Bivisibility

Today is Bi-Visibility Day. I’ve written and talked a bit before about my own sexual awakenings and awareness – both here and in my live-stream chats, and on radio. Much of those discussions, much of that awakening, is framed within the religiously conservative household that I was brought up in, and the homophobia that existed in my school.

Without a doubt, those surroundings shaped my own understanding of myself, and helped to entrench the guilt I felt about sex well into my 30s.

I’ve never been entirely sure where I fit on the spectrum, something I went through a massive soul-searching about a couple of years back. Years of angst, questioning, and guilt were sifted through. I concluded that gender non-conforming heteroflexible was probably the best, most specific definition of my sexuality – I’ve kissed a few boys, had my crushes and in theory could fall for anyone, but my inclinations in practice have been essentially heterosexual. Defining myself thusly actually came as a relief – but its couched in fears about what that means for me, and how others view me.

As a society we are still so obsessed with knowing about who people choose to be romantic and physical with, that we need days like today to assert the fact that all possibilities are valid.

I’ve had several partners ask me if I was gay – so clearly there’s some aspect of me that doesn’t fit a perception. But to claim bi-sexuality would seem a step too far. My sex life has been heterosexual, and quite possibly will always be. And yet, I don’t bat an eyelid when a partner tells me she’s bisexual – whether she’s ever acted on the same-sex part of that identification or not.

Bi-erasure is a serious problem – with the validity of bisexuality caught up in fetishisation and misunderstanding. As a teen I understood bisexuality to be equal attraction to male and female. As a man in his 30s I understand that bisexuality is a massive sliding scale between hetero and homosexuality, that is applies to those attracted to more than one sex or gender, and that this could encompass pretty much everyone including transgender and gender-fluid people.

All too often I see people disregard the orientation of my friends because their partner of that moment happens to be of the opposite sex. Even if all their relationships are heterosexual, that doesn’t negate the desires and potentials that do exist. It doesn’t make them any less bisexual.

For some, my more feminine, at times campy disposition meant that they saw me as gay (seemingly also for my aforesaid partners!). But I’ve never described myself as gay, and struggled to reconcile my basically-but-not-entirely-straightness with any other description. While I think there’s a great deal of acceptance for fluid sexuality among women (aided by the fantasy of much hetero-porn, which is aimed at hetero men mostly), we struggle with any ambiguity or fluidity of men – even the simple sight of a man kissing a man leads to the assumption that he’s gay, not that he may be interested in all manner of potential partners.

When I started mentally exploring my own potential same-sex attractions I found myself very distressed about the implications should I choose to then experiment, and how that would fundamentally change me, and how others would view me. I don’t get the impression that people feel the same way about female experimentation or expression.

I think the point at which I fully recognised my own fluidity was the night I locked eyes with someone across a room who I later came to know as a trans person. I didn’t know their gender, the genitals they were carrying, and it didn’t matter – only that there was an undeniable instantaneous attraction (mercifully mutual). I’d always said the possibility was there, and finally I could see it playing out in the real world.

I have known since I was a teenager that I am on the queer spectrum, but hate the assumptions and pressures that come with labels. I think this is why I was so happy to find a set of terminology that accepted that in myself the lines are somewhat blurred, without also pinning myself down to a particular batch of expectations that I might not have been happy to indulge in.

Sexuality is confusing. So much pressure is put on people to conform to narrow ideologies, that many loose sense of themselves. Just by not playing to ideas of ‘straight’ men, I got a fair bit of stick at school and later – and have spent so long questioning myself that I don’t think I’ll ever have an absolute answer, and nor do I want one. What’s more important is to find someone(s) that accepts me for who I am.

So this isn’t a great coming out declaration, its a quiet acknowledgement of the reality for me, and probably a great many others, that there’s a lot more to people than simple “straight” or “gay”.

Anyways, bi-friends, you are valid, you are loved.

x

Escape and Healing

I want to move on from some of the discussions of the last while on here. With a desire to regain some of my privacy and to move on in my own healing I intend this to be my last personal comment on my experiences of abuse for the foreseeable future. As Christmas is a time of high-stress, high alcohol consumption, and a spike in domestic abuse it seems like an appropriate time to bring this personal thread to a close.

Stepping forward and naming the abuse I experienced for what it is, is important. While it was happening I spoke about it,  I documented it,  I reached out for help – privately. But there was also an element of shame, a fear. I’m a man who was abused by a woman, we aren’t often believed, as a society we’ve been programmed to turn a blind eye to many telling signs that someone’s relationship is less than healthy; statistically men are more likely to be the abusers but not all men.

