I didn’t always know I was different.
At two years old I would jump in the piles of leaves Savta and me raked in the park.
At four I sat atop my jumbo sized construction vehicle digging holes in the sand box.
At seven I brandished any appropriately shaped stick as a sword with which I fought glorious medieval battles, and later as a wand to send jets of red and even green light at all manners of evil.
At nine I built sets of killer robots and provided the sound effects as they destroyed each other.
At eleven a classmate from a secular home told me how babies are made, and I responded, “We don’t do that”.
(I meant ‘frum Jews’. Divine foreshadowing meant ‘people like me’.)
At thirteen I got a crush on the boy who sat next to me.
It was as though a switch had been flicked, sending electrical current surging through a magnet whose pull I couldn’t escape. I became singularly obsessed with being as close as possible to him at all times. In the classroom, the lunchroom, on the bus, bunks in camp, teams, sitting on the steps overlooking the yard, walking home from school. Must. Be. With. Him. I was a moth, he was my light. It made no sense, I couldn’t explain it, I just couldn’t bear for it to be otherwise.
I would torture myself trying to facilitate us being together, intentionally sitting alone to give him the option to sit next to me, or hang about idly somewhere I knew he would see me, and be free to initiate an interaction, however small.
Soon enough, I realised something was amiss. It had also become undeniable that I was, uh, entertaining certain thoughts, which, shall we say, elicited a reaction from my body most definitely not shared by my peers. I would desperately picture the imagery which I knew was supposed to be the trigger, praying for results. But to no avail.
As my peers became more physically mature, they gave me a crash course in straight etiquette.
“Why do you talk like that?”
“What’s with your hands when you speak?”
“You sing like a girl.”
I learnt that I shouldn’t dance, pose for photos, laugh, react to things I find shocking/disgusting/sad/exciting, discuss things I’m enthusiastic about, and just all round not get too comfortable being myself. Heck, I even sat on a bike wrong. I didn’t always do a great job at keeping the rules, but my classmates kept the reminders of what behaviour is acceptable coming thick and heavy. Most commonly, by using as their most intense insults words that described me.
So began a stage in my life which would continue without respite for the next five years. Throughout this time, I alternately became infatuated with five different people. I would be addicted to them, and their attention. They would be on my mind constantly, and I would do whatever it took to be close to them. I was on an emotional see-saw, with every act of affirmation or (perceived) rejection by the subject of my infatuation sending me into either a euphoric high or a sickening depression. More often the latter. This reached its most extreme when I was 17.
(Note: Years later I would learn about Attachment Theory and come to understand that the emotional volatility I experienced, while not unique, was not typical.)
In that year I experienced the most intense moment of joy in my life. I received an unprompted embrace from “him”. The euphoria was blinding. My mind went blank. I remember wanting to shriek with happiness, to explode from the immensity of it. But that was by far the exception rather than the rule. I couldn’t handle it any more. I wasn’t living. A slave to my emotions, there was no ‘me’. Just an empty shell of a person, obsessively chasing his fix of affirmation from an unwitting peer. I wanted my mind back. Fantasies of suicide began floating in the dark stream of my consciousness. I would envision carving into my chest the names of those who had caused me this pain over the past four years and bleeding till it was all over. There was a sense of glory about making it known in no uncertain terms how I felt and why. All I could find worth living for were my dear nieces and nephews, G-d bless them.
The year ended, “he” moved away, and after a while my infatuation moved on to someone else. This time, my newly made closest friend. We would spend hours up together late at night, talking about meaningful things, like family and religion, for the first time in my life. Being such close friends meant there wasn’t much of an issue for me emotionally, at first. I got all the affirmation I needed. But then, he befriended someone else, with a loud personality more inline with his own. And so the hurting began. My heart would ache for the next seven months, as it had almost incessantly since I was 13.
