"I went there despite the terrible fear that was in me, because the second option – to remain naked and perverted – was even more frightening, and I still hadn't reached the point where I wanted to commit suicide. And what about the option of coming out of the closet? It simply didn't exist for me" - Y.C.'s testimony

I am gay.

Although it has been more than twenty-two years, I remember well that night when the chilling realization landed on me like a merciless iron bar on my 16-year-old head, giving name to the feelings that had accompanied me since I was young.

I am gay.

Written by: Gil Friedman

"His statement was like a lifeline sent from heaven to me, and I was willing to sell my soul to the devil so that the treatment would be successful. In retrospect, you could say that's what happened."

I didn’t know what to do. This was the end of the previous century—a time when the internet barely existed, secular society still didn’t know how to spell the word “LGBT,” and “homo” was the worst insult you could call someone. I understood that I wasn’t attracted to women at all, only to men—and that realization was terrifying.
 

Two options stood before me:

The first was suicide. It was dismissed within a millionth of a second after it crossed my mind.

The second was to repress my sexual orientation as deeply as possible, ignore it completely, and hope that one day—sometime in the vague and frightening future that life seemed to have sentenced me to—I would wake up, everything would be fine, I would be attracted to women, and I would get married, just like everyone else. With no real alternative, I chose the second option.
 

The years passed in repression. I finished religious high school and began studying at a hesder yeshiva. I suffered every moment I was there. I hated myself for suffering, hated myself for the feelings and desires I had toward my fellow students, and was terrified of the day I would be drafted into the army. Of course, I couldn’t talk about any of this with a living soul. Secular society was only beginning to acknowledge that people with different sexual orientations even existed; religious society was light-years behind.
 

I survived my army service and returned to yeshiva. One day, I found a small turquoise business card with a phone number offering support and help for people dealing with “opposite tendencies.” I copied the number and threw the card away—God forbid anyone should find incriminating evidence on me. I carried that number in my wallet for several months before I finally gathered the courage to call.

No one pushed me to make that call. Not rabbis, not my parents, not friends. No one knew. Telling anyone what I was going through had never been an option, so there was no one to “blame” for my decision to reach out.
 

The person who answered the phone sounded kind and fatherly. He gave me the best feeling I had experienced since that night when I was sixteen. He understood what I was going through, was full of empathy, and confidently promised that there were special treatments that helped—that anyone could “get out of this” and “be cured.” He suggested that I begin therapy and also participate in a three-day workshop run by the organization operating the hotline.

As a broke yeshiva student who couldn’t disappear for three days or afford the high cost of either therapy or the workshop, none of these options were realistic at the time. Still, I stored them in my memory. They became a bright beacon of hope and light during those dark years. In the meantime, he suggested I visit their website (this was around 2003–2004, when the internet had started to become more accessible) and read the forum.

When I entered the organization’s website—using the yeshiva secretary’s computer at three in the morning, alone, since I didn’t yet have internet at home—I felt as though my life had been saved, quite literally. I discovered people struggling with the same “terrible deviation” as me, and others who testified that they had been cured.
 

Suddenly there was hope that I wouldn’t have to live a life of loneliness and abstinence and die alone—that I could be normal like everyone else, with a wife, children, a share in the World to Come, and no one would ever know how disgusting and perverted I truly was. Suddenly, I had a chance at life and even happiness.
 

Unsurprisingly, a month after finishing hesder yeshiva and finally being free of the constraints of yeshiva and the army, I participated in the workshop that organization held at a secluded guesthouse near Jerusalem. I told no one I was going. I asked my parents to respect my decision to disappear for three days without a phone and not to ask questions. My friends—I simply didn’t tell.

I traveled to the workshop terrified to the depths of my soul: afraid both of exposing myself as gay to strangers, and of admitting—to myself and to the world—that I had a problem. I went despite the fear because the alternative ,remaining deviant and alone, was even more frightening. I still wasn’t suicidal, and coming out of the closet simply wasn’t an option for me.
 

When I arrived, I met a small group of religious men across a fairly wide age range, all with one goal: to become straight. This was the first time in my life I had ever met other gay men—religious gay men. That experience alone was profoundly powerful.

The workshop, “The Journey to Masculinity,” was led by one of the organization’s dominant therapists. He and the other facilitators were empathetic, accepting, and sensitive, and I placed my full trust in them. We were taught that we had lost our masculinity due to a flawed relationship with our fathers, which led to a failure to identify with a strong male figure. As a result, we identified more with our mothers, developed a feminine identity, and were therefore attracted to men to compensate for what we lacked.

