I hear yelling and laughter down the hall – they're out again. Our dorm's nudists don't have a shower party every night, but they seem to occur more and more frequently now. If I wait long enough, maybe they'll be done before I need to use the bathroom. I work on some backup plans; worst case scenario, I can take my stuff to another bathroom. It’s a little more inconvenient, but I'd rather walk a little further than wade through a mob of exposed genitalia.

Picture this: a young, skinny, pale, little boy, dressed in baggy, light wash jeans and an oversized graphic t-shirt. This was the dress code of the 90s and early 2000s, and it was great for me as a kid: lots of fabric for comfort, as well as protection from scrapes and bruises, with the ability to hide much of my gangly awkwardness common to pre-pubescent boys.

I want to talk about rape – specifically, my childhood rape. I want to tell this difficult story for two reasons: healing for myself, and more importantly healing for anyone else reading. Please read at your own discretion.

It's easier to remain in the cage even when you can leave, because it's familiar. It's normal. It's hard to ask others for help. It's hard to just...be. Alone. In your own skin.

For this first entry on masculinity, I want to share my experiences with masculine leadership, including how the lack of positive, consistent examples of masculine leadership has affected how I interact with and think about the men who are supposed to lead me.

I learned that it wasn't safe for me to talk about or process through any of this struggle. Not at this church. And that is just what I did for the rest of high school. I didn't talk about my sexuality with anyone at that church again.

Once upon a time I wrote about five times I've felt like a man. As we wind down the theme of "Love Month" at YOB, I started thinking about some instances when my heart has swelled, or exploded, or some other symphonic verb meant to translate the depths of safety, care, and affection I've experienced with other men. This isn't a "top 5" or hardly exhaustive list, but these are five stories that come to mind...

From day one, I found my teacher attractive – not in a physical sense but in how he conducted himself. He told us, "I want you all to know that I love you. I don't care what you may think or what others tell you, but I love you."

It's hard to classify some of my attachments to other men as "crushes," per se. Emotional fixation is a more accurate term, I think. When I fixate on a guy, I'm not imagining him as a lover or sex partner. I'm more imagining an ideal life where he is a close friend or, yes, even a brother.

Looking back, I cringe at the sheer childishness of some of these entries. I may as well have been giggling and kicking my feet and drawing little hearts while writing them. There's no unifying "type" to these physically diverse male crushes beyond "he was nice to me for longer than 30 seconds and feels safe."

How does this "normal boy" turned "normal man" feel about his naked body? His penis? I'm still unsure of many of the answers to these questions. From the inside out, I've struggled to feel normal (comfortable) in my own skin. This masculine body. Starting with that particular appendage.

I was just about to graduate and launch out into the world, and I couldn't hide from the truth any longer. I'm homosexual. That was the only language I had for it at the time. There was no way I could have used the word gay, because I sure wasn't happy; quite the opposite, in fact. I was devastated.

I had sex for the first time on May 3, 1979. Funny how you always remember your first. It was with my sister's best friend. I was 17; she was 16. Everyone in the neighborhood swore we were already having sex, but we weren't. I really wasn't interested in her or any other girl for that matter; even if I was, I wouldn't have known what to do anyway.

Although the teasing continued for the rest of the school year, I honestly learned to ignore it. I became a recluse at a very young age. This reclusiveness made the other kids – especially the other boys – a bit of a mystery to me. Particularly physically. Looking back, I realize I was in a bit of a paradox: I didn't want the other boys to see any of my body, but I also had somewhat of an interest in theirs.

My mom didn't start saying she loved me until she became a Christian in the early 80's. Now she says it almost every day, and I feel like she's doing it to make up for all those lost years. As far as I'm concerned, those "I love you's" are empty because she's been saying it to the straight Michael she's always preferred instead of the Michael actually in front of her. And because of that, I've learned to tolerate her acknowledged denial of my life.

Another Pride Month gone; another year I didn't participate. I've never been one for any kind of parade, but part of me believes participating in Pride means I have accepted the part of myself that remained hidden for so long.

It was the first song I'd ever heard that touched upon my most simple yet desperate longing; buried beneath the pangs of my sexuality, a clear yet unattainable desire – to have a best buddy, someone who tells me he wants to be with me, someone to goof off with, someone to sit beside in a country field. Someone by my side when I'm hurting.

Who was it that said Pride is a celebration of having survived? I can certainly relate to that. I don't know who said it before Ryan did, but I'm processing Pride with new eyes and new appreciation this year, and hopefully for the rest of my life. Recognizing the blessing, even the miracle, that I'm still alive. Indeed, I could have died years ago because of my sexuality.

I still have that Link costume somewhere in my closet. Perhaps it's the wandering through the woods that I love, the isolation, the music; or, perhaps it's something deeper that has stuck with me after all these years. Perhaps it's that I feel like the protagonist: adrift in time, unsure whether I'm a child or a man. This is how I feel as I move back into my childhood bedroom – the place where my sexual trauma occurred.

Years ago a YOB post like this initially proved to me that this site had something new and interesting to offer the world. It made me feel seen and understood like almost nothing I had read before.