And he noticed. And he’d ask me why. Why I was so down; why I no longer came to hang out in his dorm room; why I stopped speaking to him? At first I deflected the questions. Until eventually, he sat me down in the spot where we used to lay on the grass staring up at the sky, talking about life, and insisted I explain myself. So, as I’d opened up to him about so many things before, I forced myself to speak. And I told him. I told him I felt like I was losing him as a friend; that I would wait for him to initiate any contact to test if he still liked me; that when I saw him spending time with his new friend I’d feel like I had just taken a potion which sent a rush of deadening pain through my chest, arms and stomach. I told him what I could, without giving away the Big Secret. That I wasn’t ready to tell.
I don’t know how my words made him feel, but he responded with sensitivity and concern. He encouraged me to speak to someone, not to be ashamed to see a therapist. This was a turning point in my life, and I’m so grateful to him.
Telling my parents I wanted to see a therapist was mercifully easy. There were other, not at all private, reasons for me to want to speak to one. But before I could see a therapist, I had to see the family doctor to receive a medical referral. And it was there, in her office, that after five years gestation I went into emotional labor, and trembling, managed to form the words, “I think I’m gay”.
Being finally able to speak about what I was going through was so liberating. The Gemoro speaks truth when it says, “If there is anxiety in the heart of a person, talk about it”. I felt like I had been set free, like I could finally breathe again.
After several weeks seeing the therapist, it was time for me to leave home to yeshiva out of state. I arrived in my new yeshiva, excited to meet new people; to leave the friendships of previous years, tattered and worn by the emotional roller-coaster ride I was stuck on, behind; to start somewhat anew. There were so many fresh faces, I couldn’t wait to get to know them.
Until I met him. I fell hard. I felt frustrated, scared, and enchanted. Damn his beautiful skin, his large dark eyes, his gentle smile. It wasn’t fair. Enough already! I just wanted to be…
Enough of every muscle in my body tensing up because of the stranger in the room with the nice face, making me conscious of the very way I walk and stand.
Enough of the guilty uncertainty as to whether my motivation for saying hello is the content of his character, or the characteristics of his face.
Enough inner turmoil by a farbrengen trying to decide whether I dare sit next to him, and then regretting having not the rest of the evening.
Enough of these niggunim making me think, not of G-d, but the mere mortal He breathed life into. My soul thirsts for you…
Enough hanging around restlessly on Shabbos afternoon waiting for him to come back from his meal, so perhaps we can spend some time together.
Enough having my judgement blinded by emotion, leading me to say and do awkward, embarrassing things, the memories of which become buried in the back of my mind as scorching black coals for me to painfully stumble across every now and then.
Enough of not enjoying weddings, from being wary of dancing too close to him.
Enough premonitions of his own wedding, with me standing broken at the chuppah.
Enough not being able to focus on my learning, the sound of his voice a constant reminder he’s just a head turn away.
Enough of something as simple as listening to someone speak being a strenuous mental exercise, being wary not to gaze too long into his eyes, nor look away too often.
Enough of the mind numbing warmth emanating from his body when he leans over my shoulder, or I over his.
Enough of the tantalising closeness of his perfect hand lying beside mine on the table, so reachable, so holdable.
Enough not being able to comfortably spend time with other people, for the ever nagging thought that I’d rather be with him.
Enough of the sensation that a chain has been coiled around my heart and lungs and someone is trying to rip them out of my chest, each time I see him express greater affinity to someone else than me.
Enough paradoxically yearning for the day we’ll say goodbye, when no longer will I be crushed by the weight of this beautiful star’s gravity.
Please G-d, after five years, enough.
And then, an act of Divine Mercy. He left after a month. I was free, my heart was flying, untied, unshackled. I could make friends with whomever I wanted, with no one tugging at my heartstrings. And I did, lots of friends. It was a year of bliss.
