Whether we stayed or left, our prospects were bleak.
There was no containing the despair and devastation that seized my body each time I imagined leaving, so Grace and I resolved not to think about it unless we had the space to mourn without an audience. She was still avoidant and seemed afraid of me, but we both knew that public displays of unhappiness would raise suspicion in a hurry—accusations of discontentment and murmuring against God—and there was still so much to think through. When Grace and I were apart, we discussed our doubts by text messages that we deleted shortly after sending. We agreed that I would keep screenshots of the conversations so that we could examine them later, but that I would transfer them to a hidden folder on my computer in case my parents came to examine my phone. I had never been subjected to such scrutiny, but others had—and if the request was made, it couldn’t be denied without major trouble. I hated the deception, but I knew that regardless of what we decided, we needed to be as sure about it as we could be.
For his part, C.G. was full of gentle, sometimes pointed questions. He was trying to discern what was happening in my mind, and since my thoughts were swinging back and forth like a pendulum, I was grateful for his calming influence. Explaining myself helped me to focus. It gave me something to hold on to.
C.G.: What do you believe?
MEGAN: I can’t call my whole life a waste. I’ve learned so very much. And I never would have met you if I weren’t me. I really believed those things, and there really is a lot of good in it—about caring and looking out for people. These are good people. I wonder if I’ll be able to stand without their support.
I’ve thought before, “Who cares?” re: whether someone is gay. It was a knee-jerk response, and I’d put the kibosh on it. I’m not sure what all I believe. I’m working on it.
C.G.: This doesn’t seem real. You must understand that.
MEGAN: Which part? I know, though.
C.G.: All of it. I’m watching True Blood right now, and, as you know, “God Hates Fangs.” That’s you. That’s crazy.
I know you from YouTube and your voice there is different from the one I hear when I read your words. It’s all crazy. You aren’t real to people. You’re an idea.
And what about Bekah? She just stays there and lives happily ever after?
Lying in the dark late at night, tucked away with phone in hand, I pondered C.G.’s questions and tried to make sense of them. I thought about Bekah. I had always seen myself as much more like her than like Grace—far more willing to yield than to challenge—and I wondered again how I had become so unruly. The elders weren’t the first major transition in the church, nor were my mother and sister the first close loved ones targeted for church discipline. In the past, no matter how much I initially doubted a position taken by the church, their justifications always made sense eventually. Could I even recall the last time Bekah and I were completely in sync in this shared tendency? Certainly before Twitter, I knew.
MEGAN: Bekah is just like I was not so very long ago. It will be horrible, and she will take it so hard, and she will blame herself. She is so tender-hearted. I love her so.
C.G.: Why can’t you get her out, too?
I clicked my screen off and squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself not to cry. Exhausted of tears. My bedroom suddenly felt stifling, and I opened the window in search of a breeze. How to explain to him? I lay back down and stared at the ceiling, now bathed in the orange light of the streetlamp outside.
MEGAN: She wouldn’t come. She just wouldn’t. As ardently as I fought you, she would fight any notion that this isn’t the way. She would be scared of me and for me and would enlist the aid of the whole church to recover me (before I left, I mean). She is exactly where I was—but she is less confident in herself and therefore even more willing to distrust her own thoughts and judgments. I wish she would leave—and maybe she will one day. But I don’t think it will be soon.
Life is short. And getting shorter all the time.
C.G.: Then show empathy for people rather than mocking them.