I met Jacob in 2019 on a press trip to upstate New York. We shared a mutual attraction and spent the night getting to know each other over cocktails as distant crickets chimed in the forest. We discussed the merits of Lindsay Lohan and Heidi Montag’s music careers, then later in his cabin, got entangled in each other’s bodies.
After spending an extra day with him, I flew home and we spoke every day. I was ecstatic to make our relationship official, despite living in separate countries. Yes, I was concerned about hunkering down with someone just one year after coming out, but my excitement for Jacob eclipsed that. It took me 27 years to build the bravery to come out of the closet, and I couldn’t allow what could be the love of my life to pass me by.
Yet three years later, I was ready to let him go. When the COVID pandemic began, we weren’t able to see each other for nine months. Alone and confined indoors, I became deeply depressed. Gradually, I began to blame our relationship for the isolation I felt. The intrusive thoughts grew: Why did I dive into a committed, long distance relationship so soon after coming out? Shouldn’t I be developing my own sense of self outside of this relationship? And spending all my time online — particularly Twitter, where people seemed to be posting even more explicit content than usual — I started to daydream about being single.
Eventually, I called it off. It’s one of my biggest regrets to this day.
Looking back, I now realize that this was a classic case of “grass is greener” thinking, a documented psychological state of experiencing an unrelenting feeling that there is something better for you outside of your current situation. Much of the feeling boils down to fear: of being trapped in commitment, of boredom, of losing one’s individuality. As a result, those stuck in this state believe that pursuing something new or different will allow us to have all that we crave, want, and value.
This way of thinking isn’t unique to queer people, of course. But I’ve noticed it to be particularly prevalent and acute among my queer friends. When I talked through my broken heart, almost all of my friends said they had been in a relationship that ended for the same or similar reasons.
Reflecting, I wondered if my experiences as a queer person could have something to do with my tendency to think this way, and my ultimate decision to end the relationship. With some research, I found that the answer is: possibly.
To start, many queer people aren’t tethered to traditional heteronormative relationship structures. Even though queer people in many countries can get married, there is less of an emphasis in our community on the idea that relationships will, or need to, last forever. (Which, of course, is not necessarily a bad thing, given how toxic those traditional values can be.) For me, that was even more pronounced: As someone who was once just one month away from marrying a woman because that’s what I believed I was “supposed” to do (coming out wasn’t even fathomable at the time), it became particularly important to me to shed those expectations.
There are also common reactions to the experience of growing up queer — bullying, rejection, being forced to keep relationships secret — that can carry over into how we behave and what we want from our partners. For example, in relationships, people tend to fall into two categories: “satisfiers” and “strivers,” says Craig Cassey, a queer-identifying life and sex coach in Washington, D.C. He says gay men are often susceptible to the latter, meaning many of us aim to be the best, or jump on any opportunity that we think we help us level up. Satisfiers, on the other hand, create satisfaction with what they have. “It’s not uncommon to find a queer man who has built his sense of self and safety through his own success, personal achievement, and being the best at whatever they do,” Cassey says. I can relate: Being bullied relentlessly in my youth, I felt like I had to excel at everything to counter the feeling of inferiority.
Research backs up this idea. Some studies have found that, statistically, queer men are high achievers, arguing that we compensate for homophobia by striving through academia and other professional achievements. In addition, CDC data shows that LGBTQ+ youth continue to suffer higher health and suicide risks than their heterosexual peers, with 29% of gay or lesbian youth being bullied on school property, compared to 17% of straight youth.
These experiences can be traumatic, and can manifest in our romantic relationships. Research has also found that internalized homophobia (defined as “the gay person’s direction of negative social attitudes toward the self”) is linked to several negative outcomes in romantic relationships for LGB individuals.
The challenges, of growing up queer, says Madison McCullough, a queer-identifying therapist in New York City, can pressure us to make the otherness we experienced “worth it.” Some queer people want to say, “I’ll show them” to people who challenged them in their youth, which can move those people to strive for a relationship that looks as desirable as possible to the public. “This can result in no relationship ever feeling good enough,” McCullough says. “There is a lot of deeply internalized self-criticism and shame at play here.”
My therapist would agree. He’s helped me uncover how I overachieved to compensate for disappointing my family when, or if, I came out. It makes sense, then, that I might have done the same with my first same-sex relationship. If I was going to love a man, he had to be worth all the homophobia and bullying I experienced. It was an impossible standard.
As I found in the months following my split with Jacob, this pursuit quickly became an endless cycle of disappointment; everything new and novel became boring, sparking the crippling realization that the grass was much greener where I was. But it was too late. The simple fact is that I couldn’t recognize what I had when I had it. Could this be in part because I was robbed of my youth, living in the closet? Possibly. Ultimately, though, I’d rather take responsibility for my actions. It’s easier than taking my neurotic rationalizations any further.
While I consider the decision to split as one of the biggest mistakes of my life, things are slowly getting better. I can honestly say I’m excited about dating again and have since met a group of friends who make my heart feel full. Only future relationships will tell if I’m able to ignore the seduction of that lush green grass again, but at least I know now to be wary of the illusion.
Moving forward, I’ll stop allowing factors from my past to influence my idea of what a relationship should be or look like. Sometimes, our greatest lessons come from our biggest mistakes, and perhaps Jacob taught me to finally give myself the freedom to love who and however I want.
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