The months passed, summer came, and I moved off again for my final year of yeshiva. Here the friends I had made over the past year were joined by those from years before, and there were great teachers as well. It was prepped to be my best year yet. But then, it happened again. He was easily the most popular guy in zal. Many of my friends became his friends. He would smile and nod when he passed my table, but I didn’t dare get close. Affected so strongly by this emotional pull, I didn’t feel steady enough to navigate the slopes of platonic courtship without making a fool of myself. And so the seeds of what may well have been a lifelong friendship withered and died in the heat of my burning heart.
I was tired of it all. I’d look around enviously at my peers, totally oblivious to the torture they had been spared; completely unappreciative of what a blessing their community’s gender segregation was; blissfully unaware of what it’s like to have your mind bombarded year upon year with a relentless barrage of weighty, depressing thoughts. It would have been boring, if it wasn’t so painful.
Then one day, I encountered a fresh landmark on my rainbow brick road. Walking into zal after breakfast one morning, I found the room buzzing excitedly, everyone inside reading a copy of the folded blue pamphlets that had been scattered on the desks.
Dor Yeshorim.
We were turning 20 years old. And somewhere out there were similarly aged girls, who would each soon fill one of the blanks in somebody’s hopeful suggestion, “What about ___ for ___?”, and a call would need to be made to ensure her genes are as compatible as her soul. At least, that was true for all the other bochurim reading this pamphlet…
As for me however, what was I supposed to do? Am I expected, standing here alone, at 11am on a Tuesday, not yet legally old enough to drink away the pain, to resign myself to the deadening reality that I. Am Never. Getting. Married. I will never be a father.
No. I couldn’t. This can’t be my future. That’s craziness.
There was still hope, right? Maybe I could love a girl, if I would actually spend time with one?
Or maybe, somehow, I would change…
A week later, I gathered with everyone else in an empty classroom, where we filled out the forms and they laughed about the prospect of getting married while we waited for our name to be called.
I heard mine.
I stood up and walked down the hallway to the next classroom. I handed the completed forms to the Dor Yeshorim representative at the door, together with $175.
G-d, this is because I believe in You.
Like Nachshon into the sea, I walk into the room of people in white coats sitting next to their case of syringes.
You can do this, G-d.
I roll up my sleeve and look away before the needle pierces my arm.
It will be our little secret, no one else has to know.
I face back towards the table to see the dark red substance just drawn from my body being transferred to a glass vile.
The soul which resides in that blood, please, fix it.
A ball of cotton is taped to my arm, and the man in the white coat tells me I’m all done.
Dear G-d who split the sea and twice resurrected a nation after descending upon a mountain in a display of thunder and lightning, fire and smoke; is this one miracle too much too ask?
I walk out of the room clutching the folded card with my Dor Yeshorim number on it, wondering just how naively foolish what I just did was…
An emotional foreigner in a land where I was understood by no one, I found solace in discovering my own feelings expressed by the poets of Jewish literature. I was lovesick, like the author of Yedid Nefesh, begging for G-d to heal me. Literally sick; nauseous sensation in my gut, ceaseless aching in my chest, throat constricted, face burning as though with fever, emotionally paralysed. I was the maiden of Shir HaShirim laying in bed with a pounding heart, straining to hear the voice of the one she loves. I was the Psalmist, mesmerised by the most beautiful of men; his lips, his voice, the words they form. I was G-d, my insides churning at the thought of the lad so precious, so dear.
I was the Prophet, telling G-d, “It’s too much. Please, take my soul, for I am no good… take my soul, for I would rather death.”
And I’m me. A Lubavitcher bochur, who dreams of finding ‘the one’ whose feelings mirror my own; who’ll let me express to them how my heart is set ablaze by their mere presence; who will be touched by the little things I notice and remember; who will appreciate the lengths I’m willing to go to make them smile; to implement the advice of all those relationship books I’ve been teased for reading, as well as the mental notes I’ve made from observing others; to build together a home I’d be proud for the Rebbe to walk into, in spite of myself; to be the father of children as heartbreakingly adorable as my own nieces and nephews; to be the one in whose chest they bury their heads when feeling shy, into whose arms they run when they get hurt; to raise them to be empathetic, honest, and unwaveringly, outspokenly fair; to share with them my love and awe of our world-changing tradition, and to be there for them when they struggle with the parts that seem unjust, because they’ll care; to finally do parenting right, because I’m the first one to figure out how.
