Once upon a time in a sleepy little town in North Staffordshire lived a little boy. He had a mother, a father and an elder brother and he lived above the pub that his parents owned. It was the kind of small town where everybody knew your name and your business. From a young age, this little boy knew that he was different to all the other little boys. When they would be watching cartoons, reading Harry Potter and playing football, this little boy would instead watch Star Trek, read Far From The Madding Crowd and avoided all kinds of sports as much as he could. He did try his best to fit in- he tried (somewhat half-heartedly) to like football and read the same books as all the other little boys- but he knew deep down that he was not one of them and he never would. Even his teachers didn't seem to understand him and eventually, they stopped trying to.
The little boy eventually grew into a stroppy teenager and he began to realise that while he was never going to fit in with the other stroppy teenage boys, he rather enjoyed looking at them. And that scared him because he had been told by his teachers at big school that if a boy liked other boys as something other than friends- they would go to hell (did I mention that this boy was raised Roman Catholic?). Oh sure, he kissed a girl once or twice- he even had a girlfriend- but he knew that it didn't feel right. Try as hard as he might, he knew that he was what the other boys called a "gayboy". And because he was told it was wrong and evil, he kept it to himself.
Then one day, as he approached his 18th birthday, the boy could not keep his secret any longer. And so one night, he joined his workmates for a night out at a local bar where others like him could go to feel safe and dance to the music he listened to.
And there, on the podiums, amid the thumping basslines and the sweaty- but happy- people, he felt liberated.
Felt as though, he finally belonged somewhere.
*
It's been a little over twelve years since that night on the podiums at the local gay bar (imaginatively called 'The Club') when I felt able to myself. I came out to my friends first, then finally to my family. I had convinced myself that I had done such a good job pretending to be straight that it would come as a heartbreaking shock to my dearest. To paraphrase from the iconic Hazel Tyler from Queer As Folk- I thought I was going to "explode out the closet". As it turns out, I was the last person to realise. Said my darling mum: "you think we didn't know... you like Cher and Kylie for goodness sake!". I realise now that my undying devotion to those two gay icons was just the tip of the icebergs when it came to clues about my homosexuality. At age 5, I was apparently fascinated by cousin's ballet tutus that I took to wearing one, I adored musicals (The Sound Of Music is still my favourite) and I was always effeminate. So in many respects, my explosion from the closet was a damp squib and I was the last to realise.
A few months ago, I realised that my coming out was only the start of my own personal acceptance of my sexuality. It took a long time to really feel comfortable with it. Case in point: I was so terrified of introducing my first boyfriend to my parents that I passed him off as a 'friend from the pub'. I had spent the first fifteen years of my life going to church with my mum and while she never told me it was wrong to be gay- plenty of other people in- or associated with- the Catholic church did: namely my R.E teachers at high school. Although I had admitted that I was gay, in almost every respect I didn't accept it.
And so, I decided that instead of coming to terms with it I would simply press the 'self-destruct' button. If I wasn't going to validate myself, I would find it from other people: usually in the shape of drunken one-night stands or unsuitable boyfriends. I spent a lot of my late teens and early twenties jumping from terrible guy to the next, becoming attached, getting let down and drinking away my problems. It was a destructive cycle and I didn't know how to get out of it. In retrospect, I don't think I wanted to.
About six years ago, I broke up with my first serious boyfriend. He a lazy slob who was just as damaged as I was and who used to alternate between downloading terrible R&B songs and drinking him into a stupor. The first time we met, we kissed and he threw up all over my t-shirt. It was a warning light that I ignored. And when he drank, it soon transpired, he turned violent. I lost count of the nights that he would punch or throw things at me- like beer glasses.
Eventually after two years, I plucked up the courage to dump him. And then proceeded to spend that summer in a pot and alcohol induced haze. It would have been the perfect time to sort myself out- but now, come that winter, I was in another relationship with another unsuitable idiot. This time, he wasn't abusive, but I was so lonely that I proposed to him. He said yes.
And that's when it all went to shit.
Not even six months had gone by and I realised that this one was just as fucked up as my last boyfriend- and even more fucked up than I was. He wasn't physically abusive, but he would go out of his way to tell I was never going to be happy with anyone but him even though he loved another man. We ended up getting civil partnered. Even at the reception, I knew it wasn't going to last and that I was going to end up broken hearted again. I was right. He waited two and a half months (and until my fiercely protective parents had left the country for two months) to tell me he was leaving me and it was all my fault. By this time, I had realised I was a screw up and had been to see a counsellor who dealt with clients who were struggling with their sexuality- and I had recognised that I needed to break the cycle.
So I picked myself up off the floor, moved back in with my parents and went to university. Last summer I graduated with a Foundation Degree in Fashion Studies. It wasn't plain sailing, I had a brush with depression and suicidal thoughts- but I perservered and when I took the stage in my (very fetching) mortarboard and graduation gown, I was proud of myself for the first time in my life.
I decided that it wasn't enough. I wanted more and so I enrolled on another university course. Now I am 60 miles from that sleepy little boy and light years away from the little boy who was guilty for being gay. I still have my down days- and I am resitting my course so I can take the time to work on my lingering issues with anxiety and depression, but now I feel like the sky is the limit and for the most part, I'm settled. I have great friends here, a new job and a boyfriend who accepts me for who I am and isn't a clusterfuck of bad decisions and poor life choices.
I don't really know what this blog is going to be about- most likely my rantings and the music that I love (yes, my undying devotion to all things Kylie and Cher continues apace), but I hope stick by me as I work my way through life. One fabulous sequin at a time!
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