Welcome to Conversion Therapy™—the only place where Jesus moonlights as a licensed therapist and heterosexuality is somehow contagious if you cry hard enough. Buckle up, buttercup. It’s time for a full-bodied, unlicensed, medically discredited journey through the spiritual carwash known as “turning you straight.”
Spoiler alert: It doesn’t work. Unless the goal is PTSD, self-loathing, and one hell of a memoir.
Let’s begin.
Step 1: The Diagnosis You Didn’t Ask For
First, someone has to decide you’re broken. Usually this is a parent, pastor, or politician with the emotional intelligence of a burned Pop-Tart. They’ve read one verse in Leviticus (but missed the parts about shrimp, polyester, and not being a dick), and now they’re an expert on your soul.
Cue the intervention. There are tears. There’s praying. There’s probably a pamphlet printed in 1992 titled Freedom From the Sin of Same-Sex Attraction, featuring a clipart angel sobbing into a Chick-fil-A sandwich.
Your journey to hell begins with a handshake and a quote from Corinthians.
Step 2: The “Therapy” Part (Read: Psychological Torture)
Welcome to “therapy.” I hope you enjoy emotionally constipated men with God complexes and no accreditation. You’ll be given a workbook, a prayer partner, and a growing suspicion that this is all just Catholic school with better lighting.
The sessions begin:
- “Tell me about your father.”
- “Have you ever tried sports?”
- “What if you picture Jesus while you masturbate?”
You’ll write lists of your “sexual triggers.” You’ll be told your body is a sin and your attractions are demonic. One guy in the group cries every time a man speaks. Another keeps repeating, “I’m not gay, I just have same-sex attraction.” He’s wearing a mesh tank top. In February.
This isn’t therapy. It’s gaslighting in khakis.
Step 3: The Holy Makeover
At some point, they’ll try to butch you up. Suddenly you’re going to the gym, learning to shave against the grain, and attending something called “Manhood Bootcamp.” You’ll be taught how to grill things, fix a carburetor, and aggressively high-five.
They’ll throw in a class on how to walk “less gay.” Which is fun, because last I checked, walking was not sexual orientation-specific. But apparently, the way your foot lands tells Satan everything he needs to know.
You’ll also get fashion advice, which is confusing because it’s mostly about removing taste. “No more florals.” “Lose the bracelets.” “No scented lotion.” If they had their way, you’d leave this program looking like a divorced high school football coach who collects novelty shot glasses and hates his wife.
Step 4: Testimony Night (or, Emotional Waterboarding)
Eventually, you’ll be expected to share your “success story.” You’ll stand on a church stage or in a musty meeting room and say things like:
“I used to struggle with homosexuality, but through the power of Christ, I am now walking in freedom.”
You’ll say it because you’re scared. Because you want to go home. Because your mom is finally looking at you like you’re a person and not a failed Pinterest project. You’ll smile through the panic, clutch your Bible, and try not to throw up.
You’ll pretend the nightmares aren’t real. That you don’t flinch when someone touches you. That you haven’t been taught to hate the skin you’re in.
This is your reward for compliance: applause from the very people who would crucify you if you ever told the truth.
Step 5: The Glorious Relapse (aka, Real Life)
You leave the program. You’ve got a laminated certificate and a year’s supply of internalized homophobia. Congratulations. You’re a new creation. Except you’re still gay. Just more anxious about it.
You try dating the opposite sex. You pray before each date like you’re entering a hostage negotiation. You kiss someone who smells like Bath & Body Works and say, “This is fine. I can do this. This is normal.”
You last three weeks.
Eventually, it all unravels. Maybe it’s a breakdown. Maybe it’s a one-night stand. Maybe it’s a Grindr binge followed by three hours of sobbing in a Chili’s parking lot.
And when the church finds out, they’ll say, “We’re so disappointed. We thought you were healed.”
Healed from what? Wanting love? Needing touch? Existing?
Step 6: The Aftermath
Years later, the real therapy begins.
You’ll sit with a licensed therapist who actually understands trauma. You’ll unpack years of shame and lies and false salvation. You’ll cry over lost time, stolen joy, and the friendships you abandoned to be “righteous.”
You’ll meet others like you—survivors of this spiritual hit job. Some will still be struggling. Some will have found peace. Some won’t be here anymore.
You’ll hold that pain like a sacred object.
And if you’re lucky—if you fight like hell—you’ll reclaim your life. Not despite who you are. But because of it.
The Lingering Effects (Yes, We’re Still Dealing With It)
Even though conversion therapy is banned in some states, its theology lives on. In family dinners where pronouns are weaponized. In churches that claim to “love the sinner” while legislating you into oblivion. In politicians who use queer lives as pawns in their culture wars.
This doctrine doesn’t die. It mutates. Now it’s “gender confusion.” It’s “parental rights.” It’s “biological reality.” Same poison, new label.
And the scars it leaves? Deep. Silent. Familiar.
It took years for me to believe I wasn’t broken. Years to touch someone and not hear scripture in my head. Years to stop apologizing for existing.
Conversion therapy didn’t make me straight. It made me suicidal. It made me quiet. It made me doubt love itself.
And I survived.
In Conclusion:
Conversion therapy is not therapy. It’s a well-funded lie. It’s a sociopolitical weapon dressed in Jesus drag. And for those of us who’ve endured it, we carry that wound. But we also carry each other.
To anyone still tangled in its grip: You are not unworthy. You are not alone. And you are not the sin they sold you.
And to the churches, lawmakers, and “therapists” still pushing this bullshit:
We see you.
And we’re not going quietly.