Therapy Made Me Come Out

I'm Glad It Did

This is Sitting Queerly, a newsletter focused on the late blooming queer experience, the lofty goal of opening up conversations and celebrating those who embrace their full selves.

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Trigger warning: mentions of pornography, suicide and suicidal ideation

In 2016 I was a parent of a toddler. I had started a career in public relations after a decade in local journalism where I was overworked, underpaid and underappreciated. I was providing the bulk of our income as my wife worked as a substitute teacher after getting out of a toxic workplace.

I came home for lunch one day. My dog was happy to see me (and also to have the opportunity to go outside to take a shit) and, being of an excitable breed, kept getting underfoot as I walked into the house. I threw down my keys and screamed at him to back off, my entire body shaking with rage. He skittered off from me as I put my face in my hands and just tried to breathe. I just needed to breathe. Please let me breathe.

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Anybody in therapy?

Mental health was never discussed when I was growing up beyond being told to just figure things out, as most men are told growing up in the U.S. Only really messed up kids needed to see a shrink and I wasn’t really messed up (I was really messed up).

When I was finally on my own after college, I had a decent though inequitably determined health plan. But this was still the early aughts—Obamacare had not arrived and even then, most insurers did not support affordable access to mental health care. I was working as a reporter for a small daily newspaper in the middle of nowhere, so money and the availability of care were both scarce, as was time. Plus, I had nights at the bar with my coworkers/friends to get me through things (this is not a substitute for actual mental health care).

So, I powered through. Gritted my teeth. Manned up. Or whatever euphemism you want to use to describe hiding my anxiety and depression, shame and guilt, insecurities and negative self-image so that I could be productive at work and socially active until it became so overwhelming I would isolate myself for days on end, ignore or outright snap at people I cared for and think about how I and everyone would be better off if I wasn’t around.

And then, there was my intense fear that going to therapy would make me confront my attraction to men.

I first saw gay porn when I was 12 or 13 and it became an occasional part of my viewing habit. As I got into high school, I looked longingly at girls I wanted to date but I couldn’t help but stare when some of my more fit male classmates played sports without shirts on or I could just see their muscular arms. For a long time I would chalk this up to just admiration, to wanting to look like them. That wasn’t false—I was a slightly chubby unmuscular kid and had a lot of self-loathing about it—but it also wasn’t the full truth.

Like most American boys then (and now), it was communicated that the above was not ok, and not just through peer pressure. My father caught me looking at gay porn on our dial-up Internet late one night; all I remember is the disappointed look on his face. We never spoke about it again. A few years later, I don’t recall the entire conversation but the following statement from him was burned into my brain:

“If any of my children were to turn out gay, I would feel I failed as a father.”

Teeth gritting and manning up it was then.

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Back to 2016.

My wife was becoming concerned about me even before that day. My irritability, my exhaustion, my obsession over the slightest criticism, my loss of interest in things I otherwise cared about had become who I was most days. I hadn’t even told her about the suicidal ideation at this point, not wanting to distress her. Eventually, she urged me to go see someone. So I reached out to my employer’s Employee Assistance Program (EAP).

I was extremely guarded in this first attempt at mental health care, which didn’t really matter as the counselor wasn’t that good, as many EAP providers are prone to be. Much to to my chagrin, they leaned heavily on empty religious platitudes (I had become increasingly agnostic and remain so). Nothing was really achieved and I half-heartedly tried some calming practices they provided.

It didn’t take long for me to revert back to where I was and I tried going to an actual therapist. This was a much better experience; this therapist actually spent time asking questions about my past. It was the first time that I’d told someone about some of the things I experienced as a kid, and the first time that someone looked at me afterward with concern in their eyes and told me, “that’s terrible, I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Eventually, I was urged to consider an anti-anxiety/antidepressant. This was something I had also been opposed to—I worked as a writer and I was concerned it would affect my ability to do that well. But I went ahead and got on sertaline. It was life-changing. Several weeks after starting the prescription, I had the following conversation with my wife:

“Is this how you feel all time?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, just, not constantly thinking and worrying.”
“Yeah?”
“Huh.”