Fear is a powerful weapon. And so is shame. And many abusers use variations on gaslighting to make us question our sanity and reality. Psychological abuse is perhaps the deepest wound of all, prodding us for ages to come. If we doubt ourselves,  how will anybody else believe?  Add to that the shame of mental health issues and it becomes intensely unmanageable.

So for me, writing about the affects the situation has had on me, and on my mental health, this is my resistance. My way of saying ‘no,  this isn’t on’. It’s about being strong, standing up to the bullying and distortions, even though I live in constant fear of them intruding into my life again.

For now I am content that I have it on record that these things happened to me. Both in this heavily redacted form and in more detail through official channels. It has meant I am no longer hiding from it all. I am not living trapped by the unknown retaliations and ambiguous threats.

Escaping Abuse

My advice to anyone living with abuse is to talk. Get your safety net around you. Friends, family, professionals will all be able to help monitor you,  and can assist when you decide to escape. You’ll almost certainly need them. Even if you’re holding back on details, they’ll be better prepared for the revelations to follow. It may be that some of them are victims or ex-victims too.

Speak to organisations who help abuse victims. Don’t be afraid to pick up the phone to the police. They’ll advise and when appropriate they will investigate and arrest. Things may get worse before they get better,  but don’t back down. Once you start to wrestle back control of your life abusers will intensify their rage but you’ll have started the clock on your freedom. Going through legal channels can be challenging and time-consuming but you’ll be adding to your safety net.

Talk to your GP. It’s a private situation and you can hide your purpose in visiting easily. If you’re being physically hurt, a GP can see the evidence for themselves and record it. Similarly any psychological matters.

Record incidents. Write down the details, store it in a book, in a private google doc, whatever means is safest. Details of what happened, when, how its affecting you. It may be that you aren’t prepared to admit a relationship is abusive until you actually can see the pattern of behaviour for yourself. Its also really useful to have a diary to refer to when someone is making false accusations about your whereabouts. Most people have an audio recorder on their mobile telephone these days – you can always secretly record rows and conversations for evidence. And where possible save and record any abusive voice messages you receive. One of the scariest thing about many abusers is that they flip all your criticisms, all your allegations back on you in a bid to discredit you and make you ponder reality. It disarms you. But its like a child simply parroting your language, fingers in ears, and saying “I know you are but what am I?”

It takes most people a long time to get out of an abusive situation, and you’ll need help after too, but it is there. It might sometimes feel like a ‘he said she said’ situation, but honesty will see you right in the end.

Healing

I’ve heard enough people trying to tell me that friends believe my version of events, but that isn’t enough. In order to put a stop to these behaviours it isn’t your friends you need to convince. I’ve been manipulated so many times that I have wondered if things were really as bad as I say. Time will do that to you, it can numb your memories, as you try and put the bad stuff behind you. I’ve gone back through my notes, emails, texts, recordings and legal documents. Every time I do my head is taken right back into that particular quarter of hell. Doing it over the summer helped push me into the worst breakdown I’ve experienced in years – reliving experiences while not being monitored was risky. My therapist asked me why I did it, when it was more than clear I’ve been telling the truth. But I’d received messages that suggested I was making everything up, that none of the things I alleged ever happened. More gaslighting. But its there, in black and white. And the evidence is backed up, and supported by numerous individuals and experts.

To heal, I cannot keep getting dragged into this. I can’t have my abuser hanging over me like some spectre from the past, a shadowy cancer on my sanity and sense of self. No amount of trolling is going to silence me. No threats will have me pretend these things didn’t happen.  Readers of this blog don’t have a clue regarding the full details, the context, or the individual (verifiable) incidents in a lengthy campaign of abusive behaviour.

I know that I am angry that I have not and will not receive any kind of justice for these wrongs. I will never get so much as an admission of wrong-doing, let alone a prosecution or peace of mind. Instead I have witnessed bursts of intimidating behaviour, my sanity has been continuously questioned, and I continue to be on my guard. I accept the failings of a system that has allowed this to go undealt with. I have long recognised the relationship with my abuser as being particularly poisonous. I accept that my abuser either cannot see the wrong in their actions towards me, or can but daren’t risk admitting any accountability.

If it comes to it, I am prepared to elaborate my claims with supporting evidence in court. Not that I want to embarrass myself on network tv either, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve considered a polygraph test and the Jeremy Kyle show either. I know that my abuser has spun a different story about what happened – I’m sure it has elements of truth, but lacking context, alongside fabrications and slanders, and like good friends and relatives I am sure she has her own network of people who believe every word uttered. I have no reason to lie about what happened to me, but I suspect that strangers are less likely to believe the word of a man than a woman in these matters. Until the Northern Irish government catches up with the rest of the UK and introduces legislation on coercive control, thousands of men and women like me will continue to suffer.

