When I was around sixteen years old, I got a boyfriend. One night, he invited me to go to a missionary farewell and we ended up making out in his car instead and stripping down to our underwear. I had done “worse” things with other people, but this guy felt so much guilt that he emailed my dad about it. My mother dragged me to the bishop and insisted she be there so I wouldn’t leave anything out. Our families were close, so I was very uncomfortable. I had to explain in detail what went on, with my mom gripping my hand tightly, making sure I didn’t lie. I had to read talks and write and pray and was shamed for what I had done. My “repentance process” took eight months. I had to go in every week. People looked at me strangely, and I had teenage boys asking me for condoms.
My sexual activities didn’t stop, but I made sure no one ever found out. I was ashamed. I cut myself. My bishop would give me looks in temple interviews when it came to the question on chastity. I learned not to be ashamed. I also learned that I was gay, which was worse than having sexual interactions since my mother shamed me more for it. But I refuse to ever go back and confide my “sins”. I was old enough to consent, and telling him is still impacting me.