Like Me (33 page)

I have noticed that when other well-known people in entertainment come out of the closet, they do sometimes enjoy a certain overwhelming acceptance. I think it’s good when those who have come out say in interviews that they can’t believe how much support they have received from their peers, from the press, and from their fans. I have no doubt that the support is real, but I can’t help but think of the people they didn’t hear from.

For the most part, I believe that those who don’t approve are less likely to come forward and say so. Perhaps it’s the private, secret disdain and hatred that are the most dangerous. Generations of clandestine haters have done their most effective work cloaked in white sheets, without a single public statement—allowing
them to remain nameless and faceless. That’s what scares me the most.

I consider myself lucky to have people in my life who have accepted me and cradled me in support. My dad’s response upon learning that I was gay was shocking and inspiring to me. I’m not saying that he understands it or that he is “cool” with it, but every time we talk he makes sure to tell me that he is proud of me and that this experience has forced him to think.

Not too long ago he told me that he thought he knew what “gay” was and that it represented sinfulness, deviance, promiscuity, and a lack of goodness. After I came out to him in that Midwestern hotel room, he had to reconsider what “gay” is; he knew that I didn’t fit into his old definition of the word. I am proud of my dad, and I am thankful for him.

Since my aunt Char and my sister, Jeny, found out, they have each sought education about homosexuality through books, articles, and documentary films. I don’t tell them what to believe and what not to believe. I simply encourage them to continue listening and to use their hearts and their minds. Their love and support mean everything to me.

I
t would be wrong to blame my breakup with Julia on John Rich—he was merely the catalyst. The real killer was my hiding.

I have never loved anyone the way I loved Julia. Even writing her name causes old feelings to be stirred up. I ask myself if things would have been different had I been able to stand up and openly declare my love for her. But I didn’t stand up. Too much was at stake, and I lost the only thing that mattered to me.

I still dream of Julia—dreams that feel so real, that’s what makes them so painful.

I see us walking in Radnor Park in the fall. We’re side by side as we walk through the blanket of gold-and rust-colored leaves. Occasionally I have to adjust my step to slow down for her, because my legs are longer than hers. Walking together was something we became good at over the years, and it was as much a part of our being a couple as finishing one another’s sentences or making love—moving together along paths, sidewalks, and trails as one. I knew her stride and she knew mine.

In the dream, we’re walking. I look over and see her profile, the familiar lines of her chin and her nose, the way her bangs brush her brow, and I think to myself that she’s even prettier than the day I met her. She became more attractive to me as the years went by, and when I see her in my sleep, she’s beautiful.

In February 2002 I gave Julia a ring. I’d given her jewelry before, but this ring signified something more; it meant forever. She and I had been through the toughest of times, and even though I didn’t know exactly how we would manage the complexities of staying together while continuing to hide in the closet, I knew that I couldn’t stand the thought of being without her. As I shopped for months to find the perfect ring, I spent a lot of time thinking about what that ring would mean to us.

I was nervous about taking the step, but I assumed that uncertainty and anxiety were likely the same in heterosexual couples at the crossroads of commitment. I relaxed and went with my heart.

It was Valentine’s Day and we were upstairs on the floor of the guest bedroom, playing with our dogs, as we did most evenings after we got home from our workdays. The bedroom was carpeted, and the dogs preferred playing up there because they could get traction to run. Knowing that we’d end up in that spot, I had placed the gift-wrapped ring in the top drawer of the bedside nightstand.

My insides were shaking, and just when I couldn’t take it any longer, I said, “Close your eyes.” She resisted and asked why—reminding me that our date the night before had been our Valentine’s Day gift to each other and that if I’d gone ahead and gotten her a gift, she was going to feel bad because she had stuck to our pact and didn’t buy me one. I convinced her to close her eyes, and I gently put the small silver box with the little red bow in the palm of her hand. She opened her eyes and knew instantly what I had done. Perhaps she flashed back to the months before, to the times I had steered her by a few jewelry stores and casually taken note of what she liked and didn’t like.

Julia slowly peeled the paper off the box, took the smaller blue box in her hands, and opened the lid. “I love it,” she said. She put it on her finger and extended her arm out in front of her, tipped her head to one side, squinted her eyes ever so slightly,
admired her gift, and smiled. Then I handed her the card that I had carefully chosen, and she read what I’d written inside.