Being an incredibly self-aware person, much time has been spent working through my experiences, sometimes too openly and honestly, but always sincerely. I take ownership of my failings, my errors in judgement, my poor handling of personal and professional situations. I’ve taken ownership of my mental health issues, I’ve got support in place now for any time they should ever spiral out of control again, and I’m working round the other issues that I can. Me now is not me six months ago even. I’ve come to recognise my negatives and my plusses. I’m still incredibly anxious about relationships, but I’ve learned that I can manage them, I can be a normal human being and not feel guilt or fear. I’ve learned to trust people again. And I’ve also learned to feel love for another human being. That didn’t seem possible a year ago. I am sorry for bringing so much of this into other relationships, friendships etc., it puts a pressure on people I hadn’t realised. That’s why healing is important – it takes the burden from others to pick up the pieces.

I will never completely heal. Abuse victims don’t. We carry our scars like barely healed wounds. The right scratch and they open up again. But we can monitor them, we can ensure we have the right medicine and aftercare in place. The right friend on the end of a phone, or a needed hug. A counsellor, medication, the authorities, a blog. All have their place and are part of our arsenal.

For now I have said about all I can on my matter. All I want to say. I don’t intend to dwell on this unfortunate past any further. Because it is my past. It is not my present and will not be my future. It happened, but it does not define me. I define me. I am bruised, not beaten; damaged but not broken; flawed, but a gem, precious if you would but look.

 

NOTE: The images here are from various campaigns across the UK to address various kinds of abuse. If you recognise any of these from your own or a friend’s experiences, don’t be afraid to pick up the phone and call. The Police service across the UK will give advice on the free non-emergency 101 number. Or in the case of emergency, call 999.

The thing about the movies…

The Cabinet of Dr Caligari (1920)

The thing about the movies is they perpetuate an impossible promise about people. They suggest that hope doesn’t die,  that redemption is always possible and reconciliation is only a meaningful glance away.

They tell us it’s OK to bombard and harass our exes to get their attention. They teach us that we should never take no for an answer. They delude us into a belief that there is one magical moment in which our futures are clinched.

Loneliness is a temporary state and secret admirers are waiting for us to see they exist. Friends are waiting to bed us if we’d only look up. Mistakes happen and are admitted. Lessons are learned. Changes are made. And everyone gets a happy ever after.

They don’t teach us the real pain of rejection. The crippling agony of feeling for someone until it hurts and them feeling nothing back. The way a photograph,  a sound,  a scent sends us into a spiral of pain.

All those happy endings tell us pain is an illusion, worth it,  that we’ll find release and understanding. But that’s not always life.

Films may give us a warm sensation of acceptance, and optimism,  but they don’t warm our beds or our bodies. They don’t satisfy the craving for mental and physical stimulation. When they end, we can hit replay and experience it all over again. When our relationships end we can’t do that – we can spot the things we did wrong,  what should change,  but we don’t get a second shot,  no matter how strongly we feel about it.

So much of actual life involves the absence of hope. We’re programmed to think we’ll get what we want,  a perfect partner, one who accepts us and who we can feel for completely. Life is about compromise and imperfect people and chance. Chances are you won’t find a happy ever after,  you’ll be let down by those you focus on.

I’ve stopped hoping. I’m still feeling. I ache. But it doesn’t matter. No words from well-meaning friends and observers can mend me. Time doesn’t heal – it just lets you remember differently: perhaps you’ll forget, maybe you’ll remember. For a while I was alive – more intensely, more fully than ever before. Now I am as Cesare, sleeping through my existence. I want to feel again. I try to feel. But no conversation, no interaction, no thought hits me in the same way. I have loved before, but it was not this.

I heard a voice in the darkness and my brain fired up, every spot on my skull spluttering into life, a cacophony of sound and sensation. A Vertov stimulus. A euphoric beginning that builds but gets no release. A nitrate fire fills my head, and nobody can prevent the combustion.

Being gaslit was easier than this pain. This pain that will not end. That I cannot control. That leaves me spent.

Cinema teaches us to be voyeurs, to watch complicit other people’s relationships, to engage vicariously with their worlds. But that is not this one, a world in which we have ceased communications, in which my name is no longer on your lips, in which our time isn’t even a memory. I am the spectator, unable to view, forced to replay the memory of a past, seeking a conclusion denied, a sequel impossible. These remakes and reboots are pale imitations, the casting feels wrong. There’s no chemistry on the screen. The characters lack conviction.

