What I sensed imagining my own wedding was not relief.It was the first time I had ever actually allowed myself to picture it happening to me, and it felt like the dirtiest thing I had ever done.I once read a novel about a closeted, celibate gay man named Pawel in Nazi occupied Poland. Growing up in a religious setting, saying sexuality is beyond redemption in the form of a romantic relationship.
I would go sit with my feet in the water and imagine a world where I wasn’t hopelessly broken.It was the first time I was trying to live out a celibate life alone, and right at the age most Texans start pairing off like exotic birds on a BBC documentary.Every mom in the church seemed to know of the perfect girl. I considered confiding in friends about being gay, but thought better.I was in my early twenties so there were plenty to attend, but I always knew they would be followed by a depressive funk. What kind of person I must be to be incapable of such love.Most of my friends were involved in church, so they had been marinating for years in the knowledge that this was a divine act. The priest would preach on the heroic and beautiful sacrifice the spouses were making. As one wedding ended, when we all bowed our heads to pray, I closed my eyes and imagined what it would be like to be standing in front of the altar myself.I was gay and was doing my best to listen to my church, but did I have any role to play beyond silently hoping someone I wanted to have sex with might go on to save the world? It was a sentiment I held on to with everything I had.