Symptoms
It has only taken a year for the symptoms of being queer at BYU to start appearing. One by one, they make themselves known. A cut here, a splitting headache there. My stomach aches, and I feel nauseous as a professor places a carefully printed and prepared Family Proclamation by the door to their office. Paper cut after paper cut, until I slowly bleed out.
The first symptom I noticed was loneliness. Being misunderstood down to my core takes its toll. The doctor asks, “Do you have a history of humor?” Humor has become my armor, my prescription for the isolation that pervades my life. It is the choice between laughing and crying in the face of daily discrimination, and I have run out of tears.
Every time someone brings up a hard topic, I have to laugh. They ask me why I stay in the Church, and I say, “Where else can I spend a week of my summer dressed like a pioneer, pulling a handcart, in the middle of a desert?” Someone else asks me why I chose BYU, and I respond that the chocolate milk was definitely the final selling point. I laugh when I am in pain so that I don’t have to cry. Besides, I don’t want to make them uncomfortable. And even then, they often don’t understand.
The doctor probes, “Can you provide an example of a time when you demonstrated emotional maturity?”
Maturity: a euphemism for a childhood gone too fast; high school days spent living the life of an adult. My maturity has been forged through impossible decisions that no twenty-year-old should ever have to face. For example, experiencing love at this stage of life, as a student at the Lord’s university, is considered high risk but high reward. I never got to and never will be able to experience college the way it should be experienced. It is maturity that requires me to be okay with that.
The doctor remarks, “You’re so brave! Can you tell me about the challenges you face?”
The truth is, I have had to be brave, not by choice but by necessity. Everything I do is an act of bravery. Getting out of bed. Going to church. Speaking up in class. Being vulnerable. I must remember that bravery is not an absence of fear; it is acknowledging the fear and acting despite it. But really, I just want to be brave enough to heal myself even when it hurts. There’s no painkiller that can be prescribed for that.
The doctor acknowledges, “Wow! Your ability to be calm under pressure is so admirable! How did you develop that skill?”
Thank you. What I can’t share is that I gained that skill while standing in a crowd of more than 200 protestors, all openly carrying weapons, some of them involved with a terrorist group. I developed it while being attacked by the comments of ignorant BYU students in class, all claiming to speak for God. I honed it on a dimly lit street corner late at night listening to two BYU students spew hate. I couldn’t risk the situation turning violent, so I chose to de-escalate it instead. Everyday tasks that seem to be stressful are actually so small when so much has happened.
The doctor shifts topics and comments, “Your testimony is so strong! How did you navigate your faith and identity?”
Thanks. I appreciate you saying that. Many will never understand the emotional turmoil of someone queer who was raised religious. We’re taught that God never makes mistakes, and yet we’re constantly reminded that being queer is an “abomination.” When the group that’s supposed to preach love and acceptance treats you like an outcast, your foundation begins to crumble. I had to find God for myself; that’s a cut that won’t ever close.
The doctor looks surprised. “You’re gay? You seem so normal!!?”
I try to be normal; that’s what everyone expects from me here. I walk down the sidewalks of BYU’s campus. I let myself merge with the crowds, and I feel myself becoming more lost. With so many people, it’s hard for me to maintain my identity, my Self. I snuck a date into a BYU basketball game once. I watched as couples put their arms around each other. The game lost its fun after that. What I wouldn’t give to do the same, for everyone to see us and to never care. Maybe it's better that we faded into the crowd. Certainly, it was safer.
The doctor stops scribbling on the pad of paper and commends, “You’re so accommodating and flexible! How have you adapted to fit into the norms of your environment?”
I’ve frequently had to compromise my own needs and desires to fit into the norms of BYU. I made myself trusting, sunny, warm, bright. I made myself into something—someone desirable. I rounded my edges, stopped wearing colors, dumbed down my mind, and accentuated every single thing BYU said its students should be. I drowned myself in metaphorical Benadryl, hoping to take the edge off. Here’s the thing: I changed, and they still didn’t like me. At this point, I don’t think it’s how I act. I think it’s just me in general. I’m the problem.
Finally, the doctor stops and sets the paper down. “You seem so distant…”
Those words resonate, a stinging reminder of the walls I have built, a chronic pain that persists. This is one of my least favorite symptoms . . . never knowing who will accept you, including family and friends. Never knowing who will report you or stop you on the street. I distance myself from you, not because I don’t care but because I care too much. Forgive me if I remain distant, as it is the only way I can stand the resistance of university admin who never stop to listen.
At this point, I’m not even sure who I am anymore. There is no cure for what I feel or what I’ve become. The emptiness is an itch I can scratch, but it will always come back stronger. My broken spirit is a pain that can be dulled but never healed. The systemic abuse is a cut that I can put a bandage over, but it will never close. All I am now is dozens of symptoms of being queer at BYU, held together by stitches.