Mornings as a Closet Case

     I have been accused of being depressing in my blog posts.  For that I apologize -- but I'm afraid I have another post to add to the list of depressing posts.  Sorry.

     I was going through some files and came across this piece of writing I did several years ago -- I think at the time my intention was to write a book.  I was still an active member of the LDS Church.  But I was struggling.  I have been debating whether or not to post the entire thing -- it is a bit graphic in spots.  However, in the interest of full disclosure and painting a true picture of my experience here it is in its entirety -- with the following disclaimer:

*The following contains language and descriptions that might be offensive to some.  It also contains details that might be construed as embarrassing or shameful for the author.  However, it is shared as a true, honest accounting of life in the closet.  You have been warned.*

Mornings

by Jason D. Butler

          A soft white light, knocking, flirting with his eyelids.  An ant colony dancing on his arm pinned beneath the new pillow under his head.  A leg ventures out, finding a cool patch of cotton, lingering for a moment and then retreating back to the cocoon.  With a jab from somewhere in his unconscious, he stirs – something's wrong, again.  Momentarily planting his face in the pillow, he tries to suffocate, to drive the awareness and consciousness back to the depths.  Images flash into the absence of breath:  high mountain peaks, bloody palms, a well defined torso, white curtains, shaded eyes, children with flowers and for the briefest moment, an Adonis receiving a blow-job from another Adonis.  Muscles and saliva.  Thrusts and semen.  NO!  Eyes fly open.  Yearning for more sleep – for more Nothing, he tries shutting them again, hoping for control, but the image is too strong, too present.  He can feel it, taste it.  He almost enjoys it.  His dick stirs.  He presses himself into the mattress – NO!  Eyes open, staring into the muted white foreground.  He takes a deep breath – fabric softener, hair gel, feathers, and bleach.  Realizing that like it or not, Life has found him, he tears his face away from the pillow, reluctantly glancing at the alarm clock on the far side of his queen sized bed.
         5:44
         Robbed of 45 minutes.  The alarm is set for 6:30.  It won't go off this morning.  It never does.
         A brief wrestle ensues, to shove the face back into the womb of the pillow, willing sleep to happen, pressing fast forward on Life.  He knows this will not happen.  Familiar sensations – his heartbeat quickens.  Shallow breath.  The air becomes heavy, pressing down on him as he wishes the bed would consume him – erase him.  His skin tingles and his mind races ahead of him – touching on thoughts and feelings before they register.  Bits and pieces.  Being chased.  Being loved.  Being feared.  Fearing.  Inadequacy.  Incompetence.  Sin.  Failure.  A cacophony of voices – too many.
         Abruptly he stretches for the corners of the bed.  A snow angel in a field of white linens.  Each extremity finds an edge and grabbing hold, tries to fold the mattress in on himself.  Tensing every muscle.  Holding it for an eternity.  Praying that the blood pounding in his ears will burst, washing him away.
         Then, with a sob and a grunt stuck just behind his throat moving to his chest as a deep growl he lets go of the bed.  A desire to cry that comes out more like a half-giggle at his ridiculous state – his morning ritual.
         Once again he opens his eyes and turns toward the clock.
         5:47
         Forget it.
         He reaches over – amazed for a moment at the length of his arm and the command he has over his fingers at such a distance.  He shuts off the alrm.  He wonders for a moment what the alarm even sounds like.  Probably a screaming child – his mother singing "Oh What a Beautiful Morning" – a woman climaxing.  All good possibilities.  All disturbing. 
         He rolls over onto his back, taking a pillow with him, hugging it to his chest.  New down pillows.  Heavy.  Solid.  Almost alive.  He breathes deep, feeling the pillow rise and fall with his diaphragm.  He squeezes it tightly, trying to force it into the empty hole in the center of his chest.  Breathing and not breathing.  He lays, aware of his body.  He shifts his leg so that he is laying completely flat.  With one last squeeze, he releases the pillow and lets his arms lay next to his sides.  A moment of quiet, of calm.  An empty stillness.  Nirvana – if he could only maintain it indefinitely.  But knowing it won't last – and not wishing to renew the struggle, he moves the pillow aside and sits up.
         It's time to begin.
         With an empty feeling that something is missing, he slides his legs out of bed until he is kneeling at the side, just like the pictures from church.  Ever the obedient worshiper.  He clasps his hands and starts to pray:
         "My dearest Heavenly Father.  Thank you for all of the many blessings you have given me.  I love you so much.  Please help me to have thy Spirit to be with me . . . "
         What does that mean?  He is overcome with a feeling of incompetence.  He is not praying correctly.  He never has.  It's a wonder God even listens to him – if God does.  Vain repetitions.  Pride.  Where is his sincerity?  How can a person like him possibly pray?  The sheer audacity. 
         Feeling overwhelmed and not wanting yet another struggle, he says a quick, "In the name of Jesus Christ, amen," pushes it out of his mind and jumps to his feet.
         Now is the time for order – control.  He quickly finds the sheets that have been pounded to the bottom of the bed, yanks them to the top in a sloppy pile and then places the duvet over them, smoothing it carefully.  It doesn't matter what is underneath as long as the cover looks good.  Tossing the pillows on top in a pre-determined state of organized chaos he breathes a contained sigh of accomplishment.
         He then opens his garment drawer – overflowing with every style of garment available through the Distribution Center.  If he's confined to one type of underwear, at least he'll have as much variety as possible.  Perhaps there's a sin in that.  What isn't there sin in?  He chooses a comfortable high necked cotton top and loose mesh pair of bottoms – barely acknowledging to himself that this particular pair makes him feel rather sexy – if that's possible.  He likes the way his pants feel closer to his skin, which consequently brings the whole world closer to him – to his crotch.
         With his garments chosen, he takes off the garments he is currently wearing and briefly stands in front of his mirror.  He scopes out the naked man in front of him.  White.  Skinny but with some fat beginning to accumulate around his middle.  Hairy – in some places.  Some on his chest but not all over.  A small penis.  Too small.  He gives it a tug and it becomes a little longer – still not big but almost presentable – not that he has any plans for presenting it.  Looking at porn can give a person a distinctly messed up image of themselves.
         With that decided, he tries to smile at himself, to make out his blue eyes, but it is too early and something feels wrong.  He grabs his garments and a pair of pajama bottoms.  At the French doors into his room, he peeks out the curtained window to see if his roommate is up.  Not seeing any lights he makes a dash for the bathroom.  He could cover up to go to the bathroom – but why use that energy, he thinks.  Plus, admit it or not, he enjoys running around with no clothes on – like a toddler set free with no diaper – the thrill of possibly being caught.
         Finally in the bathroom, he shuts the door, setting his garments on the rug – making sure they don’t touch the bare tiles.  He steps into the shower.