I have answered so many posts that address this type of subject. I have eleven books published on Amazon/Kindle, yet two are the most relevant to your question.
The two books are, “Erased and Unwanted,” and “A Midwestern Gay Boys Story: A Lifetime of Lies.”
I grew up abused mentally, emotionally, verbally, physically, and sexually by my adoptive parents. Yes, they took care of my basic needs, yet when it came to the most essential aspects, those I did not have.
Everything I did was never good enough. I was not good in school (undiagnosed learning disabilities), and my friends and anything I wanted to achieve were shot down. When I was discovered to be gay in 1970, Delilah (adoptive mother) damn near beat me to death, and I will not repeat the horrible things she called me. She outed me to the entire family and boldly felt justified to out me to anyone she pleased.
The beating for being gay was metaphorically a murder, even though I had stopped being myself by age nine—her murdering who I was just icing on the cake (for her). I learned to comply and become someone I never was. I had to play the part in a lifetime play written and directed by Delilah. One condition was for me to get married. Being with a woman would change me. However, there was a problem with that. None of the women she wanted me to hook up with I could not stand.
In 1974, I met a beautiful woman of my choice. Delilah hated her. Delilah tried to break us up when I proposed to Evie on April 5, 1974. It didn’t work, and I married Evie on July 13, 1974. Delilah would do anything to destroy my marriage, short of outing me. Shortly after Evie and I married, Delilah was diagnosed with stage four colon cancer and was given six months to live. The bitch lived for nearly twenty years before dying in 1993.
Delilah and relatives tried to destroy my marriage; however, it was always backed up with the threat of outing me. Delilah decided when that would happen. To Delilah, nothing I did was good enough, and my self-esteem was in the toilet (and flushed). Delilah died in 1993, and little did I know she had written a letter to my wife outing me and all the other vile things she wanted to say.
The letter was lost in her private papers and was not discovered by Ray (adoptive father) until 2000. He dropped it in the mailbox, and she almost succeeded in destroying my marriage and life from beyond the grave.
My wife and I had been married for twenty-six years then, and I had never let my wife see the skin on my back. My back is covered in small and large scars from the countless beatings. When that letter came, I stripped naked before my wife and turned my back to her. The sunlight exposed all the wounds. I lost my mind. Delilah succeeded in destroying me. My wife asked me about them, and I told her they came from Delilah. My wife and I worked through it and stayed married for the next fourteen years, for forty years.
My wife was dying from complications of diabetes. Before her death, she told me to admit I was gay, yet before I did anything about it, I needed to find out who I was first. I had to learn to like myself first and then love who I am. I should not look for love before I am ready; love will come when I least expect it.
It has taken time, and yes, I still struggle with self-esteem issues. I will always be working to discover who I am. As for love? Five years after my wife died, I met a fantastic man who saw me for who I am. He, too, is going through his issues, yet we do it together. We are both widowers.
Before you can help fix someone else, fixing yourself is much more challenging. Both my husband and I are WIP (Work In Progress). One day at a time.
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