? I've had a difficult time figuring out the answers to these questions, except for this, which still rings true loud and clear:

Love thy neighbor as thyself.

This is the basis on which I try to make my day-to-day decisions.

In spite of a lifetime of being told I would be miserable if I didn't follow the exact teachings of the church, I have not felt miserable. I have felt marvelous. I have not regretted my decision, not for one second. I have never felt abandoned by God or the Spirit. And I am finally free of that impossible, heavy burden of guilt. I have never felt better.

One of the most monumental challenges for me has been coming to terms with the fact that some of the people that love me the most, in spite of their genuine affection, can't help but see me through the filter of the church. Deep in the backs of many of their heads they believe that while I may be a good person, I am still going to be separated from them in the hereafter. To them, I will be going to the telestial kingdom, the lowest level, along with the murderers, to spend eternity separated from my family.

All because of the sin next to murder.

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Shopping at a New Market

Once I worked through some of the emotional issues related to ending my relationship with Claire, I was ready to meet some guys. Up until this point, I didn't really know any gay people. I had no gay friends, and I didn't really know how to make any. My first experience was with the people that I met through Affirmation. Meeting these friends and spending time with them was like seeing the world for the first time. Jublilant. It made me feel jubilant.

Affirmation, and then Gamofites, provided me with desperately needed friendships, and I went out with two or three of the guys that I met through those organizations. Some of them were interesting, but somehow I tended to attract men much older than me. Grandpas. Very old grandpas. Men with kids much older than me. I needed to broaden my horizons. I am not the type to meet people at bars, so my choices were very limited. This was just before the explosion of the internet, so I turned to newspaper personals. Yes, you heard me right. The want ads.

I met several men this way. But these guys that I met had things about them that simply weren't compatible with my personality and preferences. Like the guy with no neck. He seriously had no neck, or if he did, I couldn't see it. His chin touched his chest. Or there was the one that I met in a restaurant parking lot--he was smoking while sitting on the hood of his black Jaguar, and then part way through my salad he told me he produced his own super grisly horror flicks. Not compatible. Then there was Karl. We actually spent hours and hours on the phone before we met, and I thought there was a deep connection. We decided to meet, so we went out a couple of times and things were going really well. But then he tried to convince me that he was actually one of Madonna's close and personal friends and when we went out dancing he wore a long vest and beret that he knitted himself and I was just. So. Not. Ready. For that. And finally there was the one who lip-synced Cher songs to me at a Karaoke place. Later we went to his apartment. Like me, he used to be LDS. But I soon discovered that he still wore garment bottoms because he really liked the sexy, silky feel of loose corbin. Cringe. That was the point that I said, "NO MORE!" If this was what it was going to be like, I wasn't going to keep trying.

Feeling defeated, I gave up. At least for a while.

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Finding Mr. Right

It all started one Friday afternoon in the middle of May almost eleven years ago. I was coming down with strep throat. I just knew it, I had become very good at identifying the onset of that particular illness. But my car was dirty, and I had promised the girls I would take them to the pool. We went to the car wash and out of habit I grabbed an LA Weekly from the stack in the waiting area. I tried to resist the urge to look in the personals. A few weeks previously I had sworn that I was done with that. I had answered a few already and soon came to the conclusion that it was pointless. I scanned the personals and scoffed, snorted, and chortled inwardly at some of them. Many of them wanted one thing and one thing only. But then this personal (albeit very blurry) caught my eye. "Honesty, Integrity, Friendship, Romance."

Hmm. That was different. Nothing about being hung, nothing about fun with no strings attached, no reference to s-e-x whatsoever. Could it be there was somebody out there that was looking for the same thing that I was? While the girls played at the pool I felt the onset of a fever and contemplated a response. I decided to go ahead and give it a try, what did I have to lose, right? So I made the call. We hit it off over the phone, realizing that we had quite a few things in common. When we met about three weeks later, I fell for him.

Ten and a half years, and five houses later, here we are. They've been very good years; they've been very trying years. My life is so rich. I can't imagine that it would be anywhere near this good if I had not picked up the LA Weekly that day.

Giancarlo is trying to be patient with my blogging obsession. He has had to try to be patient with a LOT of things over the years, and he's done a pretty good job. I remember the first few months that we were together how I marveled daily at how there actually was somebody out there that I wanted to spend my life with, and that I actually happened across him. I don't marvel daily about him anymore, but maybe I should. He's a pretty great guy, and there's nowhere else I'd rather be. I am not a big believer in fate, I'm not a big believer in "it was meant to be."

But once in a while, something happens that makes me wonder. . . .

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A Sort of Epilogue

So, that's pretty much it.

This story needed to be told. In sharing it, I didn't expect any earth shattering difference to take place. My story is actually like that of so many other men (and women) like me. It seems by some of the comments left by people I haven't even met that maybe I did help people understand the whole issue a little bit more. Maybe now there is just a little bit more tolerance out there in the world than there was before. If nothing more, I at least got a few people to think about it.

Wait--what's that? Oh, you're asking whatever happened to the main characters that I've mentioned throughout my story?

Well, I think if you go back through my archives you'll be able to figure out what happened to most of the key characters. Or, you could click here. Or, you could click here and here. You could even click here. If you're still interested and don't want to go trapsing through the archives, why don't you click here, here, here, or here? But, if you only click on one of these links, make sure you click on this one.

I need to tell those of you who have been following the past few weeks and leaving such supportive comments,

THANK YOU.

It means a lot to me that you would take time out of your busy day to read about something that may or may not have anything to do with you and your own life. Your comments have definitely made a difference to me, my life, and my story. I love you guys!

I hope you'll stick around!!! I promise The Jason Show will now resume it's regular programming. Enough of this heavy stuff.

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