She cried. I cried. We hugged and kissed while our dogs brought us squeaky toys and multicolored ropes. Had it been legal for us to marry, and had I not been a well-known person in country music, I would have asked her to marry me—and I think she would’ve said yes.

Recently I had a dream about that night, and the details were just as I’d described. It would’ve been easier had the dream not seemed so real, had I realized midway through that it didn’t make sense and that it was just a dream. Instead, I woke up to an alarm clock and the realization that Julia and I were not together.

I regret that I gave in to fear and selfishness and chose to leave Julia. I regret that when we had the chance to reconcile in 2006, I was not ready to stand up and speak the truth—even though I had had a frightening glance into how unhappy my life could be without real love. Even then I was too scared. I regret that I put others’ opinions of me before me and the woman I loved. I regret that I didn’t have enough self-confidence to choose a partner who wanted me to be happy in my life, career included. I regret that Julia’s biggest fear and accusation of me for so many years came true. She used to tell me that she was afraid I cared more about my career and my image than I did about her. I regret that I proved her right.

I have oceans of regret. I have found a positive direction in my life, a true north. I feel lucky to have such deep waters beneath me, because every drop is a reminder to me of the power of truth, and all of those drops combined can deliver me to new places.

I have forgiven myself for my mistakes. Now I know that nothing is more important than my health, my happiness, and my heart.

I
moved to New York City in June 2008. As I write my story, I am filled with excitement, fear, anxiety, and glimmers of liberation and hope. I am trying to prepare myself. A few of my friends might be angry with me for not trusting them enough to confide in them, but I just hope that once they’ve read my story they’ll understand why I handled it the way I did. Many people that I’ve employed over the years are conservative Christians, and to them homosexuality is nothing more than a deviant, sinful choice that some recklessly make, putting their salvation at risk. During my career, I have sat in the front lounge of my tour bus or around dinner tables with my employees as some of them have quoted scripture and pontificated about the sins of homosexuality to anyone who would listen.

It was never pointed at me specifically, because I was good at hiding, but the condemnation, ignorance, and judgment left me frustrated and angry.

I have lived with a great deal of shame in allowing that kind of discussion to happen in my presence, and I’m trying to forgive myself for it. It’s not that I didn’t raise questions to their small-minded arguments. I did. But I didn’t want to invite speculation about my sexuality. I sat through those discussions because I genuinely wanted to hear their opinions. I truly do believe in everyone’s right to their own beliefs.

I realize that this will be far more difficult than I imagine—it already has been.

I cry most days as I write this down. I’m uncovering a lifetime of imposed shame and fear. I’m happy to be telling my story because it makes me feel whole for the first time in my life.

In addition to my everyday life of writing and recording, I spend time thinking about what it will be like when I do step forward. Can I help people understand what it’s like to be gay? Will I be able to further identify homosexuality and some of the inherent challenges that we face? I am focused on being ready—I feel like an athlete in training.

I
told a couple of my friends who already knew my secret that I was going to come out of the closet. I realized that I would have to let a few more people into my life and into my business to help me through the process.

I’ve zigzagged across the nation, from Nashville to New York City, Atlanta to Los Angeles and back, to seek out sensitive and qualified people to help me come out of hiding. I had to come out to every one of those people that I went to see, and anyone who’s ever come out before can tell you it’s exhausting. I’ve sat with no fewer than thirty people and shared my story to help them gain a full understanding of how my life in hiding has been.

I’ve been nervous since the day I decided to do this. One can ask people to keep one’s secret, but sometimes they don’t. I’ve known this my entire career, and it’s exactly why I seldom confided in anyone.

I
f you were to ask a fan why they love country singers, their answer would likely be “Because they are so real.” Every time I heard a fan say that about me—and I did so often—it made me sick to my stomach. I was hiding a big part of myself from my
fans, and I feared that most of them would not understand or approve of who I really was.

I have no idea if or how many of my fans will support me in my journey from this point forward, and I have no idea where I might find my audience.

I am a musician and a songwriter. I have dedicated my life to performing for an audience, and my work has paid off. I don’t know what will happen, but I am at peace with the uncertainty of it all.