But as marriageable age comes rushing towards me, all I can hope for is that the human-shaped flame burning in my chest, whose smoke chokes me from within in the lulls between the distractions I use to smother it, finally dies; that I don’t break down crying uncontrollably from the sensation of my insides being torn in two when I receive a photo of my friend walking along that familiar concrete path between the tombstones, beaming at the girl beside him; to dance at his wedding with uninhibited joy, not mourning the impossible dream of somehow being the one to live out this life with him; that the hundreds of lines of poetry this love has wrung from my heart become just a sterile memory…
My own name will never grace COL, never be sent around on old class WhatsApp groups, will never trigger an excited “Mazal Tov! Who to?”. No. Me, I “will become a byword among people”, that guy they were in yeshiva with who ‘came out’, identified and remembered solely by the part of me I’ve spent half my life trying to hide.
Should I be angry?
At who?
The Lawgiver?
Granted, knowing that physically expressing my affection for the person I care about most in the world is sinful, causes hurt and frustration.
But it’s not some verse in Leviticus that causes the all-consuming, paralysing pain of unrequited love; the life draining dread of a dark unknown future; the terror of living in a human minefield, scared to speak or move out of fear of people’s reactions. Nor is it what’s preventing me from one day gazing into the eyes of the person I love, then at my child in their arms, and seeing that same face looking back at me.
Indeed, the Lawgiver could be forgiven…
were He distinguishable from the Creator.
I’ll be honest. A furious rage blazes in my heart against Him from time to time. I practically spit the words of davening, and the only kavona I can muster is “Lies, lies, lies”. His kindness is not forever, He does not heal broken hearts, He does not listen to prayers. He dares form me a misfit, destined for years of anguish, yet expect I declare Him to be Good? The author of marriage dare make me His agunah? Why? What Forbidden Fruit did I eat to be cursed “Your craving shall be to man, and he shall rule over you”? WHY ARE YOU HURTING ME!?
But, I tell myself, there are many others who were also grievously pained by Him, and who do not let anger get between them.
Do we not say every morning: You made heaven and Earth, the sea, and all that’s in them! Who among all that You’ve made can say to You, “What are You doing? What are You causing?”
Truly, I am as fortunate as someone like me could hope to be.
I am lucky to have been born in a time and place in which I know I am not alone, and, mercifully, I’m safe.
I am blessed to have a family I know will love me, support me, surround me with joy and laughter.
I have managed to find friends who will remain so, regardless of my differentness.
But still, I’m so lost.
What do I do?
How can I bring myself to put the nails in the coffin of my unborn children, by letting the world know how I feel? After all, I still see pretty faces. And if a woman’s fire has light, perhaps, maybe, I can find one which is also at least warm…
Or even if I did search for a man’s heart, which upon touching mine both burst into flames as intense as I know is possible, and together we gave a home to children who needed one; could I ever find someone who’ll join me in raising them to know that they are made in the image of G-d, and that He gave us a Rebbe, who taught us the niggunim with which I sing them to sleep?
And then there’s the most immediate concern.
What if my friend discovers that when I hear him speak, I notice the sound of his voice; that when I look at his face, I want to stroke his cheek; that when I feel his warm hand resting on me, my mind turns to static.
Will he still talk to me? Will he feel betrayed? Will I lose the person I think about most, simply because I do?
Lost, I’m so lost.
Like I’m standing on the bank of a torrential river, with just one chance to choose: which stone is safe to leap to, and which will send me plunging into the water, hurtling down a painful, obstacle filled path.
G-d, Your Torah instructs me to both
“Serve the Eternal with joy”
and
“Do not come close to them”. To him.