I don’t want to be a script doctor, helping other people’s stories flow. I want my own story, my own happy ending. I’d take the grief if I thought that was next. From childhood the screen says: boy meets girl, boy looses girl, boy gets girl back again. This act 2 has fallen flat, I thought you needed space to make your own film, but we should have stopped sizing each other up and just collaborated. I know there will be no act 3 for me, and I sit in the theatre, watching a darkened screen with tears cascading down my cheeks. I accept everything about you, I love it all, I see your potential and I’m proud. I wish you could see and accept mine; I’m worth the investment – the hard work has been done already. No cinematic edits to colour the narrative needed – I relish every frame of the rushes, the raw material from which something magical is constructed.

No blue pages to take account of my changes, no pink to rework the ending, no yellow to line up the next installment. Oh for a romantic comedy to accompany our heartfelt drama. But its all dreams, fantasy and wishful thinking and no amount of rewriting can change your mind…

 

Another solo Christmas

Merry Fucking Christmas.
Billy Bob Thornton down on his luck in Bad Santa (2003)

I’m used to it, don’t get me wrong. I haven’t had a happy couple-y Christmas season since 2008. Two further ones spent during a relationship were difficult to say the least. But most of the last decade I’ve found myself sitting down with various groupings of my family, finding myself increasingly awkward and retreating into myself as the season and big day itself goes on.

Christmas for me, as it is for many others, is tough. There’s always a risk of depression hitting (I see from my notes I took a massive downer last year), and coupled with my solo status the moods can get very bleak. As everyone else in my vicinity is coupled up, and/or with families of their own, I feel very much like an outsider.

Platitudes around all the things I should be happy about, how you never know what’s around the corner, and how they’re all there for you, really doesn’t help. I tell you I’m happy alone, but I’d love to be waking up in the arms of another on Christmas morning, indulging in festivities, and draining the port after dinner and watching Doctor Who while snuggled into a lover’s bosom. Each of you that has this has no grounds to attempt to console me or those like me with words because you have what we don’t, and what we crave.

I’m set against the idea of winter affairs because they play out against the high pressures of Christmas and Valentine’s Day, skewing our expectations dangerously. But, ye gods, it’s fucking lonely out here. Everyone engrossed in capitalist overkill, making wild love declarations, and playing at fucking happy families. It doesn’t matter that it might all be bullshit, you get to pretend. And I bet for at least some of that time, being with someone else really makes your holiday.

It’s doubly hard after glimpsing the inside of a relationship again. My suspicions that it wouldn’t last til Christmas were well-founded as it turns out. But my bought of genuine heartbreak in its wake has left me vulnerable, untrusting and more alone than ever. And it means this year I’m even more likely to retreat away from everyone else.

Don’t confuse this with depression though. It’s hard seeing other people happy, or pretending to be, when you’re not where you want to be. I’d much prefer to be sitting in a field with my dog Bowie as company than sit at my folks’ with the siblings. Not because I don’t love them, but because it just reminds me of me. Makes me self-aware. If the right person offered, I’d disappear like a shot.

I’m not doing presents this year. Please don’t give me any. And I wont give you one in return. It isn’t needed. I need less stuff, not more. Give to someone else, give to charity, give to yourself.

Being rejected because of who I am – because of the way I am – has killed a lot of ego, the same ego I had just begun to accept (and once you’ve been properly replaced you know the problem was you and not them at all). I know I’m a lovely person, would make a great partner, but I don’t think anyone is prepared to put the little work in it actually needs to sustain an ‘us’. I’m a bit top heavy – there’s more work at the start as my barriers break down. But I’m not a bullshitter, I don’t lie, and I’m not going to impose my rules and ideology on anyone else because that isn’t healthy. Communication, trust and picking your battles are paramount. Why is that so hard to accept?

There’s what, two weeks to go before Christmas. I’m unlikely to have this turned around before then. No new relationship. No hook-up. Not even a date. And so the frustration of the fantasy continues. And don’t even get me started on New Year…

Closure

Everything ends. Closure is vital for healing. Without it our minds spiral, caught always wondering. Recognising and accepting it isn’t always easy. And sometimes we are left without the closure we need – injustices left unpunished, things left unsaid, ourselves wanting.

With that in mind I’m bringing part of this blog to an end, and am making some rare redactions. I’ve let too much of me on display at times. I’ve upset people that matter to me. I have frightened them away. My expositions are colouring impressions in a negative and misleading way. I am hurting myself as a result. And it cannot continue.

