I wore a cloak that made me a super man—impenetrable, powerful; independent. I didn’t need to experience joy or love, I just needed to avoid hurt and humiliation. I’d never trust or give someone power to harm me. So when a crisis of my sexuality occurred, I was shielded, broken and isolated with no one to reach me. Who can save a hero?
The restorative process from the pit of pain was grueling. I’d seen fellow comrades strung along the roadside who’d turned to drugs, dual lifestyles, sexual addictions, and even suicide. I was in bad shape, but somehow I knew the only way to the other side was through my pain. I reminded myself that Jesus carried his own crucifix through several stations, why would I be exempt from carrying mine from one point to the next?
Now it’s almost natural to boast in my weakness. I’m still tempted to project the caped crusader persona so I can appear healthy, but that’s an illusion. Living in reality isn’t nearly as harsh as having to start from scratch when faking it doesn’t get me as far as I’d hoped. My visit to the cross reoccurs.