For a while things seemed fine and I stopped therapy but gradually I began to struggle again. The irritability, the depression, the suicidal ideation was creeping back. I reached out to a coworker with connections in the mental health field and she recommended my current provider.

Where my EAP counselor wasn’t even in the same ballpark as my prior therapist, they weren’t in the same league as my new therapist. Her insightfulness and tireless effort to make me challenge my own self-image continues to impress me, but in those first sessions, it was incredible. And she wasn’t content with me sharing my experiences; she wanted me to actually put them behind me. We did several sessions of EMDR (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing)¹ that allowed me to process my most difficult memories. She noted that all my symptoms tied back to one thing: guilt. Guilt that I wasn’t enough, guilt that I didn’t—couldn’t—meet other’s expectations, guilt that I was needy and dependent. Guilt that I was different. Just…so much guilt.

This is where I was at the end of 2022. Still struggling at times (I had a bad break around my birthday…maybe more on that another time) and added bupropion to my med reigmen. But otherwise, I was in the best place I had ever been, mentally. And I’d gotten there without ever acknowledging my queerness!

And that’s why, early in 2023, my brain decided it was time to acknowledge my queerness.

The trauma and experiences I’d spent months working through weren’t the primary cause of my guilt. They were boulders I cowered behind, hiding from the very thing that first made me feel different. Now, the boulders were gone. And before me was a quiet, shy and scared boy who liked playing with dollhouses and easily got his feelings hurt and wanted to be close to other boys in a way he didn’t understand. All he’d ever wanted was permission to be himself. Permission to breathe.

And I could no longer withhold it.

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Everyone should go to therapy

There are many reasons I talk so openly about my own mental health journey.

• There’s a ton of data showing that men are among the least likely to seek mental health care because of stigma.

• Gay and bisexual men, along with other members of the LGBTQIA2S+ community, are among the most at risk of anxiety, depression and suicide.

• The availability and affordability of quality mental health care is not equally accessible across the country, much less the world.

And this is why I tell everyone, but especially men, they should go to therapy. No, seriously, you should go to therapy.

But I know that’s easier said than done. I have a lot of privilege and advantages when it comes to seeking care, from economic resources to connections within the mental health care industry, that others don’t.

So, here are some resources to help you navigate finding professional and affirming help and/or immediate intervention.

• Mental Health America - Finding Affirming Mental Health Care

• Human Rights Campaign - Mental Health Resources in the LGBTQ+ Community

• 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline

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Last Week Today

Note: this is where I will share web-only things I published as well as other interesting tidbits from around Substack and the Web in general.

• I announced the best chocolate milk brands based on my unassailable expert opinion.

• For the first time, sex between two humpback whales was documented. And both were male.

• Finally watched Taylor Tomlinson’s latest stand-up special, Have It All. It’s definitely a different energy from her past two. Still highly recommend and not just because she casually notes she’s joined the bi side.

• Kyle Ranson-Walsh of

  Being Alive
  writes on the biopic of civil rights figure Bayard Rustin available on Netflix. I only knew of Rustin’s name and nothing else, much less that he was queer and that led to folks trying to push him out of the civil rights movement. Definitely planning to check this movie out.

• I wrote a note on something Aidan Wharton of

  Gay Buffet
  published on whether folks who want to come out to others should do it in-person.

• Author Sherman Alexie shared a powerful essay by Lisa Mecham about her difficult marriage to a bipolar man that resulted in a separation that lasted for more than half of their time together. I’d be lying if I didn’t hold my breath when reading about his behavior and started thinking about my own before I got help.

• Erik Hoel and Ted Gioia spoke to the hellscape our online culture has become because of the proliferation of AI but, more importantly, because of humanity’s two most basic tendencies: greed and laziness.

In next week’s newsletter…

How my self-acceptance was less a sudden epiphany and more a gradual testing the waters, partially thanks to some queer trailblazers.

1. I understand there are questions around the efficacy of EMDR; I had them myself when my therapist first recommended it. But it helped me without making things worse, so take that for what it is.