I am changing the tone. It will remain personally flavoured but differently so. My relationships are off limits from now on, in the blog and in my private life. I’ve unwittingly damaged those I’ve pursued as I let my stream of conscious flow. I crossed a line I wish I hadn’t.

While I will try and depersonalise some of the narrative, I will maintain some personal content relating to my mental health issues and the affects of my abusive experiences on my life. I do not wish to be a victim. But there is still much work to be done on both issues, and too many struggle to accept that someone can exist with mental health problems and live a normal life. Even more struggle to accept a man can be abused by a woman, but it is important I continue to speak the truth on that matter – the abuse was real, it happened, and it happens for thousands of others every day. It does not define me, but it has shaped me.

I must, however, be more conscious about the way that my words can be used against me and others close to me.

It is time to shut the door on the past. My living space is swamped with shit and it needs set free. I shall be ebaying and dumping in the coming weeks. It is OK to say goodbye to memories. I don’t need every tiny bit of personal memorabilia. It clusters my mind and my life. It leaves me living in an unhealthy past, blinkered to the positives of the present.

There are those who think I cannot change, but they are wrong. I evolve constantly. I have been healing and continue to heal. I will conquer those challenges which put themselves in my life. I would prefer to have a partner with me, but I fear that my frankness and past makes me an impossible prospect. And so I must live alone.

I am putting myself first, and will embrace the positive things in my life. This year has been amazing and I can’t loose sight of that. Next year will be even better. As this incarnation of my writing closes, something else opens up. It regenerates – the same thing but different. Give it a chance, you’ll be pleasantly surprised.

 

Trigger me this Facebook

A LIFE magazine still for Hans Richter’s film Dreams That Money Can Buy (1946)

Trauma and depression are difficult enough to live with, the scars left by episodes remain raw no matter how long the healing has been. The tiniest scratch and the wound starts weeping. Before you know it, you’ve been transported back to another place and another episode is in full flow. At least that’s my experience.

You will no doubt be familiar with the idea that certain smells in particular can transport you back into your memory banks – that waft of perfume as you walk along the street, an odour in a restaurant – but it isn’t unique to scent. Images and sounds can do the same thing. I’ve written before about the importance of memory and images, and there are songs that take me back to very specific moments in my youth and revitalise long-forgotten feelings. While this can be a therapeutic and pleasant experience for those of us who have lived with abuse, or suffered mental breakdowns, memory is a tricky terrain to negotiate.

Social media is rich with trigger potential. Many of us share the sort of insights into our private lives that a decade ago would have been deemed inappropriate. We detail our travels, our partners, our dinners, our very bowel movements. Go far enough back into our public profiles and we’ll find traces of a life we’ve moved on from – our younger selves, warts and all.

Facebook in particular provides a daily digest of memories without any sort of filtration system at all. Their ‘On This Day‘ brings up posts you made or were tagged in on/around today’s date in years gone past. Among the cute pictures of animals and family and work outings are things I don’t wish to recall, let alone reshare with those around me. This time of year it turns out is packed full of them, and those Facebook memories are at least partly responsible for triggering my last break down.

I like to recall nice memories, but I’ve been on social media long enough now that there are also memories of previous partners and my lives with them, which played out at least partly in a public/semi-public sphere. Friends/spectators will recall at least some of the drama, but generally have the good decency not to bring it up when we meet. Unlike Facebook, which deems it appropriate to regale me with anecdotes from not only the partners I remain fond of, but also those I am not.

Today’s memories include jaunts to London (no change there then), moving house, publicity on the magazine I edited that I later learned was being published by two con-artists, photos of my abusive partner and examples of comments that might have come across to some as wit, but which read now like mild examples of the abusive treatment I lived with for too long.

I cannot completely avoid this. I’ve untagged myself from various things, made other images and posts private. But I also have issues with denying the past ever happened. Much of it is a matter of public record anyway, so editing seems somehow disrespectful and false. And unhelpful to my healing. Being reminded of the shit that was foisted upon me simply serves to strengthen my resolve, but there is a cost. Some of the memories trigger further memories and its frightening. I don’t want to delete my profile and start again because within the memories of abuse there are also stories of friendships past, loved ones lost and much positivity – how to balance that? A friend of mine with very similar experiences simply deleted their profile completely – too overwhelming was the triggers from the past, the negative memories. For me doing that would remove what little good I had from my own period of abuse and would run counter to my policy of being open as a coping mechanism.

