Here’s what happened before I came out of the closet:
I sat through 23 years of Mormon Sacrament Meetings, Stake Conferences, and General Conference broadcasts during which I was gently and regularly reminded that people like me need to be beaten up for my own good (Packer. To Young Men Only. General Conference Priesthood Session, October 2, 1976). That loving another man made me worse than a murderer (Kimball. Miracle of Forgiveness. Bookcraft, 1969). That I was better off dead (Kimball. Love Versus Lust. BYU Devotional, January 5, 1965).
My TBM older brother figured me out. Three times before I was 23 he tried to kill me with his fists, on the advice of the aforementioned church leaders. He failed. I guess his Mormon doG wasn't guiding his fists. I guess he must have been unworthy. Mormon doG works that way, you know. Pity. I decided I didn’t need to acknowledge TBM older brother's Pre-existence, his Present-existence, or his Post-existence. At all.
Here’s what happened after I came out of the closet:
My TBM mother went into deep-space orbit. We could send a NASA probe to Uranus a lot faster if we'd tied the spaceship to her anus. Tantrums. Pouting. More tantrums. Attempted manipulation. More tantrums. Whatever.
My TBM younger brother ran hot-and-cold for 15 years on whether I was an asset or a liability to his pathetic dating life. Can we say “conflicted”? After I paid for his wedding, I got dissed. Something about his new wife thinking “gay” was contagious.
Shunned or avoided by 90% of the Mormons I knew, even when I saw them on the street which was thankfully not often. I became the object of gossip and conjecture! I’m so glad I later had the opportunity to experience all the things they were saying I’d done already.
One TBM “friend” claimed "it doesn't matter!" Then she assumed that quitting the church and coming out of the closet meant I suddenly had no moral standards whatsoever, and took huge liberties with my generosity after she got herself unemployed, bankrupted, repossessed, and evicted. My response: "No, I can’t pay your bills for you. Especially since you're already living under my roof rent-free, eating my food and not contributing, and bar-hopping all night with your girlfriends, while I make sure your seventeen year-old son gets to work and school on time every morning. Buh-bye!"
Another TBM “friend” and his family re-edited all our conversations inside their own heads: apparently the word "gay" was miraculously blocked at the eardrum as they tried to emotionally blackmail me back into the church. They introduced me to several BYU co-eds under the assumption that one of them would instantly "cure" me. Failing that, he informed me that my lack of cooperation with his method of spiritual guidance was making him look bad to his kids. What the hell?!?
<<click. dial tone>>