My mother was always a ghost in my life. It was prison that most often kept her out of reach for me, both physically and emotionally. She was an addict, and the choices she made put me second, or maybe even third, just after drugs and men. Our relationship consisted of my visiting her in jail when I was young, and then as I grew older, acting as the mother to my mother. My father was also a ghost, rarely around, and his lack of any parental commitment broke that foundation as well, further cementing my feelings of abandonment. I wanted to have a different kind of family. An intact family. And to do that, I'd have to build it myself. When I came out, in my teens, I knew it would not be easy. I was raised by loving and religious grandparents. They were God's children, and to them, so was I. Though they never allowed me to call them "Mom" and "Dad," they were the only stability I knew, and my sexual identity would be hard for them. I was wary of all the obstacles and sacrifices I would face, but I dreamed of finding a wife and having children. I needed them to understand that even though I was queer, God still loved me, and I hoped they did, too.
I was determined to live my truth. Holding onto any light was often a struggle, especially when my church, my family, and society saw me as representing the wrong kind of love. But hope screamed and stretched itself throughout my body, yearning for what I was meant to have. Still, it would take some time until I truly believed I was worthy.