You Can Never Have Too Much Happy
By: Jake Mefford
Tags: Coming Of Age, LGBTQ, Coming Out, Growing Up, Pride

Swimming eventually met the same demise, and my happiness was taken with it. Depression hit hard in high school and when this radiated out into swimming I stopped going. I gave up. I was gay. I would still go to the pool, hopeful I could one day leave my car and rejoin my friends.

What would I say? How would I explain my absence? Explain that I was gay? No, I could not do that. Then they would know.

This went on for months. I saw myself as having no options and read books while I watched from my car as my friends attended practices without me. As they got faster and I didn’t. As they made it to Jr nationals, then nationals and I did not. I was stagnant and scared.

If I quit, how would I explain it? Would my mom wonder and find out about me being gay if I quit? Would my friends? She would know there was more to the story if I told her I wanted to stop swimming, she has an eagle eye and does not miss any details. She would pursue that question of why until she found out. But she could not know, nobody could except for me.

I forced myself to stay, and in forcing myself I got injured. My source of happiness was gone and I realized that without it I had no happiness of my own to fall back to. Nothing to pull from to get me back in the water.

I sank deep into myself and eventually found something. My competitiveness. The one thing that made me love the sport at the beginning. Even with my injury I could still practice and work on a specific part of the sport that I loved, kicking. In the sport of swimming you are allowed to kick underwater off of walls for a certain distance. Michael Phelps used to this tactic to win 23 gold medals in total. It was the fastest part of the race and I was good at it. Underwater I was free from the worries in my head because under the surface I could win and be competitive. And since my injury was shoulder related, I could capitalize on this strength as all I needed to work properly were my legs. With this newfound enjoyment I had the best season I had had in years. I was gay. It took a severe injury to get me to like my sport again. My success had briefly bandaged up my damaged parts.

Shortly before I left for college I spoke with three of my teammates about being gay. I was gay. But I was scared. I told them I was bi, figuring that it would be the least judgmental of the options. They were surprised by my coming out and I felt slight relief. But there was still a problem. I was gay. I did not feel right. Teammates soon stopped talking to me once I left for college. I later received a text from a teammate who knew. Someone who I had not told. This person found out from someone else that I had not told.

They knew. Everyone knew. My secret that I had worked for so many years to hide away was out in the world. I couldn’t go back.

States away, I could only watch as my happy place crumbled into rubble and drifted with the tides back where it had come.

College was a chance to be away from home. It was an exciting prospect, and I went to school a few states over in Texas. A far cry from California where I grew up, but here I would be able to learn and explore a new place. Most of my excitement and happiness stemmed from the unknown of it all. It was a new swim team. Nobody knew me. I could finally be myself. I made new friends and was happy to be somewhere new, hoping I could be more open about myself. My comfort with this new adventure was shattered upon finding that people back home knew I was gay. I was gay. I was scared. The tides soon came and stole away the happiness this new place had. I felt sick constantly and fell back to the pattern I knew from before and watched success around me.

The swim team had a surprise meeting one night. I soon found out that the topic of the evening was myself and one of my friends suffering from depression like I was. I immediately had a bad feeling, there was no coach present.

Did these teammates of ours know we were both severely depressed? Did they want to help? Did they know I was gay? What would I say?

I was scared and could hardly breathe or make eye contact with anyone, let alone my friend next to me. The wave that crashed down upon us was one that took us both by surprise, as our teammates told us one by one how our lack of participation within the team made them feel. Nothing was positive. There were no questions asked of our own mental health. No care for how damaging the shotgunning of negative feedback towards us both was. We were outsiders and nobody wanted either of us around. I could only say I was dealing with personal issues back home. The suggested solution was that I man up and deal with it for the good of the team. Like I was responsible for bringing the entire team down. Out of the twenty something athletes in the room, only one offered a helping hand for myself and my friend. I was scared. I was terrified. I was gay. Worrying for the same outcome as with my team back home, I told nobody and retreated to where these shifting tides of sadness and happiness could not find me.

I knew my end of season meet was my last one going into it. I was gay. I was crying behind the blocks before my race. My goggles filled with tears during the race and I couldn’t see. I should have felt confident. I didn’t. I had texted my old coach that day filled with worry. I lied and told him I felt better after we spoke but I didn’t. I swam slower that day than I did when I was fourteen. I only know two of my times from that final meet, my first one, and my last one. I had fallen apart and anyone I felt I could talk to was thousands of miles away. The next month my friend tried to get me to spend time with others and leave my room. I later learned that my teammates asked him why he brought me along and that they didn’t want me around. I was gay. I officially quit my sport that day. It was a sport I had loved and had been a part of since I was five.