If I’m completely frank, I fucking hate this. I never know which memories are going to be revived on which days. I don’t know which will trigger a period of negative association. Sometimes I can see a photo from then and its fine. Other days, I’ve encountered other triggers and the cumulative effect becomes too much to handle. My abuser has always denied any form of abuse took place (a common practice with abusers it seems). But images provoke strong memories from me. And sometimes the words, photos, video, audio files support my memory of events which causes even more triggers.

Immediately before I had my most recent breakdown I had been going through old files. A bunch of Facebook memories had started the process, then I came across a set of old photographs – images in that tricky area of not being enough to set off a trigger by themselves, but in association with other data they do. And then there were the recordings – listening to my own voice filled with terror and anxiety, voice mails left by my abuser – I daren’t even contemplate it deeply because of how they set me off last time. That narrative I have repeatedly been told (by my abuser) that suggests I am a fabricator of facts, quickly vanishes and accompanied by solid proof I recall exactly how things were. How alone and fragile and scared I was. How vulnerable it has made me today.

Our social media accounts are usually rife with false positivity. We cultivate an online image that presents ourself in our best light. We admit to our successes and over-egg minor achievements and ignore our failings, our stresses, our depressions. Consequently when the shit hits the fan, those around us sit bewildered by the sudden change. The late Doctor Who producer John Nathan-Turner used to remind audiences that ‘the memory cheats’, and the same can be true of Facebook memories. The false positivity can ignore much of the problems, and the casual observer might be lulled back into a false sense of nostalgia and lost hope. In an instance of an abusive partner they might forget the problems with drink or drugs, they might overlook the coercive controlling behaviour, and almost certainly will never find a trace of the physical abuses suffered. We forget the warning signs and we end up repeating our mistakes, and push away those who offer an alternative. Certainly I’m scared of those in whom I recognise myself – but they’re the only people who really get it, because they’ve lived it and neither they nor I wish to suffer like that again. Others can be sympathetic, but they lack the true empathy needed to keep us strong.

My own social media history fluctuates between the brave face of positivity – and I can usually tell when I’ve been coerced into posting something vaguely positive – and out and out cries for help. I’ve seen them come up in my feed before – moments where I’ve been threatened, where I’m struggling to make sense of a relationship spiraling downwards. Times where I’ve outed myself before some dark aspect of myself is utilised as a weapon against me. It still happens. I’m free of my abuser, but not their impact on my life. So afraid have I been that I’ve been overprotective of myself, family and potential partners. Just when I think I’m okay again, Facebook reminds me of what I went through at their hands and why I remain on my guard.

For someone who has made his professional life based around the past and nostalgia I am at a loss for how to proceed with my own past – particularly one which social media has decreed I must recall when I really don’t want to. Deletion is denial. It absolves those who persecute our thoughts. Admission provokes anxiety, tension and further depression.

Self-worth

Stairway. © 2016 Robert JE Simpson

How we view ourselves very much affects the relationships we form. Our potential for eternal happiness is shaped by how we feel about ourselves more probably more than how we feel about our partners. Somebody suggested to me that as a nation we get the politicians we deserve. The same could be argued for out objects d’amour.

My self esteem isn’t great. For all the performance-based work that I do, I have a low sense of my own worth. I find it hard to sing my own praises, and tend to shy away in the corner. I find it difficult to take compliments. I love receiving them, but am overcome with a sense of embarrassment when someone tells me how gifted or pleasant I am.

It is I think ruining my chances of a relationship.

I find that I am overly cautious about setting into something with another person. Part of that is the hard-learned lessons of life experience, but most of the time I simply can’t believe that anybody would actually find me interesting enough to want to be with, attractive enough to want. And so I inadvertently make the whole damn thing more difficult than it needs to be. I struggle with PDAs, because I don’t think I deserve them. I put myself down. I find excuses for things not to work out. I place hypothetical obstacles in the way – not helped by being an over-thinker anyway. I give them all the space in the world to leave, to not have to commit to this fuck up of an individual. That becomes very difficult to take after a while.

Essentially I don’t think I’m good enough to warrant happiness. I don’t deserve to find the solace of a loving situation. I must feel pain and rejection and disappointment. For the bleakness confirms my darker thoughts about myself. It sustains my senseless solitude.

Constantly there is a battle within me to find a balance. Because while I do myself no favours, I do have a heart – I know deep down that I am a good person, capable of loving and deserving of someone else’s love. In the right nurturing environment I could be an excellent partner, lover, friend, father. But to get there, I need to feel comfortable. And to feel comfortable, I will probably test your patience, your views, your sincerity. I will test me, my interest, my trust, my willingness to compromise. I can live alone. I spent years in isolation. But I don’t want to live to my life end alone. I want to have someone to share it with, a companion, an intimate. That’s a normal human desire. I just don’t think anyone has quite enough patience to see us through the more testing days.

