2,775 miles.
40 hours in a car.
Alone with my dad.
All the way from Washington State to New Hampshire in a 2000 Civic, loaded with everything I owned.
I had dreaded this trip for weeks, and it had finally arrived. I had never breathed a word of my past to my parents. They had just recently found out I was “gay,” albeit going through ex-gay therapy at the time.
I had picked up my dad late in the afternoon at the airport, and we immediately started out home, making it to some small town deep in Montana by nightfall. After a restless night at a hotel we were back on the road early.
The miles rolled away, mostly in silence.
Sometimes breaking it with random chats about the scenery, different things we saw, or something… anything but myself. I gritted my teeth and finally brought up the topic I wanted nothing to do with.
Me,
gays,
me being gay,
me growing up.
I was the last person I wanted to talk about.
Years of silence had rendered me almost completely incapable of expressing myself or what had happened.
I finally blurted it out.
This guy did something to me when I was younger. I couldn’t bring myself to even say what it was.
I mentioned nothing of my same sex emotions or feelings, just simply… something bad happened. I had hoped, hell I had prayed like none other. Please react well Dad, please react well.
This sparked a lecture/speech that only a Baptist pastor could manage to muster after hearing a confession like the one I had just uttered.
It was my fault.
This is why I’m gay.
I was the sacrificial lamb for his ministry.
He and mom had sacrificed everything for me.
I wish I could have yanked that confession back into my mouth.
I guess I was right all those years in not trusting, not speaking to anyone.