Easier to Die

Sometimes, I think you have to travel back a bit before you can move forward in life, before you can really find your own little place in the world. I think maybe it’s kind of like when I go to a store and I’m trying to get my car to fit into a parking place … I pull forward, I back up, I turn the wheel, I tap on the brakes, I give the engine a little gas. Every once in a while, I can just whip right into a space, jump out of my car and hit the ground running. But more often than not, I have to work at getting my car between the lines that are painted on the surface of the lot … more often than not, for every time I inch forward, I also have to back up in order to make sure my car fits as it should. And I think that’s the way it is in life sometimes … you have to travel back a bit before you can move forward.

The last year of my life has been a journey for sure, a journey that many of you have traveled with me through the words of this blog. To say that today’s post is a difficult one for me to write is a huge understatement … the words that will follow in this post are life-changing ones for me; once they are posted, my life will not or cannot ever be the same again. But before I get to the hard stuff … the heart-wrenching stuff … I’d like to share something else with you first.

Back at the end of November, I went to an office party … the first one I’ve attended since I started working at my company back in 2002. Yep, that’s 10 years, and yep, I’d never gone to a party before. After I wrote about going shopping with a sweet friend for clothing for said party (which turned out to be a very fun adventure, I might add, much to my surprise!), I got a lot of messages from those of you who read my blog asking why this year … why did I decide to go to the party this year when I never once attended one in the past? So, here’s my answer … in the months leading up to the night of the party, something happened that completely changed my perception of the people I work with and altered my desire to spend time with them in a social setting outside of the office. In the months leading up to the night of the party, the folks in my office showed me their hearts … they showed me their hearts in ways I never imagined possible, and in doing so, they forever changed my own heart. They walked with me through some of the darkest days of my life, and they never once wavered in their commitment to help me begin to see some flickers of light once again. When they saw me in the depths of brokenness, they could have patted me on the back and said, “Hope you get better one day, Terrie.” But instead, they did what they didn’t have to do ... they showed me their hearts. And on November 30, 2012, I walked into my first-ever office holiday party … I walked into that party a nervous wreck on the outside, yes, but down deep … down deep inside where it matters most of all, I walked into that party knowing I was walking in as me … knowing I was walking into family … knowing I was walking into a room filled with love.

I've been writing this blog since 2008. For five years, I've written thousands of words that now reside within the posts this blog contains. At times, the words have been easy to write, and I hope perhaps they've brought a smile to your face as you've read them. At other times, the words have come from a place of pain or emotion so deep that I wept as I typed them. Hopefully, some of those difficult words have spoken to some of you and helped you through a tough time of your own. For all the words I've written, the ones you will read in this post are the most frightening to me because they are the most revealing and most painful words I've ever penned.

Some of you will stop reading after you read tonight's post, and some of you will continue on and even share the blog with your friends and families. Some of you will understand, and some of you will not. Some of you will judge and condemn me, and some of you will extend the grace and love to me that I believe Jesus himself commanded us to demonstrate to one another. Whatever reaction and response may come, however, the words I am about to write must be written ... they must be written in order for me to survive. You see, it would be much easier to die than to write this post. It would be much easier to die than to deal with the reality of the words you will read. It would be much easier to die than to accept the consequences I am certain will ensue. But often, easier isn't better. Often, easier isn't right. Often, easier is just easier.

Those of you who've been reading my posts for any length of time know that a couple of years ago, I began to struggle with depression. What you don't know is how very deep and life-threatening that depression became. So deep, in fact, I decided dying would be easier than living ... that dying would rid me of the sadness, pain, guilt and shame that enveloped me every moment of every single day ... that dying was the only way I would ever find peace. I convinced myself that God would surely understand and forgive me for ending my life. I decided dying would be easier than living, and I even considered taking my two sweet dogs with me. I had a plan, the means to carry out that plan and the date I intended to die. I decided dying would be easier than living. And then God used my precious granddaughter C.J., a couple of dear friends who hadn't run away from me, a young girl who told me she wanted me to grow old, a little boy who gave me a piece of sugar-free chocolate pie and a movie about whales trapped under some ice to stop me. The first weekend in February of 2012, I decided dying would be easier than living ... but God decided He wanted me to live. 

The next week, I agreed to try a new cocktail of antidepressants, and I began going to weekly appointments with the stupid head doctor. Shortly after I began seeing her, the stupid head doctor told me diabetes wasn't the only reason I was so depressed. She told me there was something else, something big, something I had tried desperately to bury deep within me for as long as I could remember. She told me if I wasn’t honest with myself, I would die. I've come to understand a lot of things over the last year, not the least of which is that the stupid head doctor isn't so stupid after all. She saw right through me ... she came charging into my soul and laid it bare ... she came charging into my brain and made me admit the reality of who I am ... she came charging into my heart and untangled the chains I had spent a lifetime creating. She caused me to be open, honest, real and transparent. The truth hurt ... it hurt a whole lot. And it still hurts. And I think perhaps it always will.

The truth is … I've spent my whole life desperately trying to be who I believed everyone wanted me to be. I've spent my whole life desperately trying to be who I believed the church taught me I had to be. I've spent my whole life desperately trying to do what I believed was the right thing to do. I've spent my whole life desperately trying to be anyone other than who I am. I've spent my whole life desperately despising being different, desperately believing there was something wrong with me and desperately wishing I could change. I've spent my whole life desperately hating myself. It would be so much easier to die than to type these words ... the truth is I am gay. I am gay, and I'd give everything to make me not be. As much as I have tried to believe that I could choose to be straight, I can’t. I can’t believe it is a choice because I know how hard and how long I have tried to choose not to be who I am. I can’t believe it is a choice because I know that Saturday in February wasn’t the first time I wanted to end my life. I can’t believe it is a choice because I would give everything not to be who I am. I can’t believe it is a choice because for all my pleading, for all my praying, for all my begging for God to change me, I have always been and still am gay.

The truth is those three small words are the three hardest words in the English language for me to speak out loud. The truth is those three small words have rocked my faith to its very core and caused me to question God’s reason for giving me life. The truth is those three small words will forever define me in the minds of some of you. The truth is those three small words will invoke hatred in some of you and compassion in others. The truth is those three small words do not change the heart that beats within me. The truth is those three small words do not destroy the deep desire I have to help others. The truth is those three small words have not changed my love for my children or theirs for me. The truth is I am still the same person I have always been. The truth is I am Terrie ... I am a daughter ... I am a mother ... I am a grandmother … I am a sister ... I am an aunt … I am a friend ... I am an employee … I am a writer … I am a child of God, and I have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. I am all of those things … and I am gay.

There are so many questions to which I have no answers, and perhaps I never will this side of eternity. There are so many people I know will be hurt by those three small words, and for that, I am deeply sorry. For all the unanswered questions within my soul, there is one certainty that I know to be true … if I want to continue to live, I must be honest with God, honest with myself and honest with others. Perhaps being honest about who I am means I must be alone for the remainder of my life here on earth. Perhaps being honest about who I am means some people will no longer love me. Perhaps being honest about who I am means so very many things. I don’t know the answers, friends, but I do know that if I want to survive, I must be honest … I must be open … I must be real … I must be transparent. 

It would have been much easier to die, friends … it would have been so much easier to die than to write these words. But often, easier isn't better. Often, easier isn't right. Often, easier is just easier.