Dating as I’ve so often said, is a nightmare. I don’t make first moves as a rule. A lot of that is down to issues of consent and not wanting to be misunderstood, but it is also because I don’t believe people will think I’m worth it. I’m too much like hard work. I have little self-worth.

I suppose this is what manifested itself a fortnight ago when I had my breakdown. An overloading of self-doubt that had been building for several months. I loathe the ineffectual nature of my self-hatred, my insecurity. I talk about it to counter-act the affect it has on me, but still it wins. I drive the people I care about away. I worry that one day I’ll end up ageing and desperate and cling to a poisonous abusive partner because they will once again remind me of how useless I am, how worthless my existence has been and how nobody else would want me. Someone I am with because there is no choice left. Because the people I would have chosen rejected me because I am me.

Adventures in dating: Chapter’s end

I’ve been feeling down again the last week or so. “No change there,” I hear you mutter.

Guess it must be more than usual as its been commented on by various family and friends. Which doesn’t happen too often. And as usual it is the cumulative effect of various unhappy occurrences which are to blame. Part of it is the come-down following a period of personal happiness.

Recently I’ve let someone in again in a way I haven’t in years. I let down nearly all my defences and let them witness the complete extent of my fucked up head. I’ve healed so much this last 12 months, from the psychological and emotional damage of the past, that to do this is no small thing. I have learned to trust again, to give myself over to someone else completely, to think about possible futures. I have learned what a normal healthy relationship feels like.

And yet it has all come to an abrupt end. And I’m saddened. I cared far more than I let on, far more than I realised. Timing is everything. And I messed that up.

That I’m not worried about my secrets becoming public knowledge as a result of the given trust is a huge step up for me. But I’m already feeling a loss, because I think I’ve mis-handled everything badly. I’ve said too much, too late. I played my cards close to my chest for too long. I’ve been so caught up in the intense emotion and connection that I didn’t give it the time to breathe it needed. I misinterpreted and was misunderstood.

Relationships demand trust and compromise if they are to succeed long term. And it must be reciprocal.

There are stages in dating when you make decisions – shit or get off the pot moments when the next few months or years are decided. I think I was still deciding, because there was potential the last time I saw her. Or so I thought. Heck, I still do if I’m honest, even though I know now that it will never come to be. I have to move on. I will move on. But I remain deeply affected. I can’t switch my emotions on and off like a switch.

A good relationship should be mutually beneficial, should be supportive, should be exciting and tender. I also think it should challenge us, our hopes and dreams and beliefs. It was all that for me and more, and continues to challenge my thoughts in its aftermath. Already I miss its safety, companionship, intimacy, and possibilities. I was excited as I let my mind adjust, accepting that I was in a relationship and actually felt connected to another human being.

And this in part explain my morose state of mind. The grieving process begun. I’m so tempted to just curl into a ball and shut out the rest of the world and lick my wounds. But I am so thankful, because I know I picked the right person this time. I just wouldn’t have picked this moment to stop.

Today I’m uncertain, but its probably not the end of our story. I think we could be friends. If the timing had been better maybe we’d have remained lovers. But for now the chapter has reached its end.

Relationship Status

‘I’m free’ – John Inman’s status declaration in the BBC’s Are You Being Served?

Dating again after some years in the wilderness I find myself faced with all manner of new problems. Not least is the dreaded social media. 

How quickly do you add your new squeeze, and just how ready are you for the inevitable cyber stalking and Catfish style investigation of your prior life? You know that your every photo will be scrutinised for glimpses of exes, a survey of family for genetic possibilities should offspring ever become an option. A check that you weren’t on a stag weekend in Ibiza that time you said you were at home working.

On that last line at least I am not guilty. But my past is inescapable and I’m pretty open about it, warts and all. And I refuse to sugar coat it for anyone. I’ve been here before. If I am going to delete material relating to the past then it’ll be on my terms and when I decide.

Once you’ve decided it’s a good idea to add your object d’amour, is there an appropriate time to declare one’s relationship status as changed? Surely it’s not wrong to date and still declare oneself as single? How many dates does it take before one is in a ‘relationship’? And even if you are in one, do you want every stranger to know its details?

I’ve had former partners and girlfriends cyber-stalked and  trolled in the past, and it’s been detrimental to friendships that had extended beyond our time together. As a result I’m now vary wary about saying too much about those I’m entangling with on a regular basis. While we’re still getting to know each other I don’t really want to risk them subjected to that sort of scrutiny. And nor do I wish myself to become a target either, for as it turns out, I’m not the only one with cyber stalkers.

