Maya’S story
I was told being gay was a ‘test’ I had to overcome
I grew up in a modern Orthodox Jewish community in north London. We were what you could call a ‘normal’ middle-class family, and I had a happy childhood. I realised I was gay around the age of 11, but it wasn’t until my first year of university that I let myself stop to think about it. During my first year, I started to worry a lot – only to myself – about what it meant to be gay. I realised that, according to what I’d learnt about my faith, God was not pro-gay. It seemed to me that I had to decide whether to ignore God, redefine religion for myself, or accept that my sexuality was a sin and dedicate my life to Judaism. I decided on the latter.
I then got involved in a Jewish outreach group. We went on a trip to Israel, where the days were split between studying religious seminary and going out partying. One night, on the coach home, one of the rabbis asked me if I was OK. I drunkenly admitted that I was worried about not fancying the boy I was dating at the time. He asked if it was that guy in particular, or all guys. I told him the truth – it was all guys.
The next morning I woke up in a panic. I’d never told anyone about my sexuality before. I also didn’t know any gay people and hadn’t seen any real representation of them in the media – it was a completely different landscape ten years ago. I started confiding in the rabbi. I told him I was feeling lost, that I wanted to fit in and have a stereotypical family. He said he knew of people like me in Israel who had been through therapy and were now happily married. After he told me that, I kept asking him to find me a therapist. When he did, I spent nine months in Israel, studying and having therapy once a week. I even asked for homework.
He told me everyone has one ‘test’ in life that they need to overcome, and that mine was being gay.
At first, therapy was OK. Initially, my therapist suggested that low self-esteem around guys might be the cause. This seemed surprising as many of my friends were guys, but we worked on that. Then it focused on my parents, who both had full-time jobs, and we addressed them not being ‘nurturing’ enough, even though I’ve always had a really good relationship with both of them. Finally, it evolved into the topic of religion and purpose. He told me everyone has one ‘test’ in life that they need to overcome, and that mine was being gay. I found that logic really hard to let go of afterwards – I’m competitive, so I was determined to defeat this challenge I’d been given.
There was also a huge amount of over analysis involved in the therapy. If I was attracted to a woman, we had to dissect what was ‘actually’ behind it. If I got butterflies when I saw somebody, the reason was that I was worried about my university work – it was anxiety, not attraction. The focus was on desexualising everything, but the wider impact was to make me doubt my own thoughts and rely on his interpretation of everything.
I finally stopped therapy when my therapist began to insist that my sexuality might be linked to childhood trauma, and that this was something most LGBTQ+ people have experienced. I had to ask my parents if I had been abused, which of course I hadn’t. I was then told the trauma must have occurred in a past life. We did a ‘past life regression’, which involves meditating together. I had to close my eyes and say what I saw – but I didn’t see anything. Finally, I made up a story so I could leave.
After that, I told the therapist that I still felt no change whatsoever, except that I no longer had a sex drive. I asked to meet someone who had changed as a result of therapy. It took them six months to find somebody, which undermined their claims that there are plenty of people who have had ‘successful’ conversion therapy.
I finally met a woman, Channah, who had undergone years of therapy. I asked her if she could kiss a guy. She told me she could confidently stay in a room and chat with guys, but could not kiss a guy and feel attraction while doing so. This didn’t reassure me. Then I asked if she could ever sleep with a guy. She replied that she couldn’t. That’s when I knew I was done.
We can only end conversion therapy if religious organisations fully support LGBTQ+ people.
Moving forward, we can only end conversion therapy if religious organisations fully support LGBTQ+ people. It can’t be lip service, or ‘acceptance’ with set parameters. We also desperately need education systems that are inclusive – I never saw LGBTQ+ people represented while I was at school. That invisibility left me vulnerable and made it impossible for me to see a future.
I’m really grateful to have had a supportive family and the chance to attend real therapy after my conversion therapy sessions ended. What remained difficult was that the Orthodox rabbis in the UK were unable to give me the peace I needed. They could not tell me that they accepted me for who I was – a woman wired to be in a relationship with a woman, so I was left in a state of limbo. l did not want to go against God, and yet I could not just sit there wishing my years away, as my friends, siblings and cousins settled down, had families and were able to love. This is where I think the difference between sympathy and true empathy lies.
Eventually, I was put in contact with a gay Orthodox rabbi based in the US. He told me: ‘I love you as you are. There is nothing against women loving women in the Torah. Get on with your life.’ From then on, I did.
Maya’s name has been changed.
Take action to ban conversion therapy.
If you have been a victim of so-called conversion therapies, or are worried you’re at risk, please give the National Conversion Therapy Helpline a call or email.
Galop's expert LGBT+ team are here to support.
The National Conversion Therapy Helpline is open 10:00-16:00, Monday to Friday on 0800 130 3335, or you can email CThelp@galop.org.uk.