I can’t do both.
I cannot go on the rest of my life pining for someone I can’t be with, without the steady drip of my tears wearing a hole in my heart.
I cannot live while my mind is consumed by the twin flames of someone else’s body and soul.
So, I pray:
“Merciful Father, please, have compassion upon me, and give consideration to my heart, that I may keep, do, and fulfil, all the words of Your Torah…
with love.”
These words spilled out of me some years ago, and in the time since I’ve added, refined and clarified throughout. I’ve also since reached the conclusion that the only viable path to a happy lifelong relationship is where from the outset there are no constraints on the intensity of the love. Having reached that place of clarity, I’ve begun sharing this part of me with my close family and friends, and they have been predictably full of care and support. Of all the gay Jews to have lived, I am certainly among the luckiest. I am the happiest I’ve ever been, and excited to discover what my future holds.
Gay is a feeling.
Gay is not a choice.
Gay is not a sin.
Gay is a feeling.
Gay may be a disorder. So is dyslexia.
Neither have a known cure.
Neither are reason to mistreat someone.
Neither are a threat to the Jewish way of life.
Gay may be inborn. It might not be.
It may be both.
Either way, gay is, and it’s not going away.
Gay is no more about sex than marriage is;
i.e. insofar as sex fulfils a need felt, not below the hip, but in your chest and throat and on your cheek in the form of a tear.
Gay is about what the Rebbe termed “Hamshochas Halev” — Tugging of the Heart.
“[It] means that there is something that you truly want and if you don’t have it, you’re constantly thinking about it. You’re trying to find ways to get it. You feel a strong desire for it.”
Gay is a disorder.
But so is being ‘straight’.
Romantic love is a mental illness.
Or more accurately, an addiction.
An addiction to another human being.
When another person has literally the same effect on your brain as cocaine.
An addiction with no rehab centres.
An addiction which cannot be avoided when your way of life segregates you together with the sex you’re attracted to.
An addiction responsible for 1 in 3 suicides.
Gay is ironic, because I forget what ‘happy’ feels like.
Gay is suffering in silence.
Gay is hearing the label you’ll one day need to describe yourself with being used synonymously with “weird”, “frustrating” and “boring”.
Gay is being terrified that if your strongest feelings became known, your world would fall apart.
Gay is living in fear of being rejected by friends, family, the community, yeshivos, camps, or workplaces.
But, it doesn’t have to be.
If you make it known to your children, congregants, students and campers, that there is nothing shameful, evil, or sinful about someone being gay, it won’t be.
Gay is like being hungry on Yom Kippur.
Except, it’s not.
You don’t turn on the radio to hear an endless stream of songs celebrating, mourning and yearning for… breakfast.
Gay is learning Tanya in 8th Grade and knowing exactly what it’s talking about when it says “a love in his heart which makes it burn with fiery flames, with desire, longing and passion manifestly felt in the heart to cleave to him”.
Being hungry on Yom Kippur, not so much.
Gay is like loving your spouse the entire month.
But it’s not.
Those two weeks will end soon enough.
Just a dip in the ritual bath and the painful longing is over.
Once, I stood staring at the bath wondering if perhaps I too could end my pain in there.
Just some warm water and a blade.
According to Israeli data, 1 in 4 gay Orthodox Jews try killing themselves.
Who knows how many succeeded.
How can we ignore this?
Gay may not be something to be proud about; to wave flags about.
But it is something to be spoken about.
To say “I won’t treat you differently” about.
To say “It’s nothing to be ashamed about”.
To say “We’re here for you, to hear from you”.
To say “We’re here with you, and know what you’re going through, because we’re just like you, and have been there too”.
Gay may not be something to identify as.
But family is.
Biological, spiritual,
and the one person from 7 billion that we get to choose.
We cannot cut off ‘the gay’.
“I will not cut you off Our Family”.
Say it, please.
