Earlier this week I crawled into the front seat of my car and ripped the crotch out of my jeans. I mean, I’ve crawled into my car plenty of times, and I don’t even think I had pancakes for breakfast that day, but I guess they’d finally had enough. Couldn’t stand the pressure. So now they sit in the trashcan by the bed where I’m writing this, and I own even fewer clothes than I did before. Oh well.

Today I’ve felt like the seam of those jeans, like I’ve been holding it together for–I don’t know, quite a while now–and am about to come undone. I can’t say what it is exactly. Mostly it feels like I’m not good enough, like things will never improve. I finished reading a book today and could only think about all the ones I still want to read, still “need” to read. It feels like everyone else has their shit together, everyone else is smarter, more successful, didn’t eat peanut butter out of a jar three times today. Who knows why days like this happen. Yesterday I was told by a palm reader that my guardian angel was keeping my worry lines at bay, so maybe he stepped out for a smoke break.

If so, I’d like to join him.

This evening I watched a movie called I Am Michael starring James Franco and Zachary Quinto. The film is based on the true story of Michael Glatze, a former gay activist turned heterosexual pastor. When the movie starts, Michael is the managing editor of a gay magazine, and he later starts a magazine of his own. But after a health scare, Michael begins to worry about his place in heaven, so eventually ditches his boyfriend for Jesus, seminary, and a wife. Before the end, Michael counsels a young homosexual–God only makes heterosexuals–It’s a choice–Don’t you want to go to heaven?

In terms of storytelling and acting, the film was delightful. I mean, James Franco and Zachary Quinto. But I didn’t exactly think it was the feel-good movie of the year. Granted, I’m not a fundamentalist Christian. I guess it brought up a lot of emotions. I can’t tell you the number of times I tried to change my sexuality or at least stuff it down in high school and college. I wasn’t out sleeping with girls, but I spent a lot of time telling myself “I’m not really gay,” “I just haven’t met the right girl yet,” or, “It will pass,” as if attraction were a flu. Whenever I’d read stories online about “ex-gays” or Christians who said homosexuality was a choice, I’d get overwhelmed with stress, like a pair of jeans that have been through the washer one too many times. I’d think, I’m not okay the way I am.

Fortunately, I’ve come a long way in the last fifteen years. I can’t speak for anyone else’s experience either sexually or with the divine, but with the exception of a few highly touted cases, God doesn’t appear to be in the business of altering a person’s sexuality. I mean, has yours ever changed? Personally, I’ve spent plenty of nights asking God to change me only to wake up the next day and STILL find Mario Lopez attractive. (Ugh, it’s terrible.) Eventually I decided, I’m more than okay the way I am.

Tonight I went for a walk in hopes of shaking off all my emotions, but I guess they like to exercise because they went with me. Still, I listened to a lecture and took a different route than normal, so it wasn’t all bad. The streets were quiet, the world was okay. Toward the end of the walk, I went by my aunts’ house, the house where Dad grew up and Grandma and Grandpa used to live. My mom recently told me that she used to live a couple of blocks away, a fact which for some reason escaped me until now. So I took a turn, headed up a hill, and found the spot she used to call home. I mean, the house has been torn down–a garage has been put up–but the space is still there, sitting like a quiet witness to what was, and is, and is to come.

Tonight I’ve thought a lot about how much grief I used to give myself about being gay. Just now I spent thirty minutes reading interviews with Michael Glatze and watching videos about reparative therapy, and all of it makes me want to vomit. I can’t believe people still think this way. At the same time, I think about how much grief I gave myself earlier today about wanting to be better, to be different from I am, even if that means not tired or sad. Fortunately, I accepted my sexuality years ago, although it continues to be a process of how to navigate the world. But now I’m thinking I need to extend that acceptance further, to allow myself the grace to simply have read the number of books I have read, to let my feelings come and go. Ultimately, feelings are like a pair of jeans or a childhood home–they don’t last forever. So perhaps I can find the space inside me that quietly watches as my emotions change like the seasons, that sits and knows I’m more than okay the way I am.