The activities ,including an extremely intense psychodrama session that touched my deepest fears, were meant to strengthen our confidence in our masculinity, prove that we weren’t feminine, and give us the strength to continue. One thing I can say with certainty: these activities succeeded spectacularly in giving us hope and a sense of power for the future.
 

I left the workshop euphoric. I had never felt better, never felt such certainty that my future would be “straight” and good, never felt so strong and confident. My attraction to men remained, but I wasn’t worried. We were told this was only the first step on a long journey—and that anyone could change if they wanted it badly enough. And I wanted it. I had never wanted anything more in my life.

After the workshop, we continued meeting weekly as a support group. At first, the therapist led the meetings, but later leadership was passed to another participant who had completed the journey and married a woman. At the same time, I began individual therapy with the same therapist.

I still hadn’t told anyone about my sexual orientation or the treatments I was undergoing—not even my parents. I told them part of the truth: that I had decided to seek professional help because of difficulties I had experienced in the army and yeshiva, which was partly true. They didn’t know the real reason. They were suspicious of the therapist who appeared out of nowhere and objected somewhat, but nothing could divert me from my goal.

​

The therapy was conducted using “reparative therapy.” I met with the therapist once a week for nearly two consecutive years. Compared to psychological therapy, it was cheap—only 180 shekels per session. We analyzed my fears and emotions and tried to build my masculine identity and “connect me to my true male self.” Much of the blame for my condition was placed on my parents, especially my relationship with my father.

​

I remember the first session clearly. The therapist asked intrusive questions about my sexual preferences and fantasies. I answered with burning shame, eyes lowered, desperately wanting the floor to swallow me. He leaned back, smiled, and said he had the answer and knew how to help me. Even then, a small part of me wondered how the answer could be so simple—but for someone as desperate as I was, his words felt like a lifeline sent from heaven. I would have sold my soul for the therapy to work. In retrospect, that’s exactly what happened.

​

The therapy was not easy. Each session flooded me with fear and pain, without offering concrete solutions. Often I left with headaches from tension, extreme exhaustion, and a worsening sense of distress. Before each session, I was anxious and afraid of failing to meet the therapist’s expectations, even though during sessions he showered me with affection. (In hindsight, I realized I was likely his favorite. Others were treated coldly, punished, and emotionally manipulated from early on. My share of manipulation came later, disguised as care.)

​

Many times, I asked myself why—after so long—nothing had changed. When I asked him, he said I didn’t want it badly enough, instilling deep guilt in me. He repeatedly claimed he was the only one who could help me, and that if I left, he would never take me back—and my fate would be sealed.

After about a year and a half, my parents asked to meet him. I know for certain he didn’t tell them about my sexuality. They left the meeting deeply dissatisfied and urged me to stop therapy. I refused. Nothing could stop me.

​

Eventually, he suggested I become a guide in the next workshop. At the time, I was deeply depressed and estranged from my father—conflicts fueled in part by the therapy itself. My depression was ignored. Of course, I jumped at the chance, what better proof of change than guiding others? But my attraction to men never changed.

Days after completing guide training, the therapist called and told me I wasn’t ready, not connected, blocked, and unsuitable. It broke me completely. I stopped therapy. He threatened me again, saying I’d never get another chance. I begged him through tears to take me back someday. He gave me an ultimatum. I ultimately refused.

​

What followed was devastation. Suicidal thoughts appeared. Depression deepened. I barely remember that period. I stopped studying, stopped working, sold my car, and drowned in medication.

​

One conversation remains crystal clear. I called him and asked directly if everyone could change. He denied ever saying that. That lie shattered me completely.

That was our last conversation.

​

Eventually, my parents took me to a psychiatrist—religious, compassionate, ethical. With him, I experienced real therapy. I was diagnosed with treatment-resistant major depression. Even that treatment failed. He later suggested I come out. I did.

It was the right decision.

​

The depression remains, but the suicidal thoughts are nearly gone. After years of total despair, hope has returned.

Author’s note: The identity of the conversion therapist is withheld for legal reasons.
Editorial note: While we aim to publish personal stories with full identification, due to sensitivity, confidentiality agreements, and family considerations, anonymity was granted. The author’s identity and all details are verified and held by the system.