Twelve Years Old

When I was twelve years old I watched a gay boy who died of AIDS get violently pulled down through a flashing red hole in the ground by masked demons. They were carrying him to hell to suffer eternally because he is gay.

—

3 hours earlier…

Arriving to the event, thoughtfully named Hellstop, I was unaware that my life would be changed forever… and not so much for the better. The van ride was long, but Hannah & Cody were there—obnoxiously belly laughing about nothing the entire way.

It was cold outside–the kind of cold where your hands seem like they’ll never be warm again. And the line to get in was long, so we all huddled close around the trash can fire sipping hot chocolate, murmuring while we waited our turn.

I’ve always hated scary stories—my mind is able to paint too vivid a picture and my feelings seem to remained unconvinced (even at 33 years old) that scary things aren’t real. So as we were guided into the entrance of Hellstop by a masked demon cattle calling and herding us into the entrance I could feel myself begin to panic.

The music was scary and deafening loud.

Strobe lights lit the way as more demons poured into the hallway, leaning down to our faces wearing horror-movie masks while taunting us with phrases like, “come get stuck down here with us forever” and, “want to spend eternity with me?”. I locked my arms around Hannah’s shoulders, burying my face into her back, which somehow only heightened my senses to hear these horrifying sounds even louder.

And then–calmness.

I opened my eyes and we had made it to the first skit, a small room with about 30 people shoved to one side while a scene played out before our eyes.

Were were now observers of what appeared to be a funeral service and this is what Hellstop is all about. Observing what happens to those who choose a life outside of God’s will.

The scene opened.

[insert here a bit of context to set up the below]

As the young gay boy’s screeching voice got louder, I gripped onto my church pastor’s hand as I buried my head into his coat jacket, but my ears heard every shriek and plea that the young gay boy made.

“God, please don’t do this!” Begging as the demons grip tightens around his ankles.

“Please don’t send me to hell! I’M SORRY!” He shrieks, violently sobbing as half his body is hanging in the entrance of hell.

“I won’t be gay anymore!” He concludes—as if unbecoming gay is the solution to being accepted by God.

My eyes clench shut because I know happening next.

“Please–God. Please! Don’t send me to hell!” Howling like a hungry dog.

Interrupting his barely finished sentence, the scripted voice of God comes over the PA system.

“You should have thought about this before you decided to be gay,” God announced.

And—whoosh!

Hell inhales him. Vanished. Banished.

Gone forever.

Gone for good.

Gone because he’s gay.

Gone because he chose to be gay? That’s what God JUST said over the intercoms–this boy chose it.

With no room for any other truth, my young, now even more confused twelve-year-old self realized who I was, and how I felt was not only wrong, but needs to change. That this is a choice. My sexuality is a choice. It’s correctable.

“God can correct this–this gayness!” I believed.

“I just need to choose to be straight–or maybe just choose to not be gay…” My thoughts rolling around.

“…and unlearn how to be me.” I concluded.