I think unless one is secure that one is in for a long haul, some objective distance is required. If one is treading water, unstable, or likely to be switching partners during the dating process then the declarations are unnecessary. It becomes quite irritating seeing a chum’s Facebook constantly displaying a revolving rota of relationship failures.

But we as fragile humans seek reassurance. We want to know that those we give our time, minds and bodies to, are worthy of it – that they reciprocate our commitment. We want affirmation of our place with others – proudly displayed. We want to know that right now we mean as much as those who have gone before us – that we might be recalled as fondly. Where are the photos, saccharine statuses, and hormonal hashtags? Who cares if next week we aren’t together – we want the world to know now.

Just remember,  we curate our social media. The tweaks and filters and judiciously pruned lists of friends allow us to project an image or ourselves that we want. We can be the biggest assholes in private but be affable and inclusive on Twitter. Whether our hundreds of online friends know who we get up with isn’t important. What we did in the past isn’t important. Only what we do now and how we treat each other.

How do you know unless you’ve tried it?

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A bound Bettie Page

“How do you know unless you’ve tried it?”

Ah words that haunt any argument wherein a preference is expressed where there’s an unwillingness to open oneself to new experiences. 

Words that haunted me from adolescence as I declared my ideals on all matter of subjects. We can all have a clear idea of what we think we will and won’t like, but it doesn’t really harm to be open to testing those preconceived notions on occasion. If I hadn’t done that I’d not know I like beetroot, or certain forms of hip-hop music. 

But does trying a new experience change who you are? 

Does attending a religious service suddenly make you a convert to that faith? Would a homoerotic encounter make you gay? 

The answer surely is no. One should be able to experience things without question. It can inform our world view. Reaffirm our own sense of identity. Stretch our ability to tolerate other lifestyles. But we live in a society that preaches democracy and tolerance and yet thrives on one-upmanship, a society that encourages public shaming, humiliation and oppression of ‘the other’.

The Pride festival isn’t that long past here in NI and it’s a good example of the polarising opinions that exist out there when it comes to diverse sexualities. Pride shouldn’t need to exist really – we shouldn’t need to set ourselves apart into divisions, all sexialities ought to be equally accepted without judgement. But it does because non-hetero people have struggled to be accepted and accorded the same rights and freedoms that heterosexuals have.

But then one doesn’t have to be out, or self-identity as LGBT/queer to be ostracised or oppressed. Relationships inevitably throw up kinks if they last long enough. And there’s as many types of those as there are people. I stand by the statement that as long as you aren’t into animals or children, anything else is fair game (providing there is consent). 

It doesn’t need to be sensationalist Channel 4 fodder either – I can near guarantee that those quiet respectable dinner companions of yours harbour their own deviances. And it’s OK. Maybe they dress up, have a dungeon, like it al fresco, or they swing once a month. Frankly, who cares?

Like everyone I have my own kinks. Quite a few to be fair. And I’m fairly open to possibilities. Part of that depends on who I’m with. I’ve had partners less interested and more interested in exploring with me and each of them had their own kinks too. For most of us, those realms of fantasy remain private, between us and whoever we are or aren’t doing them with. But should you let it slip that you’re really into midget porn for example (it’s a real thing) there will probably be some around you who judge you negatively, who because they don’t share the same kinks as you, deem you ‘perverted’.

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with vanilla sex lives. One couple for life, engaging in heterosexual missionary position sex. Providing they are happy. It’s a problem if someone is breaking the trust of that relationship to explore – without keeping their significant other informed. 

I’ll try most things once. Providing I’m comfortable. That doesn’t make me a pervert. Doesn’t mean I should be humiliated. As I’ve got older I’ve grown bolder. I’m more willing to push my own limits. Given the right proposition.

Talk is key to a relationship, no matter how casual or new. Sometimes things are suggested and one is genuinely curious or interested, but says nothing for fear of being judged. I’m fascinated by the idea of polyamorous relationships for example, I can’t get my head around how friends of mine can survive in them. I’m pretty sure that’s not the lifestyle for me, but how do I know if I haven’t tried? Intuition and opportunity. 

One instinctively knows what one might or might not be able to do, what ticks the right boxes. But sometimes curiosity exists where instinct is vague and there one needs opportunity. Unless you have a serious opportunity to be spanked silly by a dominatrix, are you totally sure it’s not for you?

So here’s to exploration, inquisitiveness and open-mindedness. Now I just need some opportunities.