Coming Out In Middle Age
Self-love freed my heart
It’s hard not to believe the Universe is sending you a message when the song, “Wicked Game,” begins playing in the middle of breaking up with your first gay love.
The world was on fire and no-one could save me but you
It’s strange what desire will make foolish people do
I’d never dreamed that I’d meet somebody like you
And I’d never dreamed that I’d lose somebody like you
We ended it via text. I’m a bit embarrassed about that, but we agreed doing it face-to-face would be unproductive. Either we would’ve put up a cold front to stifle our hot emotions, or we would’ve succumbed to our chemistry, muting hurtful words and soothing each other with skin and lips.
No, neither of these would do. The end was inevitable. So we texted our mutual agreement that despite still loving one another, love was not enough.
I came out of the closet 2 years ago. I’m ending a 15-year marriage that produced 3 beautiful children. I am on a journey of self-discovery and healing, confronting demons that have haunted me all my life. It’s no wonder my boyfriend, 12 years my junior, decided he was in over his head.
I tried to maintain healthy borders by limiting his exposure to the complexities in my life (read: a preschooler, a tween and a teen). At the same time, I refused to be compartmentalized. I’d been doing that my entire life and it nearly killed me. I am trying to build a harmonious existence: one in which I accept myself, take responsibility for my decisions and stop fighting. I am learning to let go and take it easy. I am no longer running from my past, nor am I running toward the false promise of a better future.
We were a couple for 11 months. We braved COVID-19 together. We watched hours of Drag Race. We ate way too many frozen pizzas and homemade cheesecakes. We took bubble baths by candlelight. We tried yoga and home fitness but it didn’t last. We walked the cobblestoned streets of Prague and lounged on the beaches of southern Spain. We believed in our potential even as we gave each other space to explore his own path.
And today, our paths have diverged for good.
No, I don’t wanna fall in love . . .
(This world is only gonna break your heart)
. . . with you.
I wanted to fall in love. And I did.
As I keyed in those break-up texts, with Chris Isaak crooning in the background, I felt gratitude. I was grateful for the respect and clarity we offered one another, grateful for all the good times we shared. I was grateful I had the chance to know his beauty, kindness and sincerity. Even through the sadness of that moment, I knew what was happening was exactly what was meant to happen. I guess that’s Faith.
I wept from the pain and for everything I’d lost. Yet through the sadness, I felt relief: my broken heart proved I had a heart capable of loving.
Why was “Wicked Game” playing at that exact moment? Was the Universe or God telling me something?
Reflecting on the strange timing of this sexually-charged song, I began wandering my past in what would become a revealing reverie.
I was 13 when the music video hit MTV. There was no denying that Helena Christensen was the sexiest woman I’d ever seen. Oh my . . . that video was a revelation. Simple, sultry . . . SEX! I could watch it without the nagging shame of my sexuality because I was legitimately turned on by Helena Christensen. But there was Chris Isaak too. Shirtless, wind-swept Chris — moaning out the words to the song in a baritone drawl that dripped with sensuality. He aroused something in me that felt wrong but so good. Then the camera would cut back to Helena prancing along the beach in her black panties and I would feel a strange, sinking relief.
A Wicked Game, indeed.
There were other experiences in my childhood and teenage years that awoke latent desires I preferred to ignore, but “Wicked Game” is a stand-out. It aroused, confused and terrified me all at once.
I ended up in the closet for a variety of complex reasons which are useless to dwell on. I married a woman and we had 3 kids. Nonetheless, I always knew I was gay.
Around the time I discovered “Wicked Game,” I recall reflecting on one of life’s quintessential questions. It is a question I’ve asked countless times since, and still, the answer eludes me: What is love? Is love sex? Is love intimacy? Commitment? Family, kids? Is love one thing or many? At the root of my innocent reflections were the real, unspoken questions that kept me up at night: Will I know love? Will I deserve it? Am I lovable?
I asked these questions because I’d already made up my mind to bury my true self. I chose not to accept my gay identity. Instead, I conformed. I covered myself in armor to protect my truth and set off grudgingly down the path of self-denial.
I met my wife in 2002, 13 years after “Wicked Game” aroused and befuddled me. She was my Helena Christensen. She awoke the heterosexual man in me. She embodied the promise of the life I’d always wanted.
The world was on fire and no one could save me but you
It’s strange what desire will make foolish people do
I wanted her from the moment I saw her dancing in a club called Radost (which is Czech for “joy”). She was alone on the dance floor, beaming, oblivious to the oglers, just moving her lithe body to the techno beat with heartfelt exuberance and a confidence that captivated me. Radost indeed: she was joy incarnate. I pursued her and eventually, she entrusted me with her big, fragile heart. Her love breathed life into me and ensured my dreams could come true. Fueled by as much love as I was capable of, we made a beautiful life together. I believed she saved me.
But I was a fool. I thought I could maintain my deception forever. Helena Christensen sauntering across the beach with her arm across her bare breasts was beautiful. But the deep timbre of Chris Isaak’s voice and his chiseled lips moved me in a more profound way. It held all the promise and sexual fulfillment of an honest, all-in relationship with another human being. A man.
And I’d never dreamed that I’d lose somebody like you
I came out to my wife, and eventually to the world. I stared into the abyss of a different kind of life. I lost the woman who saved me and loved me unconditionally, bore our children, and brought joy to us all.
It seemed unfathomable to reject what we’d worked so hard to build, but it was the only way to stop rejecting myself. I’d reached the point of no return; if I wanted to survive I had to finally love myself.
I tried to be straight to make everybody happy. Now I am gay to make myself happy. I caused a lot of damage along the way because I thought I could be somebody I wasn’t. Rather than loving and accepting the man I was born to be, I tried to destroy him.
“Wicked Game” ends with the enigmatic double-negative, “Nobody loves no one” and the haunting refrain “this world is only gonna break your heart.” Perhaps only a “nobody” rejects himself. And perhaps, through this wicked act, he unwittingly damages his capacity to love and be loved. This was my greatest fear.
Until I came out, my heart was strangled by chains of my own making. The pain this caused was sharpest when my heart was most full and most in need of opening. That’s precisely when the chains dug in and love lost. My best attempts to love always fell short because I never really loved the little boy inside my heart.
My wife, who I am in the process of divorcing, will always be one of the most important people in my life. She is a beautiful soul, who loved me more than I could ever love myself; she gave me the life of my dreams. I will adore her until my death.
My first boyfriend will forever live in my memories and my heart. Our relationship was possible only because I found a way to love myself. With him, I experienced the blissful freedom of unshackled love.
I mourn these losses. But I rejoice in the continued discovery of myself.
I accepted who I am, and started loving myself. And while I simultaneously end my marriage and my first gay relationship, I feel the swelling and rising up of my liberated, joyful heart. It tells me I am capable of loving. It assures me I am lovable.
