16 December 2008
I'm scared sh*tless.
I'm going home. And much as I love my family, that ALWAYS = HELL.
When I go home, I do not go to friends. I do not go to a place a love. Only the people I care about most. My parents moved in 2002, and I have hated Christmas since. That's why I only go once a year. Because that's all I can take, and usually, it still ends up being too much.
Since coming out, things have only gotten worse. And worse. And worse. This is NOT my home, it is just where my parents are. There is no one here but them, and when I want to run, I have nowhere to go. I endure, I try, but somehow, something always ruins me.
The normal Christmastime visit usually involves little-to-no-sleep, crippling depression, lack of eating, lack of desire to do anything, at least 2 fights, me wanting to die numerous times, and hours and hours and hours (read: days) of mindless game playing to try and hurry time up so I can go home again and back to my life.
That is how I have always described my Christmas visits. And those are the ones that don't involve fighting, misunderstanding, or the like. I love my family to death, but I hate that place. Last year I went for 10 days and came closer to suicide than I have ever been. It was just that bad.
No matter how hard I try, that place is only associated with bad memories. Fights. Tears. Pain.
Anger. I am a very nice person, and I don't get mad. Like ever. But whenever I do... it's B A D. People get hurt. Things get broken. Last year I smashed my laptop screen to smithereens. On accident. That only made me more angry and despondent. I hate going home.
This year, I'm praying desperately that something will be different. That somehow they will understand me better. That I can discuss how I feel, and my struggles with being a gay Mormon without it devolving into fighting.
Please God, this is my prayer to you, that somehow - any way possible - this trip, this visit, this year